Two Fridays ago I had what can only be described as a meltdown.
Maybe it was the un-inspiring consultant appointment that did it, or perhaps the simple fact that I was trying to squeeze too much in (again) but basically I fell into a black hole for a few hours and it wasn’t pleasant.
It all came off the back of a pretty intense week at work when the entire city was waiting on the historical release of the Saville Report which investigated the tragic events of Bloody Sunday in Derry some 38 years ago. When it happened, it was an emotional day, and we were all flat out trying to get all angles covered for a special edition of the paper.
As a part-timer I flipped my hours and did a late evening shift rather than start first thing and work flat-out for 13 hours straight like the rest of my colleagues - a move I thought wouldn’t impact on my fatigue levels too much - how wrong can you be!
That late finish, followed by an early start and then another long day when I barely lifted my head, finally hit me - hard. I woke on Friday morning completely zonked out, with not an ounce of energy left in reserve. And, blame it on the pregnancy hormones, but I just crumpled.
And I cried. Not just a few tears but a breath-taking sob-fest that ended with me hurled into my husbands arms blubbing about the injustice of having MS.
And I hated myself for doing it. There is no good that can come from self-pity, it just makes you feel worse than you did before. But, in my defence, once I was done crying, I was done crying. So, while I was berating myself for being so self-indulgent at the time, in retrospect I recognise that these moments are part and parcel of living with MS.
It’s not an easy illness to have. It’s a chronic one. And as such I’m not supposed to, or expected to be, happy-go-lucky all the time. That realisation is one I’m glad to have finally hit upon because pretending to be something you’re not all the time isn’t healthy either.