All of the Terms at St Thomas’s

Around eight months ago I attended a unique course that I came to call St Thomas’s School of Pain. I remember distinctly deciding beforehand that I’d write about it, and multiple posts at that. Through writing this blog and sharing my experiences, I’ve learned that there are people in my life who have gone and are daily going through similar struggles, including some with chronic pain. I’ve received touching messages and had conversations both moving and inspiring off the back of things I’ve written, and have even been told that others have found my writing comforting and helpful. This is so far beyond any expectations I had when I first set fingertips to keyboard on the topics of guns and cake, believe you me. About to embark on a four week residential course to help me cope with chronic pain, I felt I would try to share anything I could; the off-chance that some small snippet would help someone for even one hour of their entire life seemed to make it more worthy of writing about than most of my subject matter. It still does. Thus I resolutely decided I would share my experiences. Given we had a selection of teachers who ran classes according to a weekly timetable, and at various times even used the white boards, with breaks morning and afternoon, and lunch dished up to us by a lovely, warm lady in an apron as we queued in a chatty line with our trays, my ‘school’ analogy felt pretty solid overall. I had even decided on the somewhat twee titles I would use for the posts I had yet to write, an homage to Enid Blyton: ‘First Term/Second Form/In the Third/Last Term at St Thomas’s’.

Eight months later, on the day my final follow up session, and I’ve still not written a word.

Those four weeks living on the South Bank, just over the river from Big Ben, barking at you every fifteen minutes (which I actually loved, incidentally), changed my life irrevocably – and fortunately for the better. As a direct result of St T’s SoP, I moved house, setting those wheels in motion before the fourth ‘term’ had even finished. With my teachers’ support, I’ve reduced my reliance on the NHS to almost nil – the single appointment I’ve had with my GP since October would have seemed unthinkable to the Me of the last couple of years, when I’ve averaged at absolute minimum one appointment a month, an MRI a year, and countless other tests, the two involving tuning forks and electric currents making my hands move among the most bizarre. And now? I haven’t yet been to see a GP in 2016. 
Not unconnected to this, almost (but not quite) the most significant change to my life, as I know those close to me will agree, is that with my teachers’ guiding words ringing in my ears (and letter for the GP in hand), I’ve gradually taken myself off absolutely all my medication. It took over four months, but these last eighteen weeks (and damn right I’m counting!) I have taken absolutely zero prescription medicines. This is the first time in years I’ve not been popping pills daily; three years ago today I was a walking maraca, popping 37 tablets a day including doses I had to take at work. Right now I feel so liberated to have shed my maraca status that I take any multi vitamins and supplements on a distinctly sporadic basis, simply so I am taking absolutely nothing ‘daily’. No antidepressants, no anticonvulsants, no pain meds of any kind. Nada. Zilch. Zero. 

As the dose of meds reduced, the fog in my head started to lift. This has in turn had all manner of catalytic effects. That fog had crept in so stealthily, with such patience and persistence over months and years, that I didn’t even know it was there. The change was so subtle and occurred so gradually that I hadn’t noticed. Yet a week into my new ‘no-meds’ state, and without any knowledge of the changes I’d been making, my old boss commented that my focus had visibly improved, my drive had picked up, my clarity of communication sharpened, and overall I was more on form than he’d ever known me. I smiled and laughed and said thank you. Inside I wept. I was overwhelmed with despair, self-pity and grief that I had been so masked for so long, and with relief, and gratitude and sheer pleasure that ‘I’ was back. The cherry on top; I was unbelievably moved that he’d noticed. I don’t think he had any idea that his passing comments that lunchtime will stay with me forever. 

Forgive the cloying metaphor but in this newly rediscovered, fog-free, crystal clear blue sky, I have found and stretched my wings, and started to fly. Since I ‘graduated’ from St T’s, I was approached about a new job, went for it, and got it. I now find myself happily succeeding (so far) in the most senior role I’ve held to date, in a company I’ve long-admired, with a not inconsequential pay rise, actively looking forward to my upcoming three-month review. I can’t say for sure it wouldn’t all have happened had I not attended the School of Pain, but I sure as hell know where I’d have put my money. 

