Daddy Got Back

You know what is currently a massive pain to me? My lower back. As with most of my encroaching health issues, it’s somehow my own fault.

If we humans just did very little, other than walking around a bit, eating 5 bits of fruit per day, breathing clean air, drank two litres of water, and ate a balanced meal three times a day, we’d be fine and live forever. But no, life doesn’t work like that. Life instead makes bad food delicious, smoking addictive, human existence polluting to our atmosphere, drinking alcohol fun, and bending over to pick things up easier than using your knees.

This is what I’ve done to myself. After a life of playing in bands, carrying heavy loads, and not keeping my back straight and using my knees to pick up things in those crucial early years, I’m being repaid in full by having a bad back. In fact, having a bad back has been going on longer than actually having a good back.

It’s another, rather boring and predictable sign that my body is slowly packing up. I’ve currently got a ticklist of minor ailments: Short-sightedness, permanent tinnitus, clicky joints, this bad back, occasional chest pains, and a weird ache in my right shoulder that has been going on for months.

Of course, the annoying thing about having a bad back is not just limited to the spasms of OW FUCK FUCK FUCK SHIT that I get from time to time. No, the annoying thing is, it seems that everyone who knows me knows that I have a bad back. And they won’t let me forget it, which bugs me for two reasons: One, because I’m not the sort of person who likes being nagged about stuff or told to be careful; and two, they don’t really need to tell me because my back reminds me of its sensitivity in no uncertain terms. In fact, it often reminds me that I have a bad back long before anyone else gives me a reminder, and often about the stupidest things. My current back predicament has come about thanks to me picking up a plastic bag of tin cans that were destined for recycling.

Loads of things I want to do in life now come with a muttered comment of “and be careful with your back” from someone. It’s usually Sarah, but it can also include bandmates, family members, chums, and work colleagues. I can’t bend over at the waist to pick up the smallest thing without someone screeching “BEND YOUR KNEES!” at me. Of course, the irony is that now my knees are beginning to hurt if I bend them too hurriedly, or for too long. So now I have the choice of bad back or bad knees.

Having a bad back is not something I’m proud of. Yes, sometimes it gets me out of doing the odd bit of manual labour, and sometimes people rush to my aid when they see me struggling with something awkward, but I’d rather not. I’d rather be there with everyone else – lifting the heavy things, carrying the awkward stuff, doing my bit, helping out, being part of the team. I feel somewhat diminished as a man if someone interrupts my task, takes something away from me, and tells me to go and sit in the corner and rest myself. I’d far rather be the heroic type, struggling through the pain, sweating manfully as my muscles strain, and doing all the impressive lifting, rather than lying on my bedroom floor doing Doctor’s-Orders exercises and taking industrial-strength painkillers.
Case in point: about 12 years ago, I was gigging with a band in a bar. Sarah and I weren’t yet married, and obviously, I wanted to be impressive and rock-n’-roll in front of her (still do!). My back had been playing up, and I was not very comfortable, but I was manfully, and with great bulging muscles and plenty of heroic sweat, going to play a proper full-on rock show with my boys and blow people away with our onstage energy, and I was determined to put on a good performance. The other guys in the band had done the you-just-sit-there-while-we-set-things-up-Dan-you-rest-your-back, which was kind, but it meant that they had set up my keyboards all wrong, the stand at the wrong height, and I was in a really tight corner of the stage. I had been terribly British about it, and said that the set-up was fine. I didn’t want to sound ungrateful or diva-ish, but they had done an appalling and shoddy job, frankly. I decided privately that I needed to tweak the set-up to give me a bit more throwing-shapes space, and also to change the height of things, etc.

The bar was now filling up with incredibly beautiful people who were all young and well-dressed with very on-fleek clothing and hair, and were anticipating an impressive show from us. This was a crowd who would thrill to my muscular arms and gasp at my athletic shapes being thrown. I wanted to impress them as much as I wanted to impress Sarah, who was at the bar with the other band girlfriends and a few other chums. So, in a quiet moment, when the incredibly trendy people were indulging themselves and their backs were turned, I went up to the stage and moved one corner of the keyboard stand.

