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Angry Doesn’t Even Begin To Cover It

In case you’ve been under a rock, let me tell you that the Supreme Court of the United States decided to overturn Roe vs Wade. That’s the decision that made abortion legal in the US in the 70s.

So now, abortion is illegal. Or, well, what it is that is that it’s up to each state to decide. And if a state decides to make it illegal, it’s also up to them to decide how to prove an abortion took place and what the punishment will be. Texas began this bullshit with a law, that passed, making anyone getting or helping someone get an abortion be able to be sued for, at a minimum, $10,000. SB8 is evil. Texas is even more evil.

I don’t get how anyone I know can live there. But I know several people that do. If you’re reading this, tell me what makes Texas so great that you can live there.

And I am so angry. Not just at the Supreme Court for doing such a fucking stupid thing. But at all of the people who voted directly for Trump or voted for a third party candidate with ‘Anyone other than Hillary!’ as their rallying cry.

See, I don’t think they really meant that. I think they meant ‘I don’t want to vote for her because someone told me not to and there is no way Trump will get elected. She’ll win anyway.’

You stupid fuckers. This is all your fault.

You let a narcissistic, bullying, rapist lead the United States of America. You let that orange coloured waste of space appoint two Supreme Court Justices. You are 100% culpable in the January 6th Insurrection*. I blame each and everyone of you for what is happening to people in the US.

So don’t fucking do it again. This September, vote for the people who will actually save the US. I don’t care if you hate them. I don’t care if your religious or otherwise leader told you they are the devil themselves. If they are a Democrat? Vote for them.

You know what? I personally don’t like President Biden. I think he’s actions over the years towards women are problematic as hell. But the alternative, four more years of Trump? Would have been 10,000,000,000 time worse.

Better the devil who is not trying to take away basic freedoms from half of the population. Because that’s what making abortion illegal does. Takes away the ability to plan our own lives and our own health.

See, the thing is, pregnancy happens outside our control. People with uteruses are raped and molested. Birth Control fails or is sabotaged. Condoms can break. If pregnancy was within our control, we wouldn’t need IVF or ovulation kits or anything like that.

And sometimes foetuses develop badly. So badly that they can’t exist outside the uterus. That can sometimes lead to miscarriage but not always and medical help is needed to save the mother. What if a uterus having person has cancer and gets pregnant? Can you imagine what chemo might do to a foetus?

Ectopic pregnancy is when a fertilized egg implants in the fallopian tube rather than the uterus. If it is not removed surgically, in other words, through an abortion? The person will die. The fully grown, functioning member of society. Of course, the random bunch of cells that have incorrectly implanted will die as well. But that seems to be the only part the GOP and other conservative assholes care about.

People keep crying ‘But it’s against my religion! You must respect my religion!’ Guess what? Having abortion illegal is against my religion.

In Judaism, when a person with a uterus is pregnant, that foetus and that person are considered as one. The foetus is considered part of the pregnant person. And so if that pregnant person’s life is in danger due to having the foetus inside of them? The foetus goes. There are already challenges being raised in Florida by the Jewish Community. Making abortion illegal is against our religious beliefs and, therefore, against the constitution.

I have been wondering how those people who are happy about the end of Roe V Wade are going to feel when a person with a uterus that they love finds themselves pregnant through rape, molestation or even the failure of birth control. Oh wait, they’ll mostly be fine. Because in reality, this isn’t the end of abortion.

It’s the end of safe abortion for anyone who isn’t a rich, white, cis, het person.

*Of course, Justice Clarence Thomas’ wife Ginni Thomas actually helped plan the thing. I’ll leave that for another post.

Thanks to the ACLU of Georgia Facebook page for the Featured image.

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Text on black background saying Pool Swim 101% complete

Yup. Swimming.

So back at the beginning of 2020 I decided I really needed to stop thinking about swimming and actually swim. So I signed up for a swim membership at the Better Centre (Better now runs all of NI’s leisure centres, more or less) and started going after work.

I also signed Adam up for swimming lessons. He hadn’t wanted to do them for ages and then swimming was part of PE at his school and he realised how much fun swimming is! I think he asked me in the beginning of 2019 if he could take lessons and I tried to sign him up but things kept happening and it didn’t happen.

But when I signed me up for swim membership, I signed him up for swim lessons. On Sundays at 0915. UGH!