Finally and by far of most significance to me, I have reclaimed my sense of identity.* Not only has the lifting of the brain fog enabled me to be Me in the truest sense (mostly for better but at a few times for worse) right to the core, I also no longer think of myself as someone with a problem, an illness, or an affliction. This could not be demonstrated more clearly to me than by the fact that no one at my current job** knows I suffer from either HNPP or chronic pain. One of the sales team, currently suffering with a wrist problem, knows I had issues with my wrists that caused me to wear splints on them day and night for a few months, a couple of years ago, but he doesn’t know why. And that’s genuinely the extent of it. I have no need to share it; it’s not who I am when it comes to introductions or getting to know me, and it is simply not relevant to my current job or my ability to do it and do it well. That doesn’t mean there won’t ever be a period where I may need to share the information with them or a future employer – and it won’t be a problem or a failure if or when I get to that point. But the difference in me through even just the interviewing process for this role vs. my previous one was night and day. Interviewing for my last role – during my redundancy if you’re a longer term reader – I felt wracked with guilt that I wasn’t declaring upfront that I had Something Wrong With Me. When I did come to tell them, post-confirmation and commencement of employment, I felt ashamed, as though I’d let them offer me the job and accept my acceptance on the basis of some deceit. This time round, it simply didn’t come up. C’est tout. I’m damned good at my job. If I hurt a bit while I’m being damned good at my job, what does it matter to them?

I didn’t realise until St T’s how much I’d come to think of myself as less of a person as my struggle had worsened, and frankly I’m ashamed of myself for it. I would never think of a friend or colleague who struggled with a similar affliction of being worth any less because of it, so why the hell did I treat myself any differently? The answer I sadly feel lies in us as a society as much as in me as an individual. While very few people would consciously say someone with a medical affliction is worth less/is more hassle, etc. (or so I sincerely hope), there were unconscious, unspoken messages that reinforced my negative self-perception. I remember an employer running their hands through their hair in exasperation when trying to talk about struggling with my workload. Another colleague rolling their eyes in the background as I clutched my head in pain trying not to cry out. An occupational health professional saying “the company probably won’t like that” about things I could do absolutely nothing about, and “you should be very grateful” as though a) I were demanding preferential treatment rather than asking for a small amount of support to enable me to get through a working week, and b) that I weren’t already inordinately thankful I worked for a company abiding by the spirit of the law as well as the letter. I remember someone stepping directly over my twitching body as I screamed silently in pain into the carpet of our office, mascara streaming down my face, struggling to breathe – incidentally a scenario already much more humiliating than those dreams where you appear naked in a crowd, even without someone stepping over you like an inconvenient log. In my case there was also the even less subtle message from Mr #6 and his ‘I don’t want to date you in case we end up together, I don’t want my kids inheriting what you’ve got’***. For the record I stand by my previous post on that: he can fuck right off. 

Personally I’ve found taking fewer tablets and attending fewer appointments to have had a big impact here. It’s easier than I thought it would be to let much of the pain tick along in the background, like a ticking clock on a mantlepiece. Without the pills, I don’t have a daily (or thrice-daily) reminder of my condition. Going to the GP no longer interrupts my life on a monthly basis. I’ve found it easier to focus on the good stuff without these reminders of the struggles. But I wish I could go back to Old Me and tell her to focus on the pub lunch planned for after an appointment as much as possible, or the pleasant taste of the coffee with which I’m taking my pills, more than the appointment or tablets themselves. Focus on the good stuff, and let the rest become background noise as much as possible. This is also something I’m determined to hold on to, as it’s highly unlikely I’ll stay off the meds for good. Still, never say never. 