From the back of the room came a shriek of “Dan! NO! You MUSN’T DO THAT!! Think of your BAD BACK!!”, and I looked up as I saw a very stern Sarah parting the crowd and marching over to me. People turned to stare as she came up and berated me, reminding me of my weakery and feebleness, the spotlight of her voice illuminating me, and stripping away my cultured and carefully-manicured aura of cool. Oh bugger.

The gig went on. The keyboards remained at an (ironically) uncomfortable height. I felt like a wheezing old cripple in the corner, unable to rock out properly. The many interesting people in the bar all marvelled at my splendid bandmates, who were throwing their shapes and manhandling equipment without any interference from their partners, while I suffered the indignity of everyone knowing I had a very un-rock-n’-roll bad back.

How I usually perform…

 

…but that night, I was like this.

Of course, this story is proof that I’m really an awful person. Listen to me: I’m being horrible to people who are wonderful, who were actually looking after me, and only have my best interests at heart. They care. They don’t like seeing me hurt. In Sarah’s case, it’s not just the pain I suffer, but also all the slack that she has to pick up if my back is having one of its episodes. My bad back affects everyone around me, and it’s inconsiderate of me to assume it’s just my problem, because when it flares up, then it also confers some of the inconvenience onto everyone else, but usually Sarah.

Having a bad back has very few upsides. It affects work, play, movement, sleep, even sex. It forces me to exhale noisily when I get out of a chair, a bath, a bed, a car, or from any other position other than standing up. I’m sure people notice the massive “UHHHHHH!” and “AHHHHH!” noises I make whenever I rise from sitting.  I sound like an elephant seal having an orgasm.

The only upside I can think of from having a bad back is the time I saw a Doctor about it, and instead of the usual bland advice about exercises and bending the knees when I pick something up, she just briskly wrote out a prescription for Diazepam and Tramodol, and instructed me to take them both for a week. And for a week it was, like, hello marshmallow world!

For that week, I existed in a weird fug. It was like being a student again. I was signed off work, and I had nothing better to do. Sarah was still at home looking after Alice, so I had oodles of spare time on my hands. So I wrote and recorded music for a week. But what music. Weird, disjointed music that seemed to be all pillowy, and dark/weird, but I kinda liked it. I’ve tried many times since to get that same wooziness in my recordings, but to no avail – at least, not without sounding contrived.

Here is an example of my music from that week:

 

OK, so why am I whinging about this on here? What has this got to do with parenting? Well… everything.

I can’t be there like I normally can. I can’t get things for her. I can’t lift heavy items. I can’t rush to comfort her. I can’t bend down to talk to her on her level, I just loom, or glare at her from my position on the floor. To be honest, I don’t like being the incapacitated parent with a ‘health issue’. I don’t want my kid to see me lying around being feeble. I should be active and prancing about, and ready to pick her up and throw her into the air. I should be fixing things and being capable, not incapable. Trouble is, she’s now nearly eight years old, she can look after herself more, and I was never that kind of throwing-kids-around parent anyway.

OK, here’s what goes through my mind when I see this sort of thing: Sharks, stingrays, jellyfish, sudden rip-tides, kid losing control of bowels, Dad poorly-timing the catch and having child slip from grasp kicking Daddy in the face, and falling onto the floor with a loud *crack*. I know the kid will land in water, but there might be a coral outcrop just below the surface, plus sharks/stingrays etc.

Also, it’s a matter of pride that she has a Daddy who is strong and dependable. It breaks my heart for me to be lying on the sofa complaining of a bad back, and to have her come over to me and say “Poor Daddy”, and patting me on the arm. It’s sort of sweet, but I wonder if occasionally she’s being sarcastic. The evidence? Well, she doesn’t so much pat my arm, as thump it. That, and she sort of exaggerates the words: “Pooooooor *thump-thump-thump* Daaaaddddyyyyyyy *thump-thump*”.

I should suck it up. Last time it got really serious, I paid for a top-whack chiropraccy back-crack quack to sort me out. And it did, believe it or not. For two glorious years, I got the occasional twinge, but no days on hard floors taking pills that make me go all dub-reggae. I should do that again, if it didn’t cost me a bloody fortune. But I should make the effort to cure this.

