I woke up today with one task in mind. I just needed to put the washing away and put another load on. That’s it. But suddenly, I’m spinning out, overwhelmed, and crying in a pile of clothes. Why is something so small so hard?

There’s a mountain of laundry, it has been gaining height with each day that passes. My bathroom had a laundry basket, and now the basket cannot keep it contained, in fact, there’s now no evidence the basket exists – it is no longer visible.

The mountain of clothes spills out on to the floor, becoming an obstacle course to climb over every time we need to use the bathroom. I half expect the to hear “Socks, Ready! Gladiators, Ready!” every time I go in there. The bathroom has become The Travelator, an endless uphill battle of broken brains, grief, and pain.

I put a load of washing into the machine, which for some reason, made no dent in the endless mountain. Then I had to put the dried washing from yesterday away so there would be space to put up the next load on my curtain poles. I grabbed it all, and put it all on my bed. My Jellycat penguin Pesto climbed clean laundry Everest, and gave me emotional support. I smiled because he looked so cute on the mountain, he’s so fluffy and comforting.

As I was putting my sons beautiful hoodies away, and was actively thinking about how stylish he is, I suddenly had a panic attack. I felt like it came out of nowhere, what was the trigger? I was just thinking about how stylish my son is, why am I here now? Why do I feel unsafe? Why do I feel broken? Help. Me.

I panicked in silence, not wanting to disturb my son making a YouTube video in the next room, I tried to focus – I couldn’t. I was actively thinking nice things about him — how stylish he is, how much I love his sense of self — and yet, my brain decided to hijack the moment anyway. There was no trigger, no warning, no logic. Just a sudden sense of being VERY unsafe and broken, and I didn’t know why it decided to strike at that exact moment. There’s usually no point even trying to find the reason — all I’ve ever been able to come up with are hypotheses that end up being proved wrong the next time.

Suddenly, EVERYTHING is wrong, my intrusive thoughts start to race while dialled up to 100 volume. My tyrannical brain jumps from problem to problem playing it’s “Greatest Hits of my Failures”. My heart pounds as if to try to escape my body too, while tears stream down my cheeks. I silently swallow the giant lump in my throat and wipe away the tears as they come. I then try to logic myself out of each track on the worst wrapped playlist you’ve ever heard in your life.

Here is the top 3 playlist of the “Greatest Hits of my Failures” today, according to my brain:-

Track 1 “OMG You Can’t Even Complete Basic Tasks”.

I have felt so broken my whole life for struggling with basic tasks, it makes me feel so hopeless and less than. I have been really struggling the past few weeks with my rib – I have some kind of injury which I believe is intercostal muscle strain – and fatigue. Everything feels like such a mission. The rib pain was searing when reaching to get the dry washing down from the curtain poles. Reaching is TERRIBLE when you have rib pain and so is folding and putting clothes away.

As I feel so useless, I push myself to complete things anyway, even when I’m in a lot of pain and suffering crushing fatigue. I desperately don’t want to be hopeless, and I want to convince my own brain that I’m not. The reason I injured my rib in the first place though, was because of a basic task.

There are NO such things as basic tasks when you have chronic fatigue syndrome and hypermobility. Everything is a herculian effort, especially when you’re also dealing with chronic pain. People think basic tasks are easy, but for me, every ‘basic’ task comes with a risk of injury or burnout. Reaching for laundry shouldn’t feel like the real life version of those (MANY) times I got run over by a moose in the Long Dark and sustained broken ribs. “Rest for 6 hours a day? PFFT LAZY!” Thanks brain.

My brain doesn’t care if I’m in pain. It doesn’t care that pushing a trolley hurts my ribs, or that I can’t do basic tasks without feeling broken. It keeps repeating this intrusive track — more times than I have repeated the song ‘Hardest to Be’ by Sora Lion. And I’ve played that song 202 times.

Through tears, I try to argue with myself.
‘Would I expect anyone else to carry on through pain?’ HECK NO.
‘Would I think anyone else was broken for not being able to complete basic tasks?’ Absolutely not.

But when it comes to me? Oh, it’s different apparently. My values for others, do NOT apply to myself.
The Tyrant Brain doesn’t care about logic or values. It doesn’t care about fairness. It only cares about control.

Life isn’t about the ability to complete basic tasks. I truly believe that for others. My nan was bedbound the entire time I knew her, and regardless, she had a beautiful life. She wasn’t worth less because she couldn’t do things. She meant the absolute world to me and showed me what real love was when I was a child.

