Day 196-352 (Part 1): The 156-Day Disappearing Act Nobody Ordered… Especially Me.

2 days ago
5 min read

Right…

I think it’s only fair that before anybody says anything…

I say it first.

Yes. I know. I’ve completely abandoned you all.

One hundred and fifty-six days.

ONE.

HUNDRED.

AND.

FIFTY.

SIX.

Honestly, I’ve ignored this blog for longer than some people stay on Love Island before getting dumped.

Babies have been conceived, cooked and born.

Governments have probably changed.

My herbs have died, been replaced and died again.

Even Facebook has probably assumed I’ve forgotten my password.

If this was a relationship, you’d have every right to stand outside my house holding a boombox over your head demanding answers.

Instead, you’ve all been incredibly patient.

Or you’ve forgotten you follow me.

Either way…

Welcome back.

Or perhaps I should say…

Welcome to whatever the bloody hell the last five months have been.

Now, before anyone starts jumping to conclusions…

No. I haven’t secretly put all the weight back on.

No. I haven’t become one of those annoyingly wholesome wellness influencers who suddenly starts every sentence with, “My body is a temple…”

Let’s be honest…

If my body is a temple, it’s one that’s been condemned by the council and currently has scaffolding around it.

No. I haven’t run away to Spain.

Frankly, if you’ve been to Spain recently, you’ll know I’d last approximately seven minutes before becoming one with the pavement.

And no…I haven’t stopped writing because life became wonderfully boring.

I bloody wish.

The truth is...

Every single Sunday I’d tell myself…

“Today’s the day.”

I’d make a coffee.

Open my blog.

Stare at the little blinking cursor.

Type a sentence.

Delete it.

Type another one.

Read it back.

Think…

“Where the hell do I even begin?”

Close blog.

Go and have a nap.

Repeat the following Sunday.

Honestly, I’ve become so good at procrastinating that if it burned calories I’d have reached my goal weight twice.

The thing is…

I never stopped wanting to write. I stopped knowing how.

Because every time I thought I’d finally reached the end of whatever fresh hell my body had decided to throw at me…

It would throw something else.

Looking back now, it’s almost funny.

Actually…

No.

It’s hilarious.

In the sort of way where you’re laughing because crying seems like far too much effort.

Remember my last blog?

The one where I spent approximately fourteen thousand words discussing what I believed to be the virus from the seventh circle of hell?

Bird flu.

Bat flu.

Victorian Influenza.

Consumption.

The Black Death wearing a Santa hat.

Honestly, I diagnosed myself with more illnesses than a nineteenth-century doctor.

Well…Turns out that wasn’t actually the story.

That was merely the opening act.

The warm-up comedian.

The bloke who comes on before the main event while everyone is still buying overpriced drinks.

If somebody had sat me down back in January and said…

“Jabatha…In a few months you’ll know more about blood pressure than you ever wanted to.

You’ll become emotionally attached to electrolyte sachets.

You’ll own compression socks.

You’ll develop a deeply unhealthy relationship with weather forecasts.

Your boyfriend will spend an alarming amount of time looking at your feet.

And you’ll genuinely celebrate the days when you manage to empty the dishwasher without needing a lie down…”

I’d have laughed.

Not because it sounded impossible.

Because it sounded absolutely ridiculous.

Yet here we are.

Living the dream.

Or, more accurately…

Living whatever this is.

The funny thing is, after my last blog, I genuinely believed I’d turned a corner.

I’d started taking vitamins.

Enough vitamins, in fact, that every morning sounded like somebody shaking a maraca.

B12.

Vitamin D.

Zinc.

Collagen.

Magnesium.

Honestly, I was swallowing so many tablets that Boots probably thought I was opening a franchise.

I remember thinking…

“Right… that’s it. Give it another couple of weeks and I’ll be back to normal.”

Normal.

There’s a word I haven’t used in quite a while.

Because somewhere between finishing that last blog and writing this one…

Normal quietly packed its bags and left without telling me.

At first it wasn’t obvious.

I was still working. Still seeing people. Still pretending everything was absolutely fine.

Which, let’s be honest, is a very British thing to do.

“How are you?”

“Oh, fine thanks.”

Meanwhile you’ve had three naps, cried because the washing machine beeped again, and are seriously considering whether baked beans count as one of your five a day.

Nobody really tells you how strange recovering from a virus can be.

Everyone expects there to be a moment.

A magical Tuesday morning where you wake up, stretch, leap out of bed and think…

“There she is! I’m back!”

That moment never came.

Instead…

I just sort of…

Stayed tired.

Not sleepy.

Not “I stayed up watching Netflix until midnight” tired.

This was a whole new level.

This was…

“I’ve had a shower. I need a sit down.”

“I’ve changed the bed. Somebody nominate me for an OBE.”

“I’ve unloaded the dishwasher. Honestly, I think I’ve earned a biscuit.”

Even making a cup of tea started feeling like a task that required both planning permission and a risk assessment.

I’d find myself standing in the kitchen staring at the kettle trying to remember why I’d gone in there in the first place.

Then I’d remember.

Make the tea.

Walk into the living room.

Forget the tea was still on the kitchen side.

Go back.

Microwave it.

Repeat daily.

Honestly, if brain fog was an Olympic sport, I’d have been representing Great Britain.

My poor boyfriend...The man deserves a medal.

Or at the very least some sort of NHS pension.

Every evening he’d come home and ask…

“How’s your day been?” How long have you got?

Because today’s exciting instalment includes…

Needing a nap after replying to three emails.

Forgetting why I opened the fridge four separate times.

Convincing myself I had seventeen different illnesses because Google said so. And spending twenty minutes looking for my phone…

…while talking on it.

True story. I wish I was joking.

The cats, meanwhile, thought this was absolutely fantastic.

Molly had suddenly acquired a full-time lap.

Ruby had someone available to open Dreamies at literally any hour of the day.

Honestly, they probably thought I’d finally accepted my true purpose in life.

Professional cat cushion.

The only person who wasn’t convinced this was normal…

Was me.

Because deep down, despite all the jokes…

I knew something wasn’t right.

I just didn’t know what.

I kept waiting for that magical moment where I’d wake up feeling like myself again.