March 22nd

 Home yesterday.

The whole weekend has been overwhelming. I guess I'll explain where I've been mentally in the last few days as opposed to the story so far medically.

Friday. I woke up at 6.30am with a half shout. In a panic. I had slept too long. Shit to do. Oh my god. I had not. But I was wrenched from sleep with that panic anyway. I flailed about got up, peed, realised the time and that I was utterly exhausted and went back to bed to catch some rest for 40 minutes.

Things were a bit of a blur. Felt a bit numb. A bit out of it. A bit anxious. On the verge of tears. Andy turned up, waiting for me. Loaded the car and off we went. My head had a mild fog in it. Conversation was slightly uphill.

Coming into London on the M11 over the hill and there on the horizon the skyline of London. Jesus I said. I already hated it.

I spent half my life living in London. And as a kid - from 12 years on - a bunch of us would trek into central London to check out Games Workshop - back in the day when it was just about *only* in central London - yeah, that long ago - and the big music stores, book shops and a bit later the newly opened Orcs Nest.

There were a few dingy corners of the East End that would creep me out, but by and large I didn't notice it.

Over time I started to get a sense of dread the further into London I would travel. As I got older I started noticing the age, the grime, everywhere the goddamn grime, the trash, the wastelands, all juxtaposed with some huge bit of steel and glass money, here a 500 year old building, with 500 years of crap on it. There a cold and soulless piece of steel and glass frontage. Dingy shop. Rotten fronting. Cars. Cars. Cars, buses, motorbikes and an endless sea of people. 

It started fairly mild. And journeying in from the East I used to start to feel it at around Ilford. The old cemetaries. The grime. The houses backed right onto the line. Old. Dirty. Cramped.

Stratford - pre olympic upgrade - would tick up again. Maryland up again. Liverpool Street was a descent into a dark hell of grime and London before emerging into the sanitised but ever crazy busy main concourse, and from then on it was busy busy busy no time to think in the crowds.

Since leaving London I noticed the feeling jumped up a lot. London gives me the creeps. The fancier bits are ok I suppose. But its the corners. The alleys. The non fancy high streets. The endless parade of shitty, dingy, garish, dirty shops and takeaways.

On Friday I am not sure, but its probably been something like 15 years or more since I have even got close to London. The closest I have been is Stevenage - not close at all. Friday I went into the belly of the beast, right through North London, Tottenham. And out through Hackney.

And it crept up on me.

That dread. Too many people. The grimy streets. The dirt smeared as a coating of grey across the kerbs, pavements, anything close to the road. A green bush - sad, stunted, turned grey under the crap.

As we pushed through into North London properly, and the traffic increased, the people increased, the grunge increased. My anxiety climbed.

This was horrific. How could people live like this. Everywhere I looked I started reading people, lives, situations, buildings. I couldnt stop. Who was that person. What life did they have. They weren't rich. They lived in the shit. A tiny window. Overlooking a polluted dirty road. With a view of concrete on the other side and a takeaway with litter strewn here and there.

A mass of people living barely one step above a ghetto. It appalled me. Freaked me out. I could feel London closing over me like a sick blanket. Choking. Memories of living in such places played out in my head. My childhood. Remembering the walk along the road and choking on the fumes with my asthma coming back from school. The endless concrete. The grimness of bits of the Eastend. The "forgotten" corners. The shitty bits of waste ground piled with crap and always black and grey unidentifiable ground. Barren. Not dirt. Just. Something. Crap.

If you're a shrink, you're probably reading this and thinking anxiety, overwhelmed. Yeah.

The traffic was appalling. Of course. And we ran late. Another tick up on the anxiety.

Harley Street was slightly more forgiving. Although look down the wrong alley and you'd see the grimness behind the facade.

The clinic(s) were works of art. Lovely. Pristine. One a comforting open space of fogged glass and steel, the other like the inside of a modern stately home. The staff were of course beyond lovely and helpful. Never left alone. Never forgotten. It eased my anxiety down several notches.

The MRI was in the end relaxing. A pleasant surprise. My brain mostly flicked off for the clinics. Just a brain following tasks. Go here. Change there. Put your clothes here. Lie there.

The talk with the GP was something of a relief. Acknowledgement. Explanation of viral damage. Disgust at how I had been treated. The radiologist was a mixed bag. Some problems. Probably not killers. The spots in the brain. Probably ok. He looked on the positive side. We now have a baseline he said when you get your next MRI and can see if its getting worse, growing, etc. Uh huh.

