Waiting...

I feel like I'm waiting for something. I don't know what it is. There's a sense of anticipation and I have no idea why.

It's not work. I have a lot to do, but none of it exciting or that interesting in the grand scheme of things. I have a couple of projects on the go, but nothing that would cause this feeling.

It might be the kitchen. I asked the neighbour if he would do the decorating for me (stripping the last of the wallpaper, puting up a few shelves, painting the walls and getting it all nice) and he said he would. It's easier than waiting for himself to get round to it and will cost me the same in paint, brackets and so on. Himself can't agree on a colour to paint it, so I'll make the decision and that will be that. I like blue. I've been told it's a bathroom colour. I think it will go well with the blonde wood cupboards and the silver appliances personally. A nice pale blue, possible an Azure, like a summer sky colour... maybe a few fluffy clouds thrown in for that nice relaxing touch... I shall discuss it with my "decorator" later. I may even have shelving to put all my spices and herbs on, since they're currently outgrowing my cupboard space and mug racks on the walls for my ever-growing collection... I don't think it's that causing the excitement/anticipation though.

I'm still fighting a losing battle with the mess in the house. I plan to spend more time de-messifying the place over the next few weeks or however long it takes, and perhaps get some semblance of order back into the place. It's going to take some reorganisation of furniture, moving things about, slotting things in here and there, puting up new shelving for things... But it's all stuff that I can get done with the help of my trusty decorator/neighbour.

Yesterday I had a good go at the dining room. I moved stuff, tidied stuff, threw stuff out... and it still looks like a tip. I'm not downhearted though. I know it will look messy till it's nearly tidy again, and I plan to have all of that done in the next week, along with the living room. Himself wasn't around while I was doing my big housework kick. He walked out after yet another discussion on how to get the place sorted out that I instigated turned into a shouting match after he decided "discussion" meant "giving him his orders". I got a little annoyed at that point, then it went from bad to worse. I throw things, I know I do, but it's little things like bits of paper, carrier bags, laundry... Just stuff that won't make a damn bit of difference if it's lying on one surface or a different part of the floor. I end up picking it up later anyway, so why does it really matter? It helps me de-stress if I can use up some energy, but it's not allowed. It's me creating more mess. Like it's really going to make that much of a difference in the slum we are currently living in... I tidied the stuff I threw yesterday (two carrier bags for the record, but I may as well have emptied every shelf and cabinet onto the floor the way he carried on about it) and chucked out some junk that has been accumulating for far too long. I have a lot more floor than I started with, so that's a plus. Just have to find the rest of the carpet now...

Ah well, I might manage to work out what this sense is. If I do, I shall let you know... Meanwhile, I shall be doing housework if anyone wants me. No clue what himself will be doing however, but hey ho, I'm not expecting miracles.

Same Old, Same Old...

Cheesed off doesn't cover it right now. It's an understatement of the highest order. I'm sick of being ill. I'm tired of the constant trips to the doctor, visits to the hospital, mistakes being made and all that palavour.

So, I got the date for my hysteroscopy. 29th January. Not bad considering the usual wait for things. I packed my wee bag and trundled off on the train to the hospital. Got there early and sat around for a bit. Had all the usual stuff asked, got stuck with a needle, spoke to about 4 people who asked all the same questions as normal, got all the same answers, as normal, and found out I was first on the list for the afternoon. The surgeon decided he wanted to try the Mirena Coil to try and stop me having such long and heavy periods. I wasn't convinced. He explained it would probably be best. I agreed and signed the form.

I wandered down to Theatre with the nurse and porter, got parked on the anaethsatists gurney and had the sleepy nice stuff injected into my arm. Went out like a light. I woke up in recovery about forty five minutes later feeling fine. Chatted to the recovery nurses, one of whom had been my recovery nurse when I had my thyroid op. I apologised for being a lousy patient and told her I would behave this time. I was fairly bright and awake, which they were surprised about, so I got thrown back up to the ward a wee bit earlier than they would normally do it. Got there, sat about, got given some water, although I asked for tea when they asked if I wanted a drink... Milk makes you vomit if you've had a general by the way. I already know this from past experience, but I wanted a cuppa anyway. I drank my glass of water and got another one. I finished that too, and then they allowed me tea. Brilliant! I'd been gagging for that cup of tea since I got there at ten AM and it was 4PM when they let me have one. I wasn't sick. I was nice and awake, and they were all a bit puzzled as to why.

I had a little bit of pain. A bit like a bad period pain, but I figured since they'd been poking about in there, it was to be expected. I got sent home. Himself came and picked me up and had arranged for the week off work to "look after me". By that I thought I might get looked after. How wrong was I? He was, as usual, glued to his computer. I was taking a few painkillers here and there to ease the growing pain in my gut which I thought was fairly normal. I mooched around the house, watched a bit of telly, played my computer games, chatted to a couple of people to take my mind off things, while he sat in front of his train sims and the other things he looks at.