I realise that even in writing this post, I haven’t shared an iota of what we actually did during the four weeks, and I may be guilty of misleading you, as I’m afraid I’m not going to. It was intensely challenging, personal, emotional and at times made me feel incredibly, uncomfortably vulnerable. I’ve no desire to repeat that experience here for all the Internet to read. But if you know me and want to know more about the course, please feel free to get in touch and I’ll happily tell you much, much more on a one-to-one basis. If you struggle with chronic pain in the UK and feel that you have run out of options within the NHS, I couldn’t recommend strongly enough that you speak to your specialist about the INPUT Pain Management course (as they’re unlikely to know what St Thomas’s School of Pain is) as an option. It may not be right for you, and even if you complete it, for all I know may not work for you, but it has changed my life and I will never stop being grateful to the team there. Their work has a positive impact on me every single day of my life, and has had since I entered their care. It isn’t possible for me to thank them enough. 
If you don’t suffer from chronic pain (or if you do and are bored of it infiltrating every aspect of your life), never fear: normal service here should resume in the not too distant future, starting with more tales of cringeworthy dates… Let the Tinder Tales recommence! 


*As an ex-philosophy student, I feel I should state that I’m absolutely ignoring the ponderings of David Hume et al. on whether such a thing as identity even exists. The man also wrote on mitigated scepticism; if an epistemological sceptic can accept his own refusal to put his hand in an Alsatian or Rottweiler or whatevertypeofdogitwas’s mouth, I’m sure Hume would forgive my commentary on the change in what I perceive as my sense of identity, whether or not it exists. Though even if he wouldn’t, I don’t think I honestly care that much. 
** I love the fact that I blur lines between colleague and friend; if you’re reading this and work with me, that’s fine and this is all stuff I’m happy to chat about it; but please know & respect that it’s not something I particularly want to draw attention to at work, so maybe wait until we’re in the pub rather than the office. Offering to buy a round never hurts either. 

*** for the record I’ve got: brains, wit, practical skills, musical talent, confidence, a good eye for a target, reasonable physical strength, a good palate, sex appeal, good looks and a so-far decent metabolism… And I’d keep that lot over a second PMP-22 gene any day of the week. 

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The Downfall of Mr #6

When I set out to attend St Thomas’s School of Pain, I had every intention of writing a weekly blog post, sharing the ins and outs and, most importantly, any amusing moments here. I even knew what they were to be called – First Term at St Thomas’s, Second Form at St Thomas’s, In The Third at St Thomas’s and Last Term at St Thomas’s. I suppose I may yet get to that last one, as it’s only week three now. However, when I set out to attend said School of Pain, I didn’t really know what I was letting myself in for. Sure, I said ‘oh it’s going to be tough’ and ‘I might keep a diary as I go’ but in all honesty, I had not the slightest beginning of a clue. Even after the first day, curled up in my room in a hospital flat with my bottle of ginger beer, I didn’t have any grasp of what lay ahead.

What I’m now going to do is probably both cruel and frustrating to you, dear reader; I’m not going to tell you about it. This course is not about getting rid of the pain I’m in, or even reducing it. It’s not, as I had thought, about different techniques to soothe the pain or to control it. Rather, what I have to try to get my head around – and to be honest I think it will take a little while yet – is that I suffer from chronic pain, and that it is incurable and will most likely be with me for life. Assuming I’m fortunate enough to live to say, 80, I over have twice the years I have currently lived still ahead of me, and for all fifty two of those years I will mostly likely be in pain. The goal of this course is to teach us is to accept the pain, and help us live a full and fulfilling life as independently as possible with that pain. We were warned that the approach taken may feel “proddy and poky” at times, but I had no idea quite how painful that prodding and poking would become. It’s less proddy and poky in a “you’ve got a bit of a belly” type of poke, and more in a “here’s a really tight, painful knot in your back that this super-duper deep tissue sports massage is going to knead out. And here’s another. And another. And another…” until you are tender as a ripe peach and feeling as bruised as an apple juggled by a fool with poor hand-eye coordination. Nerves have been hit again and again – mostly figuratively – and as such I feel tender, tired, vulnerable and raw, and I have little to no desire to share that. Ultimately, what I’ve been thinking, confronting, feeling, and coaxing out from under the emotional rug in the last two weeks is so very personal that I have little inclination to talk it through with close friends or family, much less write about it here for the titillation of the World Wide Web.