But for me? My brain insists I’m WORTHLESS. It makes no sense, but mental illness doesn’t play by the rules of logic

Track 2 “You Failed At Your Recovery, Might As Well Give Up, Corrupted Clippy Agrees With Me”

A new entry to my brains AWFUL playlist, oweing to my recent ED downswing, I am now a failure for struggling. Prior to the grief anniversary, I had worked really hard trying to push myself with my eating. I had got up to maintenance and I was starting to push myself with fears. I was even eating some Corrupted Clippy banned foods.

Corrupted Clippy’s ban list makes no sense. It’s like it throws darts at a board and decides what’s forbidden today. Potatoes? Absolutely not. Crisps? Sure, why not. Corrupted Clippy doesn’t care about logic. It just loves making me miserable. It’s like it says, ‘Oh, you love beans and cheese? Well, those are banned now. FOREVER. Enjoy your crisps, though while you can. I might decide they are banned tomorrow, who knows.’

The grief anniversary sent me spiralling. I don’t want to give up, but I can’t eat properly either. I wouldn’t call anything of what I’m doing, “recovery”. In fact, I fell down worse than before. I’m careful not to mention anything that I do or don’t do here. I know what ED’s do, my description of what I’m doing will only fuel someone else’s. Suffice it to say, things are NOT good.

I feel guilty because I’m not trying hard enough, and yet every time I try, I get into a complete and utter mess and I hide in my ED airlock again for safety. I try to apply logic here too. I know that I need to eat. I know that food is part of the process of grieving and getting better. But when I stand in front of the fridge, I can’t make myself do it. I look at the food, and the emptiness inside me feels heavier than anything on the shelves. So I close the door, and I retreat back into my airlock with empty hands and an empty stomach. It feels safer there, even though I know it’s not.

Track 3 “Your Psychiatrist Will Be SO MAD At You”

This track plays alongside the NHS doctors surgery hold music in my brain. My psychiatrist wanted me to have a blood test by the next time I saw him. The appointment is in February, and I have not been able to book a blood test due to the absolute absurdity of how the doctors surgery works. I have been doing what I can only describe as piggy in the middle admin work, during a grief anniversary and spiralling mental illness.

There is nothing more soul destroying than ringing the doctors office and hearing your queue number be in double digits. Except, perhaps, to be number 19 in the queue, finally speak to someone, only to be told, “Your psychiatrist has not contacted us and I cannot book you a blood test without a blood form”.

So I contact my psychiatrist again, and the secretaries there tell me they sent it days ago, but will send it again as an email.
After they assured me they sent the email, I ring the doctors again, double digit queue I unfortunately can’t skip like Phil and Holly again, “Oh you’ll have to ring back next week, I need to get a nurse to look at it”.

I ring back when it’s next week, “Someone will call you back”,
There is no call back, so I call again the next day and do the whole deranged queue music dance AGAIN,
“Someone will call you back”.

UGH I still don’t have an appointment for a blood test. I’d say it’s making me see RED, but the entire problem is that I haven’t been able to.

My brain likes to make me believe that everyone will be mad at me, and the WORST will happen because of it. I know it’s trauma from being told off continually as a child for doing nothing at all wrong. But, it’s also unfortunately rooted in past experience, they do make me the piggy in the middle, and everyone DOES get mad at this little piggy.

This little piggy just wants a blood test. This little piggy is stuck on hold. And this little piggy goes wee wee wee all the way through the deranged queue music… again.

How can I even fight this with logic, when, it’s true? I do NOT need this stress. I struggle with the anxiety of phone calls at the best of times and they’re making it so much harder. I’m just trying to book a blood test. That’s it. I’m not trying to get into MI5. But apparently, I need to pass through an entire bureaucratic obstacle course to achieve this basic, necessary thing. And my brain keeps whispering, “Your psychiatrist will be SO MAD at you” like I’m the one who broke the system.

Track 3 Fades, Others Continue But…

I’m still here, but so tired of all of this. I am absolutely exhausted, bereft with grief and in pain, but the first load of laundry is put away, FINALLY. I had a big meltdown cry and then got myself to finish it SOMEHOW. I even loaded the dishwasher whilst feeling my ribs rip in pain with every cup placed inside.

Do I feel accomplished? No. My brain insists that it’s not enough to feel proud of.
It tells me I should have done MORE, should BE MORE. And now I hurt — physically, mentally, emotionally.

But even though I fought my brain all day, the fight didn’t make it go away.

There’s still a mountain of washing to climb again tomorrow. But for now, there’s one less load to do.
At least, due to putting my washing away, I get to sleep in a cosy room tonight, surrounded by my penguins.

And maybe one day soon, I’ll actually get a blood test.

Here’s your song reward for reading this post. It’s what my brain sounds like today. Raw, messy, longing, unfiltered, but with hope still. It’s an emotionally charged piece from Cyberpunk 2077. It makes me feel all the feelings, “I would have helped you anyway”.