It is 21:38 on a Thursday night, Donald Trump is not yet President, and I have been in the bath for ninety minutes, which is excessive even by my standards, but that’s the kind of day it has been

Wake up with a headache.  Go to a dentist appointment when I’d rather drill a hole in my head, and get told off by said dentist for avoidable plaque build up which is the result of me not cleaning my teeth properly.

I am grim.  There are reasons.  Cerebral Palsy reasons.  I try and tell her the reasons, but still feel like a scolded four year old.

I came home, and I did my job, and still, the headache.  And feeling grim about the tooth thing.

I should have been celebrating.  I should have been doing some kind of victory cruise on a London bus, but I was knackered, just knackered.

Two weeks have passed, maybe three.   That night, I was luxuriating in the Superdad bath bomb, which is turquoise and woody and I didn’t even like the first time I tried it, but which that night melted slowly, and felt just right.

I have had some lovely times in those few weeks:  cheese, olive bread, friends, music. And baths, of course.  A bubble bar shaped like a windmill, a gingerbread bath bomb that wasn’t even from Lush.  More of the Waitrose stuff.

My life is not awful, although there were two days in a row where pain control just wasn’t a thing that was happening effectively, and one day where I wished I could just sleep and sleep, and many days when I was trying to negotiate some stuff with some non-disabled people who simply do not get it, and a day on top of those where I discussed that negotiation process with a non-disabled person who did get it, but I suspect doesn’t have the power to help in any meaningful way.

What can I say.  I bought some cheese.  I would like to not have to think about this stuff for a while.  I would like to not have to explain.



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