That said, all is not lost dear reader[i]. There are some things that have happened in the last couple of weeks that I can share and which will hopefully provide some degree of amusement to your good self (and in at least one person’s case, your good father’s self to boot.) Some of these Things are related to St Thomas’s – it’s not going to be kept a complete mystery forevermore – but for (my) sanity’s sake I’m going to save those up for another time, possibly when I haven’t had a tearful day in ‘class’ with two more to go this week alone – I am starting to think I should have taken out shares in Kleenex. Instead, for this post, I present to you the dramatic last episode[ii] in the current series,

 

Tinder Tales: The Downfall of Mr #6

Having met Mr #6 one weekend afternoon for a lovely, cultural first date involving the National Gallery and plenty of chatter about art and especially about literature, I was quite eagerly anticipating Date 2. The fact that he proved himself a more than adequate kisser at the end of Date 1 also boded well. I slightly misjudged my walk to the pub where we were to meet, but wasn’t more than five or so minutes late, and to my joy arrived to see him waiting with two glasses of red, and thankfully not both for him. Not that I keep score, but wine waiting on arrival is a good way of acquiring brownie points. Sadly things swiftly tumbled downhill from there. Table acquired, we began chatting. I feel should have a disclaimer or some such here to highlight that while I don’t expect all readers of this blog to agree with my political views, such as they are, your side of the bargain is to accept my political views and acknowledge that if you don’t like what I have to say, you’re probably reading the wrong post, if not the wrong blog.

Ensconced at a table for two, our introductory chat covered a cheerful array of subjects from work to chronic pain, as well as a more literary twist as he was carrying a copy of Charles Webb’s novella The Graduate, the book which brought to the world Mrs. Robinson – and if you’re not humming the Simon and Garfunkel tune now, shame on you. I can’t remember precisely how we got onto the subject, but somehow our conversation ended up venturing towards the dangerous waters of Politics. At the outset however, while I know this is considered an infamously poor choice of conversation topic for dinner parties, I wasn’t too worried. In fact, I was engaged and excited, and though that balloon was soon to be popped, it started its life happily inflated; we both studied politics as part of joint honours courses at university – and had both graduated, so on paper at least didn’t suck entirely when it came to understanding at least some elements of the elephantine subject. We had agreed on other, non-political things so far and during our last date I had come to fairly quickly respect his views on art and literature, even if I didn’t agree on all of them. Incidentally, around the time our conversation took its political turn, I also remember thinking how cute and romantic the couple two tables over from us were, curled up together and scattering affectionate kisses and hand-strokes throughout their little tête-à-tête. The relevance of that small, inadvertent observation shall later become clear.

The start of the conversational rapids was fun in a mild-mannered, gentle way, and suggestive of an exhilarating course ahead. Slowly however, I started to become aware that the waters of the colloquy were in fact far murkier than I had anticipated. Murky and, you know, racist. And sexist. And homophobic.

As I have shared previously, one lesson learned from a previous Tinder Tales date (#2? #3? I forget) was that “You don’t have very long fingernails,” isn’t a great statement to make on a date, even if you attempt to prompt a response from your short-talonned companion by adding “do you?” after a hesitation that would have Nicholas Parsons taking the subject off you to pass to Gyles Brandreth[iii]. To build on that lesson, Tinder Tale #6 teaches us that something to add to the list of Things Not To Say On A Date – at least a date with me – is,

“I voted UKIP. Twice.”

Now, I am not quite naïve enough to assume that I shall end up one day happily settled down with a person who shares every iota of my political viewpoint (not least because I don’t know my own opinions to a level of detail such that I could check), I would at least like to find myself with someone whose political opinions I can respect. And this isn’t as hard as some may think it should be – ‘respect has to be earned’ – because my respect tends to be something a person has by default, in virtue of their being human. That person has to actively do something in order to lose my respect. I shan’t be so cruel as to scar you with every detail of the conversation that followed, but suffice it to say that if you ever try to seriously explain to me not only why the borders of our country should be closed, but how immigration should be “reversed” by sending home people who aren’t British, I may start to struggle to maintain my respect of your political opinions. If you go on to explain how second generation immigrants, whom, if I am to offer a sweeping statement, I take to be as British as myself, should be sent back to “their home country”, I will struggle still harder, and may also begin to call into question your judgment in general. Though to be fair, we would agree that they should live in their home country, just disagree rather strongly on which country that is – and to my mind, I would be 100% right in saying that country is Britain.