On the way home I was overwhelmed with emotions and information and the blast of London sensory input. I could tell that I had reached some weird blown out level. Too much. I freaked out coming out of London. I couldnt stop processing and reading body language, and seeing the tiny details and working backwards with the history and the stories, reading each persons gait, their injuries, their age, there a builder with a small limp carring a container, there a very old person, hunched over their cane, lived there all their lives, caught in a swirl of chaotic urbanry and grime. How on earth did they cope. A tiny dirty, half decayed office window. The signs of crappy walls within. Worked in. Containing misery. Jammed into a sea of concrete and boarded waste land, overlooking a high street of misery, fast food and everything covered in London grime. My eyes grew ever wider. Feed me the pain. Analyse all the information. I suck. I have always had that tendency. Burn me master. Burn me with the fire. Let me stare into the face of the abyss and scream in horror at everything it can tell me, just dont stop. Unhealthy. Masochistic. Self destructive. But Knowledge is Power right ? Ha. My ass. It kind of is. But the price is losing humanity. And in the end, to be happy, to be human, a certain level of ignorance is bliss.

I realised how much I read everything. Brain absorbing all information. And how long I had been out of London. And in my altered mental state it was too much. I had got used to slower Norwich. Less information. I thought I didnt take Norwich for granted I said. But holy fuck I took Norwich for granted. This was hell on Earth. Perhaps you get used to it. Back in the smog. But it is a crazy way to live. Awful.

I told Andy. Its just me ? Its just you he said. You need to think of something else.Andy noted that it must be awful during lockdown in the tiny dingy flats with your only view being 30 feet away of some decrepit London building.

I dont know how everyone in London isn't mad. Or depressed. Or both. Maybe they are.

We left London. I never want to go back. To go to my brothers for a few days. All I wanted was to go home. As I got closer to my brothers my anxiety increased. Fear. Why ? Yeah. Good question.

I said to Andy I badly need to decompress. What does that mean he said. Think things through. Let go of the information. Bring down the anxiety. Sit. Chill. Try to find some peace.

I arrived. And saw my brother. And immediately choked up. Teared up. Fight the tears. Overwhelmed. I eventually related my clinic story. The GP pre-empting me with my experience. I choked up again. Always crying.

After the first night at my brothers I realised I didnt want to go home. I had flipped. The anxiety was now going home. I didnt want to. I feared it. I did not want to go back to suffer.

I had waves of unwell at my brothers. It would sometimes be sudden. Temp spikes. Nausea. Thoughts gone. So unwell. And at times be insidious, coming and going at varying levels of shitty, but something you could cope with. Tingles up and down my left hand side, my back. And my face ever marching ants. Ive noticed I now reach up a lot to scratch it / massage it. It makes them go away for a few seconds. And sometimes the left hand side of my face tics. Or squints. And my body picks up tics. And shakes. Twitching. Like occasionally shooting electricity through a dead frog. Delightful.

The day to go home. Dread. I was conscious of the time ever ticking down. My brother kept checking his watch. Not for time, but for messages. My anxiety rippled each time he did. Time. Ticking. Going home.

Time to leave. Choked. Teary. Emotional. My sister in law said I didnt have to go. I did. Need meds. Scan at hospital on Tuesday. But I didnt want to go. Please just let me stay here forever. In a corner. I will be quiet. No trouble. I surrender everything I am just for peace. I dont want anything. Just peace. And to watch what normal looks like. I have forgotten or maybe never even had it in the first place. Always just a balancing act on a mad bicycle.

My sister took me back home. Overwhelming. I am such a burden. I cannot apologise and thank people enough. I am worthles. We chatted in the car. And I felt ill. A horrible unwell, nauseous, fever. I sat back a few times to try and release it. I didnt mention it. But I felt so ill at times. The journey home flew past.

Home. Gave my sister a hug. Teared up as I hugged her. Thanked her for putting up with my sorry ass. I am so sad. I spoke to Hazel about what harley street had said. Viral damage to left side probably. Spots on brain. Could be migraines. Might not be. Could be shingles, had reactivated along with a bunch of other stuff. My immune system pushed to breaking, and everthing nasty in my body erupting to go play in a dying body.

Overwhelming. I realised I no longer wanted to be in this house. I cant be in this house. I need to move. I need to leave this place.

