Covid Schmovid! The Worst Part of MY 2020
Written by 2021 MistyMyCat on June 2, 2021
(This blog contains Explicit language) ……
2020 has been shit. Uber shit for one and all. We have been united together in a group effort to wade through a stream of diarrhoea to reach 2021 without being dragged under by an undercurrent of the worst international crisis in modern times. (Well done us! The drinks are on Katie. There must be a Katie in here, there is 8000 of you now)
However, 2020 for me has been a limited-edition flavour of crap crisp. (Not a good one like BBQ rib Walkers either) It started in March. Yeah, I don’t know if you remember but that was sort of the time a little thing called Covid turned up like an unwanted erection at a funeral. Fun times were had by all (sarcasm) and the party hasn’t ended (even though it is fucking late, we are already feeling the hangover and we all want to get up for work tomorrow).
It was oddly not Covid in particular that had me terrified though. (Well done OCD brain, when there is a genuine threat you decide to fuck off on holibobbles). In fact, at the start, I was pretty fucking confident I could survive the end of times and possibly become a king in the apocalyptic wasteland of my own trash heap. After all, OCD had essentially trained me for this kind of scenario like a health anxiety boot camp readying me for a viral war. No, the thing that worried me was a niggly feeling at the back of my throat. Literally, I had acid reflux.
OK, I say I had acid reflux but in my head, the lights were flashing red like a brothel in Amsterdam and alarms were whining like the dildo shop next door had just been robbed. Yeah, my brain fully believed I was dying. So I talked to my clinician. Now disclaimer I need to say this doctor is rough as fuck, not actually trained and hands out diagnosis like candy at Halloween. Yeah, Dr Google should have his licence revoked. He diagnosed me with stomach cancer, eusophical cancer, bowel cancer and a fair few more. Fuck, my outlook did not look good. I mean sure other ‘qualified’ doctors, family and friends said “this is literally acid reflux, calm down you cock womble”.
My OCD voice knew better and made sure I did too. “Sure, there are hundreds of articles telling you that you are fine but what about that one comment from Wagner on that forum which hints you may not be”. “Your wife is just saying you’re fine because she doesn’t want to deal with something being wrong”. “Your doctors aren’t listening because you are so young and it is unlikely”. ‘Thanks for looking after me OCD voice lets lay on the sofa together and cry all day whilst thinking about dying non-stop”. “Oh what’s that? Oh, you want to give me IBS too because of all this worrying. Thanks, pal”. (OCD is going to be my best man at my wedding but I’m a bit worried about it. Go figure!)
So my now ex-wife took the kids and left me for a week to stay with her Mum. (I know that sounds like a fantasy come true to have some alone time but the reality is not that. It is kind of like anticipating the mouthwatering taste of a jam doughnut but then realising that is no jam. Janine the baker is pissed about her wages and it is her time of the month. Side note: I felt queasy writing that).
I had over those months an insane amount of doctor consultations (almost daily), blood tests and trips to A&E that culminated in a barium swallow which is essentially like swallowing the worlds thickest cum shot. (Ladies I salute you I have no idea how you do it)
Now all of that did not halt the OCD in its whirlwind of destruction. It devastated and wrecked all it touched. Then something awful happened. My son started to complain about being ill all the time. Now let’s be honest here, kids get ill all the time. Heck if I licked every surface and had the hygiene of a particularly unsavoury rat then I would be most likely feel ill a fair bit too.
However, this was different. He had started to mimic my current fears and behaviour… If I was worried about stomach cancer I would ask my wife to repeatedly check my stomach. This is a part of OCD called checking and is essentially a means to seek reassurance. Lo and behold my son would start to ask my wife to check his stomach. This demon that had followed me for so long had started rubbing off on my son, who is my entire world. I could not let him carry that burden into his adult life. That is not something I ever wanted to pass down (sure my sense of humour he could have and his mum’s heart and brains but not this).
So at that moment I swore no more and to get the help I needed to protect him from that future. It turned out the cancer was not my worse fear after all but rather my son following in them dark, lonely and horrendous footsteps. It was time to break the cycle. I underwent life-changing therapy and was prescribed a course of anti-depressive medication. These are things I hope to talk about in a future blog. However, for now, dear reader this monster of the mind seems to be defeated but more importantly, my son has not shown any inclination that he will need to slay this beast himself.