Things that will continue to aid you in your quest to lost my respect include then explaining how thousands of years of English heritage grant one a greater right to reside on British soil than those who also live, and have only ever lived, in this country and whose parents travelled here decades ago – especially if you cannot trace your own lineage back despite declaring yourself to be one of those with thousands of years of English heritage. How would your Britain-residing ancestry, claimed to be ‘pure’ over thousands of years, be affected if you were to discover that your grandfather or great grandfather lived the entirety of his life in The British Raj? You also could also strengthen your case for loss of respect by using the words ‘English’ and ‘British’ interchangeably – or does your English heritage grant you a right to live on Scottish or Welsh soil? Are inhabitants of the United Kingdom to consider ourselves interchangeable (as to be (un)fair often seems the case when, for example, Andy Murray, the Brit, wins a tennis match while Andy Murray the Scot loses a match) or are English, Scottish and Welsh forced to be eternally separated by invisible borders; daffodils, roses and thistles segregated in their separate flowerbeds, while the poor Northern Irish are beyond the reaches of even a friendly cross-border wave, separated as they are by that all-too aquatic barrier, The North Channel?[iv]

I digress. Let’s imagine for just one moment that you fear (erroneously) that your views on the importance geographic ancestry and its associated rights aren’t doing the job when it comes to eroding my respect for your political opinions. Why not try another tack; sexism. Raising this topic of conversation is to conversation with Emily as waving a red flag would be to a bull – especially if that bull had a metaphorical soapbox and a history of using it. So things you could say to help your respect-reducing efforts do indeed include suggesting that heterosexual relationships where women earn more money than men are doomed to failure.[v] But if you really want to put your all in and do your damnedest to lose my respect as quickly as possible, I can tell you that there is one simple sentence that will do the trick and do it most succinctly, as it drops down into the chasm opening between us like a tonne of bricks thrown into a river with concrete shoes and an anchor for a necklace;

“Feminism is a trade union for fat chicks.”

 

But what, I hear you cry, if casual racism just isn’t your cup of tea, or sexist undertones, overtones, and steamrollerthroughthemiddle tones just don’t hit quite dickish note you desire? Never fear; there is one more thing you can try: homophobia. Now, remember the cute couple across from us? Well, what will make this all the more potent is if that adorable canoodling couple are both women. To avoid traumatising you with too much detail, I shall cut to the chase. One efficient way to finish your pitch for my incredulous repulsion is to exclusively refer to gay marriage in a derisive tone of voice while using air quotes. Alternatively, the words “gay adoption is abhorrent” will do the trick even more effectively. Or, just to be safe, do both.

Needless to say, despite interesting opinions on literature and an impressive knowledge of art history and how to make it interesting to his companion on a first date, there shan’t be a date 3. I can only hope that the couple across from us heard either none, or all of the conversation held that evening; at least if they heard all of it, they would know quite what a bigoted idiot he was.

When I explained that I didn’t think a third date would work, he was surprised and disappointed in my decision, but stated that morals were important to him (and from my perspective a very strange set of morals they are too) and he was respectful that it was my choice to make. So kind of him not to try to date me by force. He also sent a final text stating,
“Never known a straight person so committed to gay ‘marriage’!”

And that, dear reader, was two inverted commas too far. End of conversation. Number: deleted.

 

downfall of Mr #6

 

[i] It’s not obvious I’ve been reading Jane Eyre, is it dear reader? No, I thought not.

[ii] There may yet be an epilogue, but if it comes into existence it will be in another post. Not this one. Yes, I am being lazy.

[iii] Or Paul Merton. Or Susan Calman. Or one of the many other contestants of Just A Minute. If you’ve not heard it before, you’re missing out (currently on BBC Radio4, 6.30pm on a Monday. Go, now, and download.) And if you want to be absolutely blown away, then first try talking for sixty seconds on the subject of ‘Exit, Pursued By A Bear’ without repetition, hesitation or deviation. Once you’ve most likely failed at this, then listen to David Tennant’s first go on his first appearance on the showand prepare to be amazed.

