3 crazy private-life confessions for you
I have to level with you. I have been holding back some secrets.
Although it’s satisfying, in one way, to lead you down the path that I’m doing my best and fighting the good fight, its not in the true spirit of honesty.
The fact is that I have many good days, but they come with a twist. They are laced with the drug of my bad behaviour and then my dimmer switch comes on, full blast.
Now, its time to let the cat out of the bag!
Firstly… it’s not depression, I actually like the new me.
If there was a way to lose 15 kg in a matter of weeks, but that programme involved a 6 week stay in the hospital, brain injury and a boat load of other messy things, what would you say?
I’m going to go out on a limb here…I know that the method was a little bit shaky, but I do love the after effects of my (lovingly named) stroke diet.
After enjoying hospital food, you would think that my appetite would only increase.
Yet, the stroke did something unimaginable to me.
Yes, it cost me plenty, but one thing that I am on the fence about is the altered way that my brain receives messages from the rest of my body. My afferent nerves are all mixed up!
Just this morning, I was washing a glass and, because my afferent nerves weren’t sending my brain the correct signals, I squeezed it so hard until it completely shattered. This part, the part where my nerves leave me in precarious situations, I can leave it behind.
But here’s the thing… the part where my stomach feels hungry, but my brain doesn’t get the message, I have to confess that I’m loving it!
The stroke diet, while I don’t suggest that you have one anytime soon, is an added benefit to all the work that I’m doing. I’ve now hit that magical number on the scales where I feel comfortable! The same number that I weighed pre-children! Hell, I can even fit into my wedding dress! How cool is that?
So to that doctor, the one who wrote me off as depressed and even suggested pills,
I can only scream, “Poppycock!!” in his direction.
And then… I’ve pissed off the only medicine man in town.
But, she had it coming!
Let me start with the fact that this itty bitty village even has a voodoo healer. You know one of those nutty kind of offbeat, non-traditional medicine masters. I found her, made an appointment and surprisingly liked it!
According to her, I had to spend two hours! every other day, lest my therapy be short-changed.
You know, two hours, 3 times a week is a full-on commitment. With all the therapeutic influences surrounding me, I could spend night and day working and still not even touch upon most of them.
In order to make the most of my recovery, I throw myself into whatever I choose to do. The truth is, that I am fully exposing myself and my deepest, darkest flaws to whomever is on the receiving end. Trust is paramount.
Could I put my recovery in her hands? I had faith in what she represented. I put myself out there, diligently working, 2 hours of precious time per day.
And, magically I was better from the therapy. After some weeks, I could feel a slight sensation in my hand! Was it compliments of the voodoo? Who cared?
However, when I had to change my next appointment from two hours to one hour, albeit the night before, and she started to recite her cancellation policy on me…. I went slightly umbrella at her.
And I don’t regret one single word of it.
And lastly… Lulu, that sudoku thing, I hate it!
Darling Lulu, this might be strong language for a mother to use, but I seriously don't know why you love putting tiny little numbers in tiny little boxes, only to erase it all and start over again.
Hold on, that’s what I do…
I know that my brain needs exercise, plasticity and so on, but can’t I use the number nine twice? For god’s sake! Don’t they know that I had a stroke? Doesn’t anyone get it?
You know, in full disclosure, my children have been so good at teaching me new stuff.
Friso took it upon himself to teach me Backgammon. I still don’t get how you finish it off? Can it be a simple matter of rolling the dice? I don’t get it!
And Cleo is doing her absolute best not to grow-up too quickly, helping me in my therapy. Although she can read much quicker than me these days, she still lets me read her a bedtime story. So I begin reading in my slow and steady manner and she, growing quickly bored of me, takes over. What?
They say that the brain is always looking for new and unique ways to rewire itself.
And despite myself - and my brain - I seriously hate sudoku.
I might not sound contrite because, after all, these are my confessions.
But, seeing me all decked out in my wedding dress... being chased by an unhinged medicine man... trying to do bloody sudoku…. you get the picture, don’t you?
I might have gone a little bit loco.