Things are finally, finally moving. And I don't just mean my bowels (sorry). I've had arguments, ever so slight bitch fits (again, sorry) and lots of tears this week, but I'm finally on my way out of hospital. We're beginning the transition from hospital to home, which is great, but in true Rebecca Condron style, I'm expecting more and accepting less from myself. I don't know. I'm a bit teary today, I think because it's sinking in how long I've been away from the real world and either in a bubble of mental illness, or the fortress of hospital. That and I'm hormonal and got 3 hours sleep last night. Never helps.
The effect of the highs and lows of being told that I'll soon be home for good, but in the meantime will be spending weeks at a time at home, has knocked me raw. I wish to God that I could sit and tell you everything was perfect and I had no doubts, but this is really what I mean by expecting more and accepting less, I suppose. I've been in hospital for years and coming home was never going to be easy, even though I know it's the right thing at the right time. I'm too exhausted from the ups and downs to do anything, but feeling like a waste, because I'm really scared of doing nothing with my life.
I hate admitting that I'm scared. That I'm feeling really, really alone. Most of my friends, now, are in hospital because your world is so tiny when you're cosseted away, and the ones who aren't are out in graduate jobs or looking for graduate jobs and just generally doing more than watching low rate/budget kids' films.
Whoa, I just read this back. I've not even been home for 24 hours and I'm scared I'm wasting my life. Calm the fuck down, Condron, it has to all work out. Give yourself a bloody chance. Right, give me a couple of days and ask me again, how it's going (I know, I know, you didn't ask me this time). Right.