Anyway, Monday the 4th I tried to go back to work. Everyone in the office wanted to know why I was there, and I was told to go away again. By the time I got home it was too late to get a doctors appointment, so I phoned for an emergency one on the Tuesday. Got in there and saw the doc. She was a little concerned and told me I might have an infection or something, did a couple of swabs and gave me some antibiotics to take and some antibacterials. I had to go back to see her on the Thursday to get a checkup on how things were going. By the time Thursday came round, I felt like I had a red hot bowling ball covered in spikes lodged in my pelvis. She decided she wanted me to go back to hospital for a scan to see if they could find out what was wrong, so I came home, chucked a few things in a bag and got a taxi rather than having to spend an hour on the train.

I got to the hospital. I sat there in pain for a while. Had some Obs done. Sat a bit longer. Sat some more with the pain getting to unbearable point. Sister finally took pity on me and came to ask whether I'd seen the doc yet. At that point I broke down in tears. She gave me some painkillers and then had to go deal with another patient. By the time the doc came round the painkillers had kicked in so it wasn't as sore, and my head was a it fuzzed out because of no breakfast and the strong painkillers. She had a feel of my tummy and decided I would need a scan and that they would send me an appointment in the post... Then I was told to go home. I phoned himself to ask if he would pick me up. I ended up getting the train instead and got a taxi back from the station to the house because he didn't even bother getting up when I phoned the first time, or when I sent a text saying I was 20 minutes from the station. By the time I got home it was five at night and I'd left the house to go to the docs at half nine. I took the painkillers the doc had given me and sat feeling completely dejected. Himself was up and about, but glued to his computer as usual, and getting ready to go to work, so too busy to sit and listen to me ramble on too much. I phoned my mum instead later after he had gone and had a good sniffle to her instead.

Come Tuesday of this week I needed to go see the doc, at least for a repeat sick note and to ask her why the pain was getting worse not better. I was eating painkillers like sweeties and clock watching for the 4 hour intervals I could take them. She decided I HAD to go back to the hospital after doing an internal examination. She decided the coil was possibly in the wrong place but wanted the gynae doctors to check it out. So, I phones himself on the way home who said he would run me there. By the time I got home, he'd decided he was too tired and I was to get there on my own. I got a taxi again.

I got in there. They recognised me. I must be a troublesome patient. Anyway, the doc wasn't so busy so I got seen reasonably early. She had a bit of a feel round at my tummy and decided an internal would be a good plan. She went to get all the stuff while I got myself undressed and into the bed. After poking me in a few places and me grimacing and occasionally saying "OW" through gritted teeth, she decided the coil might be too low down and be irritating things. The decision was made to remove it. "One sharp cough for me" she said and counted to three. I coughed and felt like someone had stabbed me straight in the guts from below. It was out. I still had a fair bit of pain, and she said it might take a short while to calm down. I got painkillers and a jug of water and told to rest. I rested, and the pain gradually got easier. Back from the stabbing/ripping sensation I'd been getting to just a really, really, REALLY bad period pain, but the painkillers too the edge off. By another couple of hours, it was just a bad period pain, so I was told I could go home. This was about quarter past/half past fivein the afternoon. I phoned home and woke himself up to ask if he could come get me since he didn't have to be in work till 8. He said he'd phone and see if he could get cover in case he was late. That was fine. I phoned him to tell him I was definitely getting out at about quarter to six and could he come get me please. He said shower and toast, then he'd be there.

Eight O'clock he got to the hospital. Apparently he had a problem with the engine throwing a push-rod. Common occurrence these days I'm afraid. Takes about 15 minutes to fix. The drive to the hospital takes about 25 minutes...

Anyway, he got there, I got in the car, still very uncomfortable. We managed to get ten minutes up the road when the car does something nasty and loses power. Half way up a hill. In the dark. In the pouring rain. He had a look to see if it was the same problem. It wasn't. He phoned the RAC who said two and a half hour wait. He said not acceptable and told them he was bringing me home from hospital. They rearranged and said recovery truck in an hour. He phoned work and said there was no way he could get in.

We sat in almost silence till about 25 past 9. He played games on his phone, giving me progress reports on how he was doing. I sat and clock watched. Phoned my mum to tell her what had happened and that we were probably not going to be home before she went to her bed, but I was out of hospital at least. By the time the recovery guy got there, I was frozen.

We got home at nearly ten o'clock. Had to eat something so I could take my tablets and went round the neighbours to see how they were and to let them know what's been doing. They've been good, looking after me, checking I'm ok, having me round in the evenings to play games on the wii, and I got some company out of it.

Friday was his last night. I got him up out of bed, he switched on his computer, sat and played games on it, complained that he was going to have to do washing on Saturday because he had run out of socks... I felt like it was my fault, because I'd not been able to do anything like bending to get washing, bending to put it in the machine, bending to get wet washing out the machine, carrying a heavy basket of washing through to hang it up... I stomped off saying "Don't worry. I'll bloody do it then" or somesuch. Can't remember the exact wording, but by that point I was less than impressed, because he would get home at eight in the morning and sit on his computer for at least two hours before going to bed. When he got up, he would spend at least an hour on his computer before going to work. I feel like I'm supposed to have been doing all the washing, hoovering, tidying, washing up, fetching and carrying while I can hardly flippin move without stabby pains in my stomach. The only place I could get comfortable for the last two and a half weeks was my computer chair or the sofa, and even those weren't always the answer.