And then, of course, PANDEMIC!!! So I didn’t get to swim any more and neither did Adam.

And then, the pools opened! For about a month!

And then, the pools closed. For about three months.

Now they are back open and Adam is back to lessons and we both love it.

I am not fast. I have no real technique. But I managed to go back and forth for about 45 minutes 1 – 2 days a week and Adam and I go to the Family Swim on Sunday afternoons and play.

Now, part of the reason that I have no technique is because various things hurt at various times on my body. This includes a brand new hurt in my left knee (yay?) and the inability most of the time to move my left shoulder in a circular motion for backstroke/crawl.

So I do some breast stroke. And I do swim on my back, but use a frog kick like breast stroke but upside down.

So I plod along, in the slow lane, and I enjoy it.

And then I heard laughter the other day. I was just coming to the end of a lap at the shallow end so I stood up and looked toward the laughter.

And two girls there immediately looked away from staring at me.

If they weren’t laughing at me? They sure the hell didn’t act like it.

And here I am, 52 years old, mostly not caring what other people think, but that laugh, from two twenty-somethings hurt.

Dory and Nemo Just Keep Swimming

See, I’ve been laughed at for my athletic ability all my life. Last picked for teams when I was a kid. People laughing at the way I ran during the track and field module in PE. Even the things I was sort of good at, like doing floor exercises for gymnastics, people would still snicker at the fat girl trying to tumble.


Fuck them, I thought to myself, I am here, in this pool, doing these laps despite being fat, disabled, mentally ill, and tired all the fucking time.

I am not swimming for those petty little girls.

I’m swimming for me. Because it makes my joints feel better. Because I enjoy it.

So if you are a twenty something girl who swims at the Olympia Leisure Centre and enjoy laughing at fat women swimming the next lane over? Fuck off to fuck off and then fuck off again.

If you’re lucky, you’ll never have any health issues.

And if you’re not and wind up with some? I hope the twenty somethings who are swimming the next lane over don’t laugh at you. Because it’s mean.

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Working From Home in the Age of Covid-19

Like everyone else right now, I am working from home.

And I’ve been reading a lot from people who have never worked from home before, never mind worked from home while sorting out children’s schooling.

And I’ve seen a lot of ‘treat it like a regular day’ sort of posts. There is no way of treating lock down like a regular day is going to work for anyone with or without children at home.

Sure, you can get up at your usual time, wash, put on makeup/shave, and dress in ‘work’ clothes. But you can’t do the school/daycare run. You can’t stop and have a chat with the barista at the coffee place. You can’t even chat in the break room with your coworkers about last night’s TV watching!

And those are the things that mean you don’t actually work the whole time you’re at work. Let’s say you work 8 hours a day. You have an hour for lunch, so you need to fill seven hours.

I have never met anyone who works seven hours straight. No matter how busy or important they are.

For one thing, I’ve never been in a meeting in my nearly 40-year career that didn’t start with at least 10 minutes of bullshit. How is everyone? Did everyone see Jim do that thing in the break room? ::laughter:: Anyone going to The Who concert on Friday? Bill, did I hear you’re off to Milan for your holiday? Etc etc etc.

And I’ve been at meetings with people from my fellow Admins all the way up to Chief Executives and Chairmen

of the Board. There’s always chat. In fact, back when I was pregnant and working at The Northern Ireland Science Park (now Catalyst) I had to pop into a high-level meeting to bring our CEO some papers. I was just going to sneak in, give them to him, and sneak back out. Ninja is actually in the Personal Assistant job description.

PA Ninja!!

But I was stopped by one of the people in the meeting, a member of one of the governing bodies of The Science Park, who interrupted the head of her department to ask me when I was due and how I was feeling!! NB: she’s also the one who I had on the phone a few weeks before who asked me ‘Did I hear that you are with child?’ which was definitely the quaintest way anyone asked me that question!

Even if you don’t have any meetings during your day, you are spending some part of your day chatting with your co-workers. In my current office and desk location there is probably at least an half an hour a day of golfing talk. Maybe a half an hour of children talk. Sometimes longer of TV show talk. So that’s what? One and a half hours right there? It may not be that length of time in a row since a phone will ring, someone will get an urgent email, or someone will come over to see one of us. But it’s easily that long over the course of the day. So now there’s only 5.5 hours of actual work being done.