[iv] Yes, that is indeed a rhetorical, not to mention wordy and long-winded question.

[v] Incidentally, the expansion of this idea on our date seemed to me to be more offensive to the male gender in its suggestion that male egos are quite so fragile. If you read this Mr #6, then I invite you to contemplate whether this is simply a reflection of your own fragility you are mapping onto your gender to avoid any sense of individual ownership?

The Mean Reds

Hello, and welcome back! I said the Tinder Tales would continue, and I did not lie…

Tinder Tales #4

With number four, the awkward moment actually came on our second date. The first date went well; we chatted about ourselves, had a couple of drinks, and there was even a bit of chemistry. He walked me back to my car and – for the first time ever on a first date – we kissed. It was quite a good kiss, and I headed home with a spring in my step.

In fact, Mr #4 threw a spanner in the works that I had never even contemplated. We met for our second date at a restaurant local to me, a chain I believe, called Cleaver. He arrived a little flustered, but kissed me as he sat down – hello butterflies. But from there things got a bit awkward. There was chemistry, oh yes, but conversation was reluctant to flow. I turned to that old fail safe, the menu, and asked if there was anything he didn’t eat. I was contemplating various sharing platters – chicken wings, chilli nachos and the like – or a proper, hefty steak. Decisions, decisions. I knew he had a sweet tooth so was confident that a warm chocolate brownie would be appearing in front of me before we left the restaurant. He paused, menu in hand, and then uttered words I never expected to pass the lips of the 6ft something blonde ice hockey player next to me.

“I’m a vegetarian.”

Such simple words. Such a small thing – no meat. I have friends who are veggie, who eat kosher, and I can go for days inadvertently meat-free, simply because I like vegetarian food. The problem is, I also love meat. Suddenly a potential future together flashed before my eyes; nut roasts at Christmas, steak-free 14th March, no hearty beef stews in winter, or Moroccan pulled lamb shoulder with friends, slow-cooked pork sizzling on a BBQ… I’m salivating just thinking about it. Add in that that I have both shot and manually dispatched game birds, and I’m possibly not his type.

He went to Florida for a while. He may even have got back by now – I know he was due to be away for a few weeks – and while a part of me would like to see him again, I know I care too much about food and cooking. It’s not about what he does or doesn’t eat, nor is it about the reasoning behind it. It is about the opportunities and experiences it would close off to us were we a couple. I want to be with someone who actively enjoys food and cooking, and will be adventurous in what they try, both to eat and to prepare. Vegetarianism had never entered my mind as a possibility.

Sigh. Maybe I’m just too fussy.

 

Tinder Tales #5

First date easily 9/10, absolutely swept off my feet. I’d had some bad news the night before, and wasn’t fully feeling in the mood, but decided to go along anyway. We met by the flower stall outside Liberty’s, and he explained he’d booked a table at a bar nearby – number eight somethingorother road. We found the road. I saw a building with a number 8 on it. Eat. The sandwich chain. I looked next door. Agent Provocateur. Wasn’t sure either of these were really suitable first date material, but I swallowed my bad mood and went with it. What I’d failed to notice was an unmarked doorway between the two. With some irritation, trepidation and hyperbolic visions of underground muggings, gang rape, and murder, I followed him down the dark stairway. Far from the perilous site of a fatal attack, I was presented with a beautiful bar full of nooks and crannies in which one could curl up and sup on nought but exquisite cocktails and mouth-watering desserts. We whiled away hour upon hour – and cocktail upon cocktail – with conversation ranging from school (we went to secondary school fairly close to each other) to Plato (he was reading The Republic, or something like that). We shared a couple of desserts and sipped on cocktails containing liqueurs I’d never heard of, amontillado sherry, peat, and all sorts of other surprising things that tasted incredible. He offered me the chance to play a ‘Get Out Of Jail Free’ card and leave, and I declined. At that, he kissed me, mid-date. Chemistry? Yes, so very yes. We carried on, dotting our constant conversation with kisses here and there, for hours more. Rather than nearly missing my train á la numéro deux, I actually missed it this time[i], and he hosted me for the night – accepting that I wouldn’t sleep with him on the first date, and not once trying to twist my arm. The second date was less than a week later and involved homemade chilli (cue text to a friend: “He eats meat!”) and a bottle of red with philosophical debates on the sofa. Third date lasted over 36 hours.