I said to a friend weeks ago, I wasnt coming out of this - if I ever did - the same person I went in. It was true weeks ago. Its even more destructively true now. These last 3.5 months have scarred me. I am not the same person. Brutalised. Traumatised. I have had an extended lesson in how vulnerable I am. And in the last month or so the flensing has not only been changes in outlook and personality but one of mental bombardment and damage, torching the very ground and leaving behind twisted ashes. Not good. I am aware large chunks of me have been flattened, victims of the ongoing battle.

My life looks like a mess to me at this point. Everything is fucked, and wrong, no future, isolated, a mess. My house feels like at best a neutral resting point and at worst a source of dread now. If I could move painlessly tomorrow, I would do so. Shut the door. And not look back. No regrets at all.

This was clear to me before I left my brothers. My family said I should move down to them. The continuing refrain. I didnt say anything. But internally I couldnt deny it. And I wanted to so badly. If I could have switched places with my brother right there and then, I would have done so, no hesitation. Yes. But its probably not the house. Or the location. But the people in it I crave. I fear I would just turn that house on my own into a nightmare of emptiness.

On the drive back to Norwich, it was like the anti London. I remembered why I loved Norfolk. Norwich. Why I liked living where I did. It is, to me, a more beautiful and gentler part of the world than Brightlingsea - and both of those are no comparison at all to the horror of the London Boroughs. But despite my love for Norfolk, I dont think I can stay here anymore. I have now lived half my life in Norwich. But I think I am done here. I think I have to be nearer to my family. Much nearer. The conflict this brings up is real. I love all the little spots you find in Norfolk. The places you know to go. I am, after 20+ years, halfway to being a local. The good pubs. The beautiful views. The nice bits of coastline. The hidden bits. I will lose all of that. But I cant stay here on my own anymore. I just cant. I have lived just in this house alone in Norwich for 20 years now. And before that with Amanda on the other side of Norwich. It has long now been my home.

But I dont know. My life seems broken. Alone. No future. I sense only a decline in future, not a happy ending. I am not even sure moving back to be closer to my family would help. I think I am broken. And, what kind of shitty burden would I be to them anyway. Although. I think on better days I could help out. Perhaps not an entire burden. When I'm not a clusterfuck I can be quite helpful and willing.

Shooting me in the back of the head seems as ever, like a sane thing to do. It seems. Simpler. And less bother all round. And avoids all the horror.

I read a post today of someone who's friend had committed suicide. And a long list of comments with the same experience. 5 years ago. Still feel the pain. It makes me worry what damage I would do if I did commit suicide to those around me. I never quite believe anyone when they say they would care. I imagine I could just disappear and life would go on. But the comments on that post today make me see that's not the case. I still cant quite believe it though. Problems relating. I know if someone I knew committed suicide I would be horrified. And guilty. And berate myself endlessly for not doing more. The other way around. Theres just a void.

Perhaps a wise head would say I am still in trauma at the moment. And barely on the right side of the line of being a nutcase. Fearful. Anxious. Still in an altered mental state. And still battling a shifty, pernicious set of physical illnesses and symptoms that the state services are complacent about dealing with. Ironically they have pro actively offered me a covid shot already. Want a covid shot ? huh ? huh ? huh ? Yes yes, you've been on deaths door for something else we cant be bothered with, but, have you seen this covid shot ? It seems perverse. And a fine testament to their priorities of individual patient care.

A few weeks ago I spoke to Hazel about living together, just an idea thrown out there. Again, not a relationship, not a girlfriend boyfriend thing - but a house mate. A good house mate. She cast it off, couldnt live here, would need to live somewhere out of Norwich a bit. Not a no. But a no not here. I think she longs for a garden she can tinker with. Mine is very nice, but mostly dog proof. But anyway that was that.

When I came home I did not speak to her about my severe unease about me living here anymore. About my new found need to move. But she quickly brought it up. She had been looking at house prices out of Norwich. She'd be ok with having something like a granny annex. And living together. If I was ok with that.

I didnt expect it. My head was in a different place. With my family. And out of Norfolk.

Would she move out of Norfolk ? Or to be more precise would she move out of Norfolk with me ? I know Hazel has very few ties left in Norwich now. Her family is way down in Cornwall now, her friends have scattered, and she has few ties left, and no serious ones.

She said she had just got a good doc / psych and didnt want to spoil that. I understood. She didnt want to leave Norwich.