Even when I was an hourly worker at Target I wasn’t working every minute of my shift. People would stop to chat with me, I’d stop to chat with people. I’d take at least five minutes of every hour to just sort of stare into space!

Of course, the real issue is company expectations. During normal times, companies absolutely should have the expectation that if you are working from home you don’t have children to care for. But reasonable ones still don’t think you are going to sit at your computer for eight total hours. That way lies madness.

The emails that my company sent out when they announced WFH for all said something like ‘you are expected to be available and working during your normal working hours.’ “Available and working”. I, personally, take that to mean ready to jump if someone needs me but if my kid needs me, he comes first. But remember, I’m an office manager, who currently has no office to manage. So it’s actually pretty easy for me to keep an eye on email/Teams while I am doing other things as I have access to them on my phone, my iPad and a computer.

When things are normal I never have notifications on for either of my devices, unless I’m going to be away from my desk for a long stretch sorting something out, then I turn on notifications for Outlook and Teams on my phone.

While my whole office is WFH I have notifications on 24/7. I rarely get anything on either but it was a good thing they were on when one of the office’s computers stopped working completely and IT couldn’t do anything remotely so they pinged me and asked me to go to the office and reboot the machine. On a day I had taken off. Which was absolutely fine. It’s why my notifications were on. I am only one of five people who have complete access to the office when it’s locked and the alarm is set. And I’m only one of three people who have access to get into the office and access to our comms room.

During that same trip to the office I looked over our servers and found one on the edge of collapse (there’s lights on them that indicate status; I am not a server whisperer) so I reported that to our server team and went back the next day to replace the server.

I need to be available right now. So I am.

But I am also helping Adam with school work, keeping the house in some sort of order (oh man do I miss my cleaner!) and doing all of the other things I do when I’m at home. With, of course, help from Simon who is also working from home for the duration.

So what’s my point? My point is that you are not superman. Or woman. Or kid. You’re just you. And you can’t do it all.

So stop trying. Do your best.

And stay inside.

And wash your hands.

And don’t touch your face.

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Oh, Fuck You!

Oh, Fuck You!

So I’ve been sharing a series of fucked up things on Facebook with the comment ‘Oh Fuck You’.

And I thought a compilation would be interesting.

So here I go:

Oh, Fuck you, 28th April 2019. San Diego Synagogue shooting

Oh, fuck you, you fucking terrorists, 19th April 2019. Lyra McKee Murder

Oh, fuck you, 13th April 2019. Texas lawmakers consider the death penalty for abortion

Oh, fuck you, 5th April 2019. UK Minister Mark Field calls the Sultan of Brunei a great friend.

Oh, fuck you, 4th April 2019. Special Education funding drops to 

Oh, fuck you, 28th March 2019

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Scotland Was Great But FlyBe Sucked

Hand drawn map of Scotland

Let me start this by saying Vicki, Kelly, Lyndsey and I had an amazing time in Glasgow this weekend. We ate and drank and talked and laughed. We shopped and saw comedians. We stayed up way too late and slept in not quite enough.

But it almost didn’t happen.

Originally, our flight back was at 1050a. Perfect time to get us all back and into routines with our children and back to work and school on Monday.

Then I got an email. Your flight is now 810. Groan, but okay, good to get back early.

Then during the week another email. 1300. Which was find for me, Lyndsey and Kelly, but Vicki was supposed to be at work. So I called FlyBe and asked them what we could do. We could take a partial refund, so fly to Glasgow without a return, we could take a full refund, so cancel the trip, or we could leave at 1.

So I gather my ladies and we talked about it. (Okay, we did it on Facebook Messenger. Don’t pick nits!) Vicki was adamant she would just cancel her bit because she had just started a new job and didn’t want to mess them about.

However, the lady she works for is very nice and when she heard she said she’d cover until we got back to Belfast.

So we were off!

And then FlyBe started canceling flights. On the Wednesday they canceled Belfast to Glasgow morning flights. More panic. Was the whole thing being canceled?

Then I realized they were having trouble with early morning flights but they hadn’t canceled any at the same time as ours on the Friday.

And then it was Friday and we were on our way!

Now, I checked us all in online before we left on Friday and printed our boarding passes.

We had all agreed we’d only bring small liquids so we didn’t have to check any luggage. And we all got on the flight fine. Remember that. It’s important later.