Over the next few weeks, we danced, we brunched, we drank wine, debated politics and philosophy, he tried – adorably – to make me breakfast and I subsequently taught him how to poach an egg, we dunked giant Bourbon biscuits into mugs of Earl Grey over a game of Scrabble, we watched Audrey Hepburn eat her breakfast at Tiffany’s while we ate brunch. He seemed funny, respectful, ambitious, hard-working, good fun. Possibly an over-thinker, but let’s face it I am the blackest of pots where that kettle is concerned.

But. But. There’s always a ‘but’. The last of this series of wonderful dates, I had a particularly painful arm on a day we had brunch at Seven Dials. The next evening, he called me to explain that he’d been thinking about the future and wasn’t sure he wanted any potential children we may one day have to inherit my genetic condition. We did talk over it all, but really truly, what it all boils down to is one simple answer: “Fuck You!”

***

I’ve been on one other date since that fiasco, and I hope to see him again so I shan’t jinx it by giving you details here. But Mr #5 has left me with some scars; I’d never before perceived my genetic condition, painful as it may be, to be a barrier to a relationship. Most of the time I have a strong enough perception of my self-worth to realise that it’s his loss, and if he’s flaky enough to turn me down because of the 1 in 20+ chance that any future kids – if we ever got that far ­– would inherit the more painful version of this condition from me, then he’s probably not the best person with whom to entertain the idea of a relationship. I mean, imagine something actually went wrong – not just a ‘maybe one-day’, but an ‘actually now’. What if a pipe burst, or the car broke down, or one of the kids got measles? It’d be a veritable Armageddon! I want to meet someone with whom I can face the challenges life brings hand in hand, all the stronger for having each other. But still, it stung, and on those days when I’m cursed with H. Golightly’s patented Mean Reds, it’s a new, looming spectre in the back of my mind.

“Every cloud has a silver lining” and this cloud was no exception. “Dickface”, as he’s affectionately known by some of my friends, has provided me with a lovely segue to bring me to the next, short but exciting chapter of my life: today was my first day at the INPUT Pain Management course at St Thomas’ Hospital in London. I have fondly nicknamed it St Thomas’ School of Pain, a name that brings with it images of a slightly twisted, Tim Burton-esque version of Mallory Towers. I might even have to get some ginger beer for a midnight feast. My goal is to try and expand the parameters of my life again, to re-encompass into it things I used to love but may have let go, and to do this independently, not having to rely on anyone else to help me cope with the pain. I’ve written before about depression, and I’ve written about the emotional reactions I have to parts of my body when they cause me pain. Those are just two of the experiences that will be covered on this course, and much more, in much more depth. It’s going to be a tough four weeks, but we’ve been told to approach it as an experiment, and in that spirit I shall be documenting some parts of it here. In addition, the philosopher in me is intrigued to see how others with chronic pain refer to themselves and their bodies: as one unit, or as two distinct entities?

Anyway, I digress. Today was Day 1, and in all honesty not much happened: a lot of introductions, to each other as well as to the staff; an outline of what to expect; initial assessments (I had to walk up and down a corridor for five minutes); and not forgetting lunch. Tomorrow is when the fun really begins. That said, it has  already got emotional a couple of times, and I predict that will only increase as we all start to realise we have four weeks ahead of us of facing up to that which we normally try to sweep under the rug. I might buy shares in Kleenex this evening.

And my love life? Well, I intend to see Mr #6 again – and soon if I can – but unless it goes tits up I’m unlikely to write about it for a while. All I hope for is some fun experiences, more intriguing conversation, someone to eat meat with, to feel a few fireworks, and to get through it all without being cast aside as damaged goods. Because I am one hell of a catch – I mean, even as I wrote the first draft of this in Leeds station, the cute barista in Starbucks came over to where I was sitting for a brief natter, then made me a free drink to make up for my train being cancelled.

If only I lived in Leeds…

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[i] Note to self: ask for watch for Christmas.