At least in front of my computer I have someone to talk to, people who talk back. People who actually converse with me instead of going on about train sims, train signalling games, trains at work and more bloody trains. People I can have a laugh with. People who communicate. People who help keep my mind off the pain. People. Just people. Without my computer, I would probably have gone completely nuts, sat on my own downstairs in front of the telly. Watching nothing. Doing nothing. Going nowhere.

He's probably asleep on the sofa about now. He slept there last night and I didn't know about it till I went looking for him and couldn't find him in bed. I don't know why he's sleeping there. I didn't realise I was that hated in this house that he won't even share a bed with me. I didn't think he despised me that much. Perhaps if he spoke to me more often I might know these things, but no. That would be too much effort.

He complains about me sitting on the computer playing a silly game. I bet he hasn't bothered to take into account the amount of time he spends on his silly games on his computer. He complains that I don't listen to him. You can bet your backside that he hasn't really heard a word I've been saying for months. He complains that the washing hasn't been done and that he is left sockless. Did he do anything about it? No. I'm made to feel like everything is my fault, and it's becoming a little too hard to take. I sit on my own in this house and cry, because I can't do anything, can't go anywhere, can't sort out the mess that the place is in, and the time he had off to "look after me" he did very little. He went into town. He went and did this and that. I sat here like a lemon as usual.

I asked him weeks ago to tidy up the empty plastic bottles that are littering the computer room because he doesn't know what a bin is. They're all still here and have been added to. He complains that he hasn't been able to finish decorating the bathroom. What did he do today? Went to the shop and bought some DVDs and say and watched them. What did he do yesterday? Well, I don't know what time he went to bed because I had a totally sleepless night and ended up on the sofa watching telly. He was still awake when I nodded off around half ten and I had to virtually throw him out of bed at eight last night. The washing hasn't been done. The bathroom is still unpainted. He says he wants to relax, but I have no idea how he's going to do that in a house that's the state it's on, and to top it all off, he can bitch and whine that nothing's been done in the last three weeks by me because I've been ill.

I'm sick of the arguments. I'm sick of the bitching. I read his blog tonight for the first time in a very long time and find out that I'm apparently this hideous bitch that demands stuff be done and things be bought. He was the one suggested the new fridge/freezer. He was the one went and bought it because I said we could do with one at some point. He's the one that left the old freezer in the middle of the sodding kitchen. He's the one didn't bother picking up all the packaging for the new freezer and left it for me to do. He's the one sitting bitching about his lack of clean socks because he's too bone idle to do it himself, because he has to go on his precious computer all the time. He's the one complaining about my game and me talking to people when he hardly says two words to me because he's busy talking to this one and that one about how hard done by he is.

I challenged him a few weeks back about his computer and what was in his favourites list. Suddenly he's all defensive and yelling at me for spying on him. Something to hide perhaps? Something going on that I'm not allowed to know about perhaps? He complains and pulls the martyr act that he doesn't get anything from me. I can't remember the last time he even attempted anything. I've always been the one to make the moves, and after the umpteenth time of "Too tired", "Too busy", "too *insert excuse here*", I just couldn't be bothered trying. What's the point at the end of the day? I have to sit and listen to him instead bemoaning the fact that he doesn't get any, and how deprived he is. Well, if he's not getting any, neither am I, but that's a whole different ball game, isn't it? That doesn't count. At least I don't sit on MY computer having disgusting conversations with the opposite sex.

And yes, I do hope he reads this. Yes I am expecting him to stomp out the hous when he does, and yes I do have a good idea of where he will go to. Choice of three: His parents, his sister or a third party that we know who will get all his sad act about how put upon he is and how mean to him I am and how nasty I am...

I'm not any of these things. I'm tired, I'm lonely and I'm depressed at the state of my life. I have nothing. The only people who really care about me are my parents. My husband doesn't give a shit. Not one. He cares more about the stupid computer and the stupid stereo and the stupid television and his stupid fishtank. He cares more about what other people think than he does about what I think. He cares more about other people seeing him as the put-upon, poor husband of this horrid old bitch that has him in a life of slavery and servitude and doesn't sleep with him than to actually address any problems, speak to me on any level or anything. He just waits till I'm wound so tight about the snide comments, the sudden clicking off web pages like "Adult Friend Finder" and "F*** Buddy Finder", the sudden closing of conversations and e-mails he doesn't want me to see, the comments to the neighbours about how he never gets any fun. He winds me up then bitches when I let go.

I'm tired. Very tired. I don't know how much more of this I can take. I'm a person and would like to be treated as one. Please. That's all I really want in life. Being a nobody or a weight round his neck dragging him down is no fun and I'm tired of it, but I have nowhere to go. I have nothing. I'm no one.

Ignore me. I don't matter any more.