And so I have enormous things to think about. I have scans and reports to attend this week. I still have few answers to what has been going on with me, or whether it gets better, or whether it gets worse, or is the pre rumbles for something much worse. Whilst MS has been booted into the long grass it has not been taken off the table, and something of a waiting game must ensue before it comes either more into focus or fades. Or just bloody test for it. Lumbar puncture. Fat chance of that with the NHS. Chronic fatigue comes up. Fibromyalgia. Long covid. Bells palsy. Shingles. Ulcers. Half of the above all at the same time or one after another. A host of things. But I still have no answers. Other than its pretty sure I have had some sort of virus ( or virii ), and it/they have done some damage. 

I think I need peace and space to think. My instinct right now is to move. Right now. Move 3 doors down from my brother or sister. Reset my entire life. And try to be normal.

I would miss Norfolk. I would miss my many great and varied friends and Second Family. And I still worry about people. About Hazel. If I moved away she would lose my support. Which right now seems ridiculous as it's the other way around, but in better times, is important I think. I have, and will, drop everything to go help anyone in need. And am always happy to drive people around should they need it. It always seems to me to be just about one of the few important things in life you can do - support each other and ease the pain of others. What could be more important ? The point has been raised to me, when I am cringing at how much of a burden I am, that I have done the same for others when they needed it. It doesn't feel like that to me though. Doesn't work. I still feel worthless. Psych issues there. Only able to help others. Uncomfortable being helped. Nice. Well done Johnny.

At this crazy moment in time, I would love to move to my family. I'd love to live with someone. I am sick of living on my own - these last three months have shown me just how badly exposed I am, and also that I am sick of doing everything on my own.

There is a wonderful peace watching my brother and sister in law potter around at home. A normality. A mutual support. It is something I entirely dont have. A huge void. I bounce around on my own, on the edges of weirdness and the alternative. I get it. Lifestyle choices. Personalities. I have a wide and varied group of people around me. Very few of them could be classed as "average". Its interesting. And fun. And different. But not peaceful.

My work is an on off shitshow of stress. I am excellent at what I do. And I love doing it. But I dont think I can tolerate the pace of it anymore. The stress. Running on the redline all the time costs too much at this point of my life.

So what do I do.

I dont know. Everything is a mess. And seems too much to deal with.

The tiny small wise voice in my head says give it time. Try to get better. To get answers. And then deal with it one step at a time.

Marvellously rational. A pity that is not where I am.

In a perfect world I probably need a very long holiday from.... me... my life. Everything. It is not entirely unsurprising. Those vague thoughts have been bubbling away there for the last few years. But they were more Northern based - move further North. Burn everything behind me, start again anew up North. Now it seems the compass has flipped, and turned South, to my family with a good deal less burning behind me.

I am so fucked up.

It has crossed my mind whether in the scheme of things I am slightly...... abnormal. Ok I know I am abnormal, but I mean, properly, on some official list type abnormal. Mentally. On some spectrum or other. And whether 30 years learning to think just like a machine has either made me that way, or just increased it. I do have a standing theory about the damage working with machines over long periods of time does to you. I dont mean reading emails. I mean coding for them. Thinking like them. It. Changes how you think. How you process stuff. Teaches you to analyse everything. Not in a human way. It makes me wonder the psychological effect it has, and also the prevalence of burn outs and craziness in experienced developers. Like being part of a religion changes your beliefs, your outlook, your approach, or being a student of philosophy can change your views and outlook, or a practitioner of psychology can change your understanding of the theories of our brains, emotions et al, and feeds into your whole life. I wonder what changes occur when its not a philosophical target you embrace, not a religious one, or psychological one, but one where you fundamentally change the human bit of you that processes and analyses and builds the underlying processing systems. What happens if someone gets very good at that, never stops doing that, for decades. What does it do - if anything - to the original person.

It makes me wonder it cannot not but have an impact.

The tinnitus in my left ear screams. The gift of viral damage if Harley street is to believed. Perhaps at some point an ENT doc can look at it and fix it ? Seems far fetched.

This morning I got up. Body half buzzing. But had worse. Downstairs. Peed. Upstairs. My body temp suddenly flares. Massively hot. My left arm starts to tingle and get pins and needles. A couple of aches of pain around my heart. Sigh. Ignore it. Roll over. Let it wash through me. Jesus. Anxiety ? Panic attacks ? Heart fucked ?