Life as a train wreck

Just when I think life is improving, something else happens!! What the hell, I don't seem to be able to live an easy life. Huh-welcome to reality...

When I first had the "event" (a kind way to put some imbeciles crippling me for life), I lived in a second floor flat; it had internal stairs up to the third floor. I kept falling down the internal stairs. In fact, the landlord (it was rented) left really ratty carpet downstairs and on the stairs. I can truthfully say that I contributed to the nasty carpet on the stairs! All the times I fell down, complete with a mug of tea or coffee in my hand! I decorated his carpet with tea. Happily, I didn't decorate it with blood, although I did nearly knock myself unconscious a few times.

So-the hospital (probably out of guilt more than any sense of compassion) went to the local council and insisted that I needed to move to a ground floor apartment before I cracked my skull open. Kind of the hospital, wasn't it? And the council responded by telling the hospital that there would be a 7 year wait for a flat, because there was a huge waiting list. I couldn't walk, so going out to look at places was pretty much out of the question.

In September, 2010, some bright soul decided that I needed an assessment by social services. I could have replaced my front door with a revolving door, there were so many people coming in to see me. It was like Piccadilly Circus: swarms of people from social services, people sent to help me cook, and to wash me (now, I am neither old nor senile, so how humiliating was that!!!!), to help me walk, to help me exercise-and the conclusion was that I needed to move, whether I liked it or not. So someone found me a council place, only a mile from my lovely second floor flat. I moved just prior to New Year's Day, 2011.

Now I've called me life a train wreck, because every time it looks like things are getting better, it's a matter of one step forward, three steps back. In every council block there is a housing manager-the manager collects the rent, and does - well, I don't think the one I have does anything except bully, abuse and threaten tenants who are disabled, and, therefore, vulnerable. This one is called Anna Philippou, and she is a monster. I complained about her abuse and her racist behaviour three times - and three times my car was nearly destroyed. We have a private car park, other cars are parked there, and mine was the only one that was targeted. Last week. Coincidence? No way!!

My car is an old (but very reliable) 3-door hatchback. The locks on both front doors were broken (my mechanic says that this was a deliberate act of viciousness). You would laugh at what I had to do to get it to my garage! I was able to get into the back door, crawl up to the front door, and open the door so I could then crawl out and get in and drive it near the garage. Then I had to crawl out the same way, because I could only lock the door from the inside.

The next day I went back to the car, got in the same way, crawled over the back seat, opened the front door, drove the car to the garage-where they had to order a whole new set of locks, because individual locks for this car are no longer sold. I cursed Anna Philippou, I can tell you!!

My friend in New York told me that I need to look as optimistically as I can at life, and be grateful for everything I have, rather than being negative and concentrating on the things I can't do, or don't have. Very good advice, but not always so easy to do!! If I could get to Wood Green and confront Anna Philippou directly, I don't know what I would do.

If I weighed more than 8 stone (112 pounds), if I was any taller than 5'4", if I was less agile, I would never have been able to get into the boot of the car, never mind crawl over the seats and get to the door handle. It must have looked hilarious to anyone who was passing by or looking out the window!! Of course, I could have found myself stuck as I tried to get over the back seats. Imagine someone having to try to get me out!!

Well-that was my week. And my vestibular rehab physiotherapist is leaving the hospital at the end of this week-and my time there is over, since there is nothing else they can do for me. The job of the vestibular physio is to get me to the point where I can do daily tasks (like cook without setting either myself or the kitchen on fire), and I am able to do that.

Where I go from here is anybody's guess- so keep reading, because I will keep writing!!