vCJD

I am developing an unnatural obsession with vCJD. I think part of it is just morbid fascination and a genuine interest in prions, but largely it just horrifies me that I could be harbouring a disease that there is no cure for.

I guess in a lot of ways it's very similar to my fear of HIV. I'm petrified of having something that isn't fixible, of my own body attacking itself. And the even more terrifying thing about vCJD is that it can reduce you to a vegetive state within months, leaving you paralysed and mute. Just writing about this is raising my pulse rate.

I know there's no point being scared of something you can't control, but I live in constant fear of something like this happening. It's times like this when I wish I was a vegetarian.

Counselling

I've turned full circle.

When I first started counselling, I was too afraid to have individual sessions. There's something very frightening about sitting in a room with a stranger talking about your innermost fears and emotions; it's so unnatural to allow someone you don't know to enter into something so private. There's also something very clinical about counselling: the waiting with strangers and the recognitition that you are imposing on their very private problems, the little rooms with artificially laid out seating patterns that are meant to be friendly, the taking of notes as you speak....

Email counselling is very different. There's no invasion of privacy - just me, my laptop and the words. I always found email counselling very theraputic; the process of purging my emotions was enough to help me through the week, to last that little bit longer. Knowing that someone is going to reply feels like an annonymous acceptance - someone out there sympathises and agrees.

It was so hard to admit I needed more help. Once it became clear that email counselling wasn't doing enough to help, it felt like the only choice was 'real' counselling. Even then I didn't give in lightly. I did everything else first. Sitting there and telling your doctor that you think you are crazy is somehow one step easier than talking to a stranger. But somehow I found the courage to go, and for a while, it helped. Once I'd hit rock bottom, it was the turning point I needed and I did start to recover.

So I stopped. I thought I was ready to stand on my own two feet. I thought I had already made that new beginning that I needed. And I was wrong, so spectacularly wrong. My hands are blistered, my breathing too rapid and my eyes once again too used to tears.

And now I've admitted defeat, and I'm starting again. I await an email from my new counsellor.

Mortality

I spend a lot of time worrying about my health. I'm not entirely sure when I first became aware of my own mortality, but suffice to say I've been gripped with paranoia about disease and illness ever since.

What is interesting is that I am not particularly scared of pain. I don't spend hours awake at night worrying about the symptoms and effects of any particular illness, nor do I fear permanent disability. As much as I hate to admit it, it is the fear of death that consumes me.