Scar Wars: A New Hope

I'm writing this on the evening of 2 October 2012, the day after I announced to my friends that I'd been writing a blog. 

Since writing this blog, and specifically the bits above this, I think that I've started to recover, physically and mentally.

Having had brain surgery to remove a tumour from my right temporal lobe seven weeks ago, I've had feelings that have been described by my GP as clinical depression.

She gave me a script for Citalopram, a generic anti-depressant. I haven't cashed it in yet. I don't think that I ever will.

I've had suicidal thoughts since getting home. (I also have a, short-lived, history of self harm, but this hasn't reared its head yet - although the thoughts are there.) 

But I think I'd prefer to describe myself as being clinically fed up rather than depressed. That's not knocking people that are depressed - I just don't think that I am.


I went to see a psychotherapist at Queen Square two weeks ago. I've got two more sessions booked in with her, the first of which is tomorrow. The first one made me feel very down. But perhaps you've got to go there to come back. 

I'm going to give it a chance. She's a nice enough lady and maybe she'll come across something outside of my own little sphere of worries that I hadn't realised was getting me down.


I hope that, in the same way that I felt better after hearing Dr Rees say that the surgery had gone well and I got to see the scans, having someone 'in authority' tell me at I'm not being weird might alleviate some of the pressure that I feel. 

Besides...

Two weeks ago I realised I was finally able to do press ups without feeling as though my brain was going to explode inside my skull. So far I've got myself back up to being able to do 61 in a row. Yesterday I did 180 press ups.

Last night Helen and I went on a run, my first run without feeling like my brain wasn't crashing about inside my head. I felt good afterwards, despite the feeling of literally wobbling in places that shouldn't wobble as we jogged up and down the Harringey Ladder.

Tomorrow afternoon I'm going in to the office to discuss coming back on a phased return. I'm quite nervous about it. I'm not looking forward to going back to work, my job reminds me of how useless I'd be in a post-apocalyptic world, but I am looking forward to having structure again. A feeling of accomplishment, at least on some days.

I'm going to treat it like it's a new job. Plus, the amount I've forgotten combined with the amount that appears to have changed there, it essentially will be a new job.

All of these things involve me breaking the cycle. They mean I'll be using my body as well as my head. I'll need to function, so I will function, of that I'm positive.

I'm categorically not saying that leaving the house will cure depression or its symptoms, but I feel a marked response in my head by using my body. I've exercised to exorcise, and to some extent it's worked.

In that vein, I've made it my aim to play my first match for Peckham's own Rogers Rovers FC before the end of October. And I can't wait.

From the OraHorse's mouth - things I was trying to type while in hospital

Power to the people

Here are some unedited (bar some unbearable spelling mistakes) bits-and-bobs that I wrote whilst still in hospital, trying to get this blog on the road. I apologise for nothing.

I'm just sitting here writing at the moment. No one's really told me how the operation went, which is slightly disconcerting. I can feel a massive lump on my head and individual stitches scratching on my fingers. It itches like nothing on earth. Like my head's an STI-ridden testicle sack. 

They've taken the thing that was allowing the blood and liquid to come out of my skull out too. That was weird, having that in there. Like a massive glass bottle of blood-coloured Ribena being sucked out of my head via a tube. Ribrainer.

All in all, I'm happy I've got it (touch wood) removed, I just wish they'd let me in on what's going on at the moment, even if they feel by doing so they may worry me or make me aware that they don't really know what's going on either.

My headaches are coming much more under control now, and I appear to be getting my appetite back a bit.
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Helen and Emma have been here nearly every day, as has Jono. I've been getting more and more energy every day so it means my posing for photos is improving.

I had a royal visit from Princess DiEmma.

And I proved once and for all that my pyjama modelling career is far from over...

Magnum (white chocolate)

Charlie and Boxy swung by too, which was brilliant but scary - I thought they were going to jump on me or something. As it was they brought me a book and spoke wise words about resting up. I underestimate those crazy bastards.

I have an inbox full of wonderful messages from my friends and family and even work people that send their best wishes - I feel very lucky indeed.

I'm now just looking forward to getting home. Sitting out in the back garden.

I'm looking forward to feeling normal again, if that's possible.

I want to kick a ball, have a smoke, maybe even drink a beer - although that's the subject of much contention at the moment. With myself. No one else could give a monkey's. I'm just scared of beer. Literally frightened of alcohol.
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It's day five after the operation, and there is talk of getting me home to rest. This is exciting, as the company I'm keeping at the hospital is arduous.

The nurses and other staff are all lovely, even the moody lady who steams the food. I've accomplished my mission Helen - I didn't just make her smile, she's my mate - she brings me extra coffee!

It's just (most of) the other people on the ward.

Particularly someone who is called Sharia, who, amusingly, seems to think there's a different set of rules for him and thus he can do whatever he wants. 

He spent the entire day yesterday talking to his brothers about what sounded pretty much like several cases of insurance fraud. I couldn't care less that he's ripping things off, I just want the cunt to stop shouting. 

Then last night he insisted on watching the Spice Girls in the Olympics closing ceremony with the sound full-fucking-blast. He then fell asleep immediately, burping and farting until he started snoring.

The snoring was so bad I requested to be moved into a different ward. Luckily the nice big burly nurse found me some earplugs, but they seemed to intensify the feeling of pressure in my head, which made sleeping nigh on impossible. I felt as though my brain was going to pop out my eyes.

There is a man that I feel very sorry for, as he's obviously in a great deal of pain, but he also refuses to help himself. When the nurses try to help him he whines like a dog. He also hiccups bile all the time which is one of the worst noises ever.
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This bloke (in the video below) came in at two o'clock last night and just hasn't stopped. I know I should feel sorry for him, but I don't. He says he knows who he is, where he is and that he's not in pain. So why the fuck are you shouting, John?

I'm worried that my sense of sympathy is disappearing, replaced by homicidal thoughts. I'm going to smother him.

I need to get out of here. 

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I go home tomorrow. Thank fuck. Otherwise I'm going to kill a man.