We then proceeded to have an awesome weekend in Glasgow. Too much junk food. Too much alcohol. Lots of laughs and gossip and serious talk. The perfect Ladies Weekend.

So we head home. And I try to check us in via the App. Which tells me a new app is coming soon and to use the website. Except the website would only issue boarding passes to be printed. And we had no printer. So we all said ‘Okay, no problem, we’ll check in at the airport.’

We get to the airport and go to check in. I check in fine. They get to Kelly, and she can’t get her bag into their stupid metal bag measurer so she takes some stuff out and puts it into a plastic bag with her hand bag and then it fits.

Then Lyndsey. Manages to squeeze it in.

Then Vicki. Who knows there is no way it will fit into that stupid thing. And tells the man that it fit on the way over so what’s the problem? No pay, no boarding pass, go over there, it’s £40.

Now Vicki had put some of my stuff into her bag as I bought way to much, so I paid the fee. I wasn’t happy and I started Tweeting that I wasn’t happy.

So we get to the gate. And they announce that if you don’t have an approval sticker on your bag, come measure it. So people queued up. And then the FlyBe staff realized they had no way to take money so they waived all of the fees.

So we paid for Vicki’s bag and no one else (well one other person who had checked in at the desk) had to pay?

Then I really started raising a stink on Twitter. And was told it was policy. And that they couldn’t speak to others with their bags. And then they stopped answering me when I pointed out that every person who was suppose to pay at the gate got off scot free.

Then there was an incident after we boarded where one of the Flight Attendants was very rude to one of us, but that’s not my story to tell and it has been sorted anyway.

And FlyBe still won’t reply to my comments about their horrible procedures.

And suddenly their app is updated.

And I’m still out £40.

So my advice, to all is to not fly Fly Be (or Easy Jet, who apparently have done the same thing) unless you club together to pay for one case to be checked before you get to the airport so that you all can put your shopping in it on the way home.

And this blog post is going to be turned into an email to FlyBe.

To the highest person I can find an email address for.

And I am not the least bit surprised they have had to be bailed out.

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I Was Going to Write a Piece of Fluff About My New Car

When a person in a Facebook group I belong to mentioned how tired she was of people forgiving Joe Biden for his sexual harassment.

And I realised how tired I was. Of supposedly good men’s bad behaviour. Of “it’s no big deal” and/or “it was a different time.”

It is a big deal and who gives a fuck when it was? It should never have been okay to touch women without their permission, to harass women, to rape women, to hold them back because they were/are women.

Adam likes history. It’s inevitable with a grandfather whose PhD is in History and who was a lecturer/head of department at Ulster University before he retired. He still lectures on history, actually. In any case, with a grandfather like that an a father with a BA in history, it would be weird if Adam didn’t like history.

So we read Horrible Histories together. We both really like them. And all through them, from prehistoric man to the Romans, Greeks, Spartans, Victorians, Edwardians etc etc etc from the beginning of time until right now women have been hassled, held down, held below. Made something less.

And we are tired.

We have fought and screamed and been ignored and we won’t be ignored any more.

But I’m also tired of other things.

I’m tired of Trump and his stupid fucking wall and his racism, sexism and bigotry.

I’m tired of Brexit and Theresa May standing in front of Parliament lying about what her government has done to children, the elderly, and the disabled. Pushing back, with lies, against the truth Jeremy Corbyn was saying about the number of children, elderly, and disabled people are now living below the poverty line. You read that right. Below.

I’m tired of the so called “ruling classes” who have no idea what the rest of do to survive. Who have no idea what it’s like to wonder if you can pay the rent or the heating or the electric. Who have never wondered how they are going to buy their children milk.

I’m tired of all of them. I want to send all of them into the sun. I want to pass a law that no one can run for office until they are made to live on what a single working mother with two kids in this country makes on her zero hours contract and the benefits that haven’t been cut. Yet.

I have no idea how the Tories won in 2005 and stayed in office all of this time.

I have no idea how Trump won. And I have very little faith he’ll be gone in two years.

I don’t have the answer.

But I’ll keep shouting.

And being tired.

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Why I was Fired in Two Days

So I was suppose to start my job the second week of September. And I did. For two days.

On my second day, my mobile rang. I was home, as I work 10 – 2 five days a week. And it was around 330 when my phone rang with the name of my company on the display.

