Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all...you know, that I'm not really dead after all. I certainly felt like it was near in the past week, or at least that's what I convinced myself during late nights spent obsessing over tumours, brain hemorrhages and an assortment of other fatal ailments. The head, well, it still ain't right, but truthfully...will it ever be? I haven't been to work for more than half a day since the 22nd, and my 27th birthday was largely spent curled up in my bed, cuddling a stuffed rabbit I have had since childhood, and apologising to whatever higher power who chose to listen for being so self-absorbed and negative, which was the obvious source of why I have been striken with this unknown problem.
I have a doctor's appointment Wednesday afternoon, whereupon I hope I will be told unequivocally what this is, how I can make it go away, and hopefully all again will be right in my world. So until I am feeling 100% better and sure that this is behind me, I'm avoiding blogging. I'm just not up for it, and I don't feel like I have anything to talk about at the moment that isn't focused on being ill. Naturally this leads me to pacing the floor again, muttering about certain death, and crying, so forgive me for taking the immature route and ignoring the problem. I've had enough with wallowing in the past 10 days, so until this clears up, you can find me on my sofa, barking orders at The Dude so he continues to look after the invalid, and watching my now endless supply of Sex and the City DVDs.