Dads do not lie prone on the floor. Dads are not like squeaky doors. Hey, I made a rhyme!! I must be feeling creative. Now I’m off to the Doc to see if I get some pills to make me go all woozy, and I’ll see if I can make some more music that is twatty and weird.

The Unhappy Father

On Monday of this week, it was World Mental Health Day. Funnily enough, I didn’t see any bunting or parades…

It staggers me that we need a day to remind ourselves that Mental Health is one of the most pressing issues we face in our society, but it seems we do. In fact, let’s not make it a day. Does it deserve a week? I think so. A month? Yeah, fuck it –  in fact, let’s take many months. Years. As much time as possible until everyone remembers that a significant proportion of our population suffers from a mental illness of some sort. And the message should start with the fact that people with Mental Health issues need more support than just a firm talking-to.

Depression for parents is a real and terrifying thing. Parents of both genders suffer from it in their millions. Mothers put up with depressive illnesses to an extraordinary degree, and it’s sickening that it has only been taken seriously in the last few decades. Dads suffer from it too. It breaks us. It diminishes us. It makes us less, when most of us need to be more.

Now please forgive me if I hereafter only refer to my own depression, or depression from a male perspective. I’m not in any way downplaying the depression that mothers feel, it’s just that I can only speak from my own experience as a father dealing with it.

I’m one of that significant proportion of people for whom Mental Health is a daily issue. In fact, I’ve just – in the last hour – come back from a doctor’s appointment. I went in, said “BLAH BLAH BLAH”, and the doctor looked very grave and said “Hmmmm, well those certainly sound like the classic symptoms of Anxiety…”. Meh. I’m not surprised. I’ve long suspected this to be the case. I had a couple of episodes this summer which felt like panic attacks, and it pretty much sealed it for me.

I already suffer from Unipolar Depression. The new diagnosis of Anxiety just means that my illness has a cousin, and they can skip around in my head, holding their hands like jolly chums. Such larks they can have! Of course, while they are good buddies to each other and loyal companions, they are nonetheless arseholes who like to pick on the person in whose head they reside.

My mental health issues shouldn’t come as a surprise to you, if you’ve been reading certain other entries in this blog. However, I don’t think I’ve ever explicitly discussed my ongoing depression in a blog post, but I’m going to now.

Depression is more than just a black mood to me. Depression means that I can’t take a joke. I’m scared of what I can and can’t do (and I frequently opt for “can’t”). There are days when I cannot face even my best friends, or even return their phone calls – all for reasons I can’t explain logically. Too many times, I’ve talked myself out of doing something, or going somewhere, or experiencing something new, because I just didn’t give myself permission, or I felt I wasn’t welcome, invited, or allowed. Often, doing something fun – a day out, a gig (either watching or performing), a social gathering – requires some pretty immense mental effort on my part. I find workplace banter confusing, and I don’t know how to respond. I find the manipulation, mind games, jostling for position, ambition and backstabbing of certain colleagues bewildering. And I just don’t know how to handle it.

You can’t really see the effects of depression on me. The scars it leaves are invisible, but permanent, and you couldn’t possibly see them all in one glance. It affects every single aspect of me as much as it did 10, 15, 20 years ago. 20 years ago, I thought I was just yer average miserable teenager. 15 years ago, I pretended it didn’t exist. 10 years ago, I realised I needed professional help.

In the long term, depression has done nothing for me. It has striven, very hard and deliberately, to ruin my life. It has been doing it for so long, I’m unaware if it has ever really been absent.

I fucking hate it. It stifles me and holds me back. I’m a creative (and I like to think reasonably articulate) writer, but I’m not very good at telling people about my blog. I’m more of a drop-my-link-here-and-scuttle-off kind of guy. I’m also a composer and musician, yet I almost never present my music for appraisal to strangers. I am poor at promoting myself, and at 39, I’m pretty much out of contention of ever experiencing much success. Weirdly, I’ve got no fear about standing on a stage in front of hundreds of people and performing music I’ve written, but I’m crap at giving just one person a CD. Not because I have no faith in my music, but because I have no faith in presenting my weird face to other people, and even less faith in my ability to handle the inevitable sneering I have presupposed my music would encourage.