I admit, I panicked. Why were they calling so long after the end of my day and on my mobile? It’s my private mobile, so the only people who have it are HR, recruitment, my bosses etc. So I answered it.

It was the Head of HR. And a solicitor. It seemed that I was wrong about it being okay that my Indefinitely Leave To Remain (IDLR) visa was in an expired passport. Well, half wrong. It was fine to travel on it that way. It no longer gave me the right to work. It had to be moved to a Biometric Residency Permit (BRP) and until that happened? I was fired.

I had an email from my boss mere minutes after that phone call ended telling me she would keep my job open. She wanted me for it and no one else. So get it sorted and come back to work as soon as possible.

I, of course, spent a few minutes crying and kicking myself. I used to check the IDLR rules regularly! Why had I stopped? When had I stopped?

No clue.

Simon and I had a small amount of money set aside for something else but agreed using it for this was bettter. So I started to get organised to get my visa moved and looked into doing an ‘emergency’ application.

Remember how this was the second week in September? The first ‘emergency’ appointment available at any Home Office Visa office was 29th October. In fucking Liverpool.

I thought for sure that had to be an error. Surely there was some sort of problem with their online system!

So I rang.

Nope. No problem. That really was the first available appointment.

So Simon and I talked about it and I did some more research, which was telling me that people were getting their moved visas in just weeks. Not the six months the Home Office claims it can take.

So I got my stuff together and sent it in. That was around the 3rd week of September.

And I waited.

And then I panicked again. The rules about IDLRs had changed in 2012. I had been working for myself this whole time. Had I been breaking the law?!?!

So I found an immigration lawyer and gave them a ring.

I had not. In fact, by law, I didn’t actually have to wait to go back to work until the IDLR was moved. Having the IDLR, no matter what document it was in, gave me the legal right to work in the UK. But the lawyer wasn’t surprised my company didn’t want to take the chance, considering the fines start at £10,000.

So I kept waiting. And I got a text saying they had the information. And then another text saying it had been given to a case worker to review and I’d be contacted if they needed any other information.

What? Why did it need to be approved again?!?!

Because it was still in my name of origin. And to change it to my chosen name, I had to prove I had lived in the UK for the whole 15 years that I claimed.

Well, fuck.

So then I waited some more.

And then I got an email. Did I have any proof that I had lived in the UK from 2009 until 2017?

And I replied, um, I sent you all of the passports I have.

And she replied, no. You didn’t. There’s a gap.

And I hit my head on my desk and remembered that I had gotten a new US passport around the time Adam was born so our passport surnames would match. That’s a US government requirement, by the way. Not sure what they do about parents who have a different last name from their kids, as happens in this world, but for me it was easy fix nine years ago when we registered Adam’s birth with the US consulate and got his US passport and social security number.

So I replied again, I can overnight you my passport or can I just email you my tax returns for that time period?

And she replied that tax returns would be great and that I should have an answer in a few days.

And a few days later I did indeed have an answer. And my BRP arrived a few days later.

Biometric Residency Permit
Ta da!

And I went back to work 3rd December.

So all in all? Not paying the urgent price (plus flight and hotel) meant I only waited about a week past how long it would have taken had I paid and gone to Liverpool.

And my theory as to why there are no emergency appointments for weeks?


Which doesn’t even affect me personally in terms of immigration as I’m not an EU national. Of course it affects me personally in all the ways it will affect all of us in the UK. But not for immigration.

So I’m now legal again, until my BRP expires in five years. But I won’t be fired this time. There’s a grace period to get it sorted once you have one and need another one.

And I have a permanent reminder in my diary to check the IDLR rules every six months.

Just in case…

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I’m losing my dad – one memory at a time

I don’t talk about my dad much here or anywhere else online. We have a bit of a complicated relationship.

I last saw him just over a year ago when I flew to Ohio to visit. I went for two reasons:

He was diagnosed with dementia and he was turning 80.

Me and my dad Sept 2017

My dad and me September 2017

It was a good, if short, visit. It was just me as it was in September and Simon and Adam both had school.

So I’ve been watching him forget things via Skype.

Things like how a computer works (he taught me about computers), what a DVD is, and people. Not his immediate family, but my extended family, who used to be his family.

And it’s not that he forgets for a minute. It’s like he never knew it at all.

