Last Friday it all culminated in the most spectacular physical breakdown possible. After a round of hydrotherapy earlier in the day, I found myself on the floor at home, alone, and I could no longer get up. I spent the rest of the afternoon there until my Mrs would come home. I'd informed her that movement was out of the question and that this was a problem as my bladder was really full. She got home, got me a pale, but to no avail. Nothing came out. Called an ambulance, but since I wasn't dying, it could take one to two hours. With excruciating effort, crawling and being dragged to the toilet, I managed to squeeze out a few drops, after which I fell off the toilet and lost consciousness

At least the ambulance now deemed it serious enough to hurry the f up.

Rushed to the ER (the same one that sent me away a mere two weeks earlier), pent up on fentanyl, I was writhing in pain. After a considerable amount of Tramadol and morphine, did my body finally calm down. I've been in the hospital since. I'm finally in the place where I should've been three months ago. The orthopaedic team here doesn't seem to keen on helping me and keeping me here though. Needless to say, I told the occupational therapist about their lack of enthusiasm and made it abundantly clear that I won't be leaving, until I receive the help that I need.

I am pissed off and determined to tell anyone who doesn't take me seriously to f off. Seven months of this shit. It ends now.

I have slept more in the last few days than I have done in total for the past three months and only now realize how methodically broken down I have been.

Got my foot in the door now, and no one will get me to take it out.