My Depression to my Anxiety be like: “Go on, tell him he’s a cunt!” “No you!” “Let’s both do it!!” “Yeeeah!!”

Depression is the shittest friend I never asked for, and he’s a loud, obnoxious bully; always taking the piss, always knocking me down a peg or two for his own amusement, always reminding me of my failures, and drowning out any successes, and telling me what I do and don’t deserve.

It even has managed to find a way to ruin some memories of my wedding day, which I know was the happiest day of my life. These are the false memories and images that my depression sends as entertainment at night when I cannot sleep. It’s like a play where the title is ‘Fuck You, You Appalling Cunt’, and the star is me.

It’s automatic, uncontrollable, random, and punishing, and it strikes at any time, sometimes because of stimulus, and sometimes for no reason at all. My wife – my incredible, patient, forgiving, realistic (in that she’s sensible and grounded, and not that she’s remarkably lifelike), merciful, strong, practical, comforting, listening, companionable wife – has plenty of reasons in her own life to be properly glum, and yet she’s the sunniest, most cheerful and optimistic person I know. It’s not fair. It’s certainly not fair that Sarah has had to endure it for years and years.

You see, being a father did not come naturally to me. I never regarded myself as husband material – That was what the depression kept telling me. Throughout my twenties, I believed it was impossible. Being a father was out of the question. Me? Revolting, stupid, horrible me raising a child badly? Me? With my short fuse and slovenliness? No chance. Shut up. Idiot.

Sarah saw things differently. She married me. That’s an endorsement of some sort, isn’t it? She encouraged me to seek help and support. Getting a handle on my depression meant that I could look forward to being a parent. When I finally began shouting down the depression, I could see myself with a child, being responsible, being capable, being able to handle stuff. I wasn’t always convinced, but I could see myself doing it. And that’s the point. I could do it.

But here’s the thing. I’m a Depressed Dad. I still think I suck at being a Dad on a regular basis. My kid is going to have to grow up with it as part of the family. My own father had Type-1 Diabetes, and I had to grow up with everything to do with that. It was bullshit, all of it. Diabetes eventually took my Dad away from me. I hate Diabetes.

“I’m going to feel this way for the rest of my natural life, and probably into several of my future reincarnations as well!”

I had nightmares of my kid finding out I was depressed. I dreaded the day when she would encounter me crying for no reason, or when I would have to sit down and tell her that my mysterious and erratic behaviour was because of an illness she couldn’t see.

And then, it actually happened.

I can’t remember the exact day, but I was going through some awful times at work. More than once during this period, she would find me on the sofa weeping. She was not even four years old. She couldn’t understand it. What could she do? She cried as well. It was the only response she could muster. And there we were, father and daughter, both unable to help, clinging to each other like shipwrecked beavers on a raft.

It was awful. It was shaming. When she encountered the same thing when she was a little older, she attempted to comfort me – she patted me on the arm, and in her tiny, and most serious, voice she said “There-there,  Daddy. There-there”, which only made me weep more.

There’s an anecdote that Spike Milligan liked to tell; when he was in the grip of a full mental breakdown, his daughter appeared in his room with a glass of water in her hand. It was all she could do to ease his suffering.

Children really do see things differently and honestly before society conditions them. Children know instinctively what to do when someone is upset. They don’t judge.  They don’t mock out of embarrassment until they’re older and they struggle to fit in with their group – only then do they turn on the emotionally fragile.

No child should have to find their parent weeping. But millions of children do. Mine did, and she and I have to learn how to navigate this together.

I told her, when I felt she was old enough to understand it, that I had an illness that makes me sad for no reason. I told her that it’s always there, but only makes me properly sad on occasion. It’s not her fault, and it’s not Mummy’s fault either. It won’t happen everyday, but when it does, it’s not because of anything she’s done. She nods when I tell her this. I hope to Christ she understands.