And now he’s fallen in his garage and broken an arm and a hip. My step mom called 911 and got him to the hospital.

And yesterday he had three pins put in the hip. The surgery went really well.

And his three grown children, me, my sister (who lives near them in Ohio) and my brother suddenly realised we all had iPhones and could talk for free on iMessenger!

So my sister has been sending updates. And my brother and I have been sending love and verbal support.

Because the three of us haven’t been close, physically or emotionally, for years.

But we are all losing our dad.

One memory at a time…

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The Menopause

Drawing of me with fire in the background

So, as I think I’ve mentioned before, I turned 50 last week.

And like a switch being flipped my occasional bout of feeling slightly warm has turned into hot flashes so hot I swear I’m on fire. So far my sleeping meds have prevented these horrible things waking me up, but I am expecting to have that happen any day.

So I went to my GP’s office and chatted to one of my favourite GP’s, Dr Mc, about what I could do, since I can’t take hormones, as they give me migraines. And he actually suggested natural remedies. He admitted that he had no idea if they actually worked or if it was all placebo effect, but we agreed even if it’s just placebo effect, anything is better than feeling like you’re on fire!

So one night this week after work I am going to go to Harland and Barrett and see what they have for “Menopause Vitamins.”

I promise to report back.

Unless I spontaneously combust before then…

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Why I Really Missed PIP by One Point.

As I mentioned previously, I applied for Personal Independant Payment in 2017 and took it all the way to appeal.

And I lost. By one point. I am one point not quite ill enough to receive the  money the government claims I’m entitled to. 

Except I’m not entitled to it. Not any more.

And everyone keeps telling met to reapply. That finding that one point, by starting from the beginning, shouldn’t be too hard.

But, for right now, the government has won. I don’t have the energy to start all over again.

And that’s what they are counting on, really. That they’ll wear down those of us who, according to them, are ‘fine’, so we’ll give up. Go back to work and not try again.

So I am, currently back at work, part time. 

And I’m exhausted and in pain. Like always.

But I’ve also been thinking about why I actually didn’t win my appeal. 

Because I don’t think it’s because I didn’t have enough evidence as to why I get anxious when I go some place new (the point I was trying very hard to get).

I think it’s actually because the appeal committee, who I met in person, saw the Robyn who covers her pain. And her exhaustion. 

Because that’s what a lot of us with invisible illnesses do. We cover. We put forth a facade of being normal. Of not hurting. Of being fine.

It’s not that we’re faking sick. We’re faking well.

And it can be hard to turn that off. To show how we really feel. 

How every step hurts. How our words get jumbled. How tired we actually are.

I am so used to letting no one, not even my family, see how bad I really feel, that it’s hard to drop the act and let it show. 

And why do I keep up the act? Because I have to. No matter how I feel, I have to get up and get Adam ready for school, and now me ready for work. I have to make lunches and help him with his uniform (Yes, even at his age. He’s still autistic, after all, and still has issues with fine motor control.) and wait for his bus with him.

Sure, Simon helps as much as he can. But he leaves the house over an hour before we do, to make it out to his campus for his first class. That might ease up a bit if Ulster ever actually moves to Belfast. (Perhaps a post for another day…)

So, as it always has, it falls on me. Except now, after Adam is on his bus, I’m on mine, off to work.

And I love my job. I really do. It’s the Administrative job I’ve always wanted in terms of autonomy, power, and the back up to use it. 

But it takes it’s toll. Even if I do not have a physical day at work, I still end the day exhausted. And some days have to be physical as there is a lot of cleaning up and organising my poorly neglected office needs.

So I spread that work out and make sure I have whole days of just sitting at my desk doing other things.

But even on those days I do 5,000 steps without even trying. Just from walking around the office.

It will become somewhat easier in a few months when we buy a car, because I won’t need to do any of the walking I do now to get to work. It’s not much, but what it is takes some of my energy. Not that driving isn’t tiring, but I don’t find it tiring in the same way.

But what I really want is to not have to wear the facade, ever. 

But I have to. 

Because my kind of illness? The invisible kind? Is still not believed by a whole lotta people. 

So if I grimace in pain, or don’t laugh off my word confusions or give in to the exhaustion as often as I truly want to, then people would think I was faking. Pretending to be ill.

When, really, I’m pretending to be well.