It’s March, I survived February.
February, with its extra day was both painfully long and upon reflection short- reduced now to nothing more than a blur of things I don’t know and things I can’t remember.
February brought more pain, fear, confusion and suffering. February took with it, as it went, more hope and optimism than I would have imagined possible. The further, rapid degradation in anything resembling my quality of life is unquantifiable. I’m not living; I do not even exist other than in the moment.
I am surviving.
In 7 days I have an appointment with a specialist, another appointment, another psychiatrist, another specialist. I’m told this appointment is with the ‘right help’, the right psychiatrist, the right specialist.
I hope they’re right, experience tells me to be extremely cautious, I’ve been told this before and it ended badly. Very badly.
So for 7 days I will continue to survive, hoping, in the face of what I know, in spite of all my experience, that I’ll finally get to meet someone who listens to my story and says ‘I’ve heard stories like yours before, you’re not wrong, it’s not your fault and I can help.’
I don’t know what I’ll do in 8 days.
I don’t know.