Sometimes my spirit animal is a fed-up orangutan…

Of course, I’m angry. I’m angry that she has to put up with my condition in the same way that I had to live with my father’s. I’m angry that this will affect her, and I’m angry that she will have to come to terms with it. I’m really angry that it will probably, in some way, affect our relationship; and I’m FUCKING FURIOUS that she may very well inherit it. I hate that she has seen this in me. I hate that I have had to explain this to her. But at least we now have something to refer to. If I can tell her that I’m feeling down, and that’s why I can’t join in with some fun and games, then maybe she’ll sympathise.

Actually, the other day, she did. I told her I had a pretty challenging day at work (when I wanted to scream and run out of the building shouting “GNAAAAAH!”) and she sighed and said “Yeah! Tell me about it!…” and then told me about her day, which was also pretty trying for her. Weirdly, it means we have a shared conversation based on mutual understanding. Common ground. This is vital between parents and kids, isn’t it?

Ultimately, I’m not embarrassed about my depression. Why should I be? I’m wary of telling people I work for, unless it becomes an issue. I don’t mind telling people about it when it’s relevant, but our society likes to ignore it, which is moronic considering how many people are affected, and how much strain it puts on our health services.

And I apologise if this sounds like an ineffectual soapbox rant (in amongst the self-indulgent solipcism of the post already), but really, as a civilised society, we need to change our attitude to people with mental health issues. I’m fed up of having it perceived as a shameful and personal problem. Awareness and public understanding of depression is better than it was even twenty years ago, but it’s still clearly not good enough. If your attitude towards those with depression is to say “Pull yourself together!”, then I have two fucks: 1) off; and 2) you.

Now is really not the time, Meryl…

If you’ve got depression, well… we need to have a salute of solidarity to give to one another from time to time, and stop being quite so secretive about it. If you haven’t got it, then you probably know someone who has. Look after them. It’s something like Type-1 Diabetes, or Epilepsy; it’s not easy to treat, nigh-on impossible to cure, and it’s a permanent concern, so you have to make changes in your life to manage it. I have to take medication on a daily basis to keep it under control – one of the side effects of which is that I can’t drink alcohol (and I could do with a cool beer, or a glass of red right now. But nooooo…). Understanding it is difficult, even for sufferers.

Or you could think of it as some kind of nasty skin condition. Most of the time it is benign, but when it flares up, the sufferer thinks of almost nothing else.

And if you privately (or publicly) think that people with depression should make more of an effort, maybe next time you see someone looking folorn in a social situation and you’re tempted to say “cheer up!” in a crass attempt at bonhomie, please don’t. Instead, it would be great if you could ask if they’re all right. That would be much more welcome, and it probably would generate a smile.

Let’s start talking to one another about it. Hi. My name’s Dan. I suffer from depression.

Sometimes my spirit animal is a Lou Reed in his later years.

30 Day Abs Challenge On Facebook for Those Who Lack Motivation, And Are A Bit Lardy, And Have Lunched the New Year Diet Back in March

Before

After

DAY 1:
15 sit ups

“Gnnnnnnn!!!”

5 crunches
5 leg raises
10 sec plank

DAY 2:
17 situps (it says to do 20, but 17’s all I can manage)
6 crunches

“hhhhhnnnnnnnggggggggg!!”

7 leg raises
10s plank
3 separate thoughts of “Hmmm, bit stiff and sore this evening”

DAY 3:
20 sit ups
8 crunches
4 rather worrying thoughts of “Hang on, that doesn’t feel right”
3 leg raises

Yes. Leg raises. LOL.

2 thoughts of “No, there’s definitely something hurting”
12s plank with slightly ominous twinges in the lower back

DAY 4:
1 resolution: “I’m actually going to do a warm up and stretch before today’s exercise, which is what I should’ve done yesterday and the day before”
25 sit ups done gingerly
1 or 2 thoughts of “Hmmm, that feels OK…”
5 crunches
1 firm decision of “That’ll do with regard to crunches for now”
6 leg raises
2 proddings of flab to see if there are any new muscles yet
4 proddings of rather sore muscles that already exist
10s plank with added “cake as reward!” mantra

DAY 5:
REST DAY!!! with 5 situps, just to keep things going, thus missing the point about having a Rest Day

DAY 6:
FORGOT ABOUT DOING ANY EXERCISE DAY!!!!

