I sit here on days where I'm doing nothing all day (everyday) just to chill and get space, from the world and emotions that my brain tries to make my body feel
This room is my room and will always be my room, I cry everyfime I sit on the sofa bed that's been put in the space where my bed once was. That bed, the bed where it happened
Sometimes I sit in the same space and just cry endlessly looking at the ceiling and asking my brain to just make me normal again, 'please brain please just come back to me, I need you. I want you and I know you're there'
All the tiny cells that were destroyed in an instant and disappeared somewhere in my tiny head.
It's hard to imagine my life before the stroke, I'm so used to being in the body my brains chosen to give me that I had to ask my mum 'mum what was I like before my stroke?'
That hurt. You think you're ready to 'move on and face the world' even if you're stuck working shitty hours and stupidly accepting Any overtime only thinking of how big your face will be the next payday not thinking of your health or how those extra few hours could change your life forever
'Don't let this destroy you lizzie' I tell myself that everyday when I wake up, when I sit down, when I'm doing my makeup and trying to make both sides of my lips look equal.
This rooms changed so much it kills me inside to even try to picture how it was before. It gets so bad that sometimes halfway through the night if I wake up and go to the loo I'll turn to the door to this room and assume that I would walk up the stairs and just see my room. The only room I want the only place I can just fix my head and chill
The cupboards are filled with my step dads shirts and clothes, not mine. Not the same layout I had. There's still space for shoes to go In the shoe section which I thought was to best thing 'oh my god my shoes are on show' when really it probably just made my room smell
It doesn't even smell the same, it used to smell of perfume, body sprays and girlie things. Now that's another memory, it's got a manly musky smell of exercise matts that lay where my bed should be, where my bed should be placed.
I used to sit on the floor with my sketchbooks till early hours and just attempt to fill them up with decorations and fancy typography. I can't do that anymore, another distant memory. I miss the days of being so organised that I knew off the top of my head what my schedule for the following day would be.
I had random moments when I'd just get up and start doing weird dances in this room or I'd just start rearranging my furniture 'Liz, it's midnight go to sleep!' I was always mad. I just had random moments where I'd accept change and could deal with it. Now I can't, I had change. I had a panic attack the other day cause mum said she's ordered a new sofa, I'm scared that life's gonna be changing do much so that it will slowly destroy me.
But yet here I am sitting in my room trying to get my memory back, good memories and bad. You know I can't even reach the blind to close it anymore cause I can't balance on my leg. So no wonder it took my mum weeks to tell me 'Liz, you might not be able to walk upstairs anymore, me and mike were wondering how you'd feel having the spair room?'
I had no choice but to pretend I was excited to have a new room to just have a new view and layout but now I hate it, it's not my room it's not my chill out place. It's awkward and just a spare room to me. My rooms a distant memory somewhere in this dull brain
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