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You know how everyone says nothing good happens on a Monday?
Well, this happened on Monday.


My wrist has decided it has had enough. It is most likely inflamed from an impending Crohn’s flare up.

I feel quite proud. My body is reacting to something that could be days away, a week tops, and is smart enough to warn me. Admittedly, it hurts like hell; the constant throb in my arm and more so in my actual wrist joint is unruly, and I can most definitely sympathise with people who have had a broken arm – I’ve never had one, ever, was too scared as a kid to try and be dangerous – and those who suffer from Arthritis. This is not fun, and I’ve been taking the painkillers for two days, I’m already over that.

My IBD nurse wants more blood from me. I am getting drained very couple weeks with all this lingering and niggly aches and pains I’ve had since 2013 started. It sucks.

So tomorrow, before I attend work in the afternoon, I must go for a test at the hospital. It is a good job I like a good train journey, eh?

The sister who saw me at our local community hospital’s minor injury unit yesterday afternoon after work, suspects that I might have gotten more bad luck in the auto immune disorders department, and it could very well be the tiny start of RA. Yay, more pain! More appointments! More sucky times ahead! One disorder isn’t good enough for my body, two is better. I am frustrated. If it was just broken, it would be time off work and healed in just over a month. But this could mean a long term disorder that is just about managing pain. I would be a pro in a couple years…

However, I am determined. I worked yesterday whilst in pain (my place of work was less than sympathetic to my plight, but at least this is noticeable as fuck, a support on my wrist is abit more glaring than inflamed bowels) and I won’t give up my activities. I just have to plan and make sure I am not left without something to turn to when it becomes unbearable. It is all about being prepared. I’ve been this way since I got caught out at work about this time last year, when I first returned to work after hospital stints. I carry medication with me at all times; not a Humira pen or indeed alot of steroids, but always some of everything, just in case, because there is nothing worse than being caught out.


I sat on the other side of my room earlier, wondering when this all started to go downhill. There is no one specific point, one thing just led to another thing and then another and another, and before I knew it, I was in constant pain. That’s how we survive though, right? We build up a certain tolerance to pain and feeling like shit, and then we just go out and do more. What happens to us when we are alone and without other’s judgement is what really happens.

I shall let you in on a secret.

On my days off I wait until everyone has gone out to work and go take my morning tablets in the kitchen. Then I just stare out of the window, trying not to cry. Because I mask my pain so well these days, I hardly turn off my switch of a smile or happiness or being silly. I laugh and giggle and get on with being “normal” and “health” as if nothing was the slightest bit wrong with me. But inside I suffer. I hide. I don’t talk honestly and frank about my symptoms because they scare me. I want so much to be okay, that I ignore the blood in the toilet bowl and I ignore the fatigue I have, I just go out and carry on. I limp up the stairs at work with gritted teeth. I keep my body and mind busy most of the time because I know that if I have days off, I just crumble. I avoid the admissions I would have to make to myself. I would have to admit to the truth. And I just can’t do that some days.

So, I pretend. I pretend.
It’s how I live.