DAY 6, no wait, DAY 7!:
2 thoughts of “ooh, I’m feeling a bit stiff”
35 situps out of sheer guilt for having forgotten yesterday
5 crunches
1 “Ow! No, really, OW!”
1 verrrry gentle crunch
1 pause with added “hmmmm”
4 leg raises
1 back rub from wife later that evening with added “Oh you poor thing!” and also “Just think how firm and muscular and sexy you’ll be after all this!”
1 sudden thought of “Hang on a sec, did she just say that last bit? Or did you think she said it, but you actually said it in her voice inside your own head? Either way, she’s gonna fancy me rotten when I’ve finished this Facebook Fitness Challenge and look like Daniel Craig and not that fat cunt Daniel Phnut!”

DAY 7 (fuck it, I’m going with the Day I’m *supposed* to be doing):
1 getting out of bed feeling sore and having something in your back go “click”. Oh crap.
1 rather tender putting on of shoes
1 phone call to boss saying “I put my back out playing squash”
1 blatant lie. You’ve never played squash in your life, you lardy slob.
15 gentle, half-hearted sit ups
2 crunches
1 full episode of Top Gear rerun on Dave
4 nice cups of tea
1 back rub from your wife with added “Does it hurt if I press *there*?” Yes darling, it fucking does – OW! “There’s no need to be cross, I AM trying to help…”

DAY 8:
REST DAY!!! Blagged off work again.
1 Bargain Hunt

2 episodes of Top Gear
2 hours of internet porn
1 bacon sandwich

DAY 9:
BACK TO WORK BUT MILKING IT A BIT DAY!!! Two other people off work, though. A lot to catch up on.
10 sit ups
4 quite painful crunches
2 wonderings of: “If I, an overweight, unfit bloke in his late 30s who hasn’t done exercise in decades, really should’ve done a keep fit challenge posted on Facebook with no medical advice beforehand?”
3 leg raises
1 very very hot bath with the wife’s Radox relaxo bubbles

DAY 10:
REALLY NOT SURE IF I WANT TO DO THIS ANYMORE DAY!!!
14 situps
1 feeling OK so far…
8 crunches
1 “Hmmm, this feels fine”
6 leg raises
18s plank

Plank. LOL.

1 “Hey, maybe my body is getting used to it. I’m back on track!”

DAY 11 (why is it that when I say ‘DAY 11’ in my head, it automatically comes out in a Geordie accent? Oh, I think we British people exposed to reality TV all know the answer to that one…):
TENTATIVE CONFIDENCE RETURNING DAY!!!
20 situps
11 crunches
9 leg raises
25s plank
1 “Well done me! Have a cake as a reward!” “Thanks me, mmmm, don’t mind if I do!”

DAY 12:
REST DAY!!! but actually did 12 situps and 5 crunches, just to keep on track

DAY 13:
30 situps
14.5 crunches
1 very sudden feeling of something taut snapping in your back
1 “Oohhhhh shit, I think I’ve overdone it…”
1 shooting pain down the right leg
1 “JESUS FUCKING SHITFACED WANKER CHRIST, THAT HURTS!!!”
246 yellings of “OW OW OW OW OW!!”
1 “Why are you lying on the floor saying ‘fuck’ a lot, Daddy?”
1 wife coming in to find you mouthing swear words and telling you off for swearing in front of the child
1 comment to child: “No, Daddy can’t carry you up to bed tonight, I’ve got a really owwy back”.
1 back rub from wife, with her saying a bit resentfully “I’m not doing this as a treat, you know…” and “I did tell you to take it easy…”
1 night of completely no sleep

DAY 14:
WAITING ON THE PHONE TO THE LOCAL GP FOR HOURS TRYING TO GET A LAST-MINUTE APPOINTMENT DAY!!!
1 phone in sick. Boss no longer sympathetic and very obvious note of suspicion in his voice. Makes remark that bad backs are currently a very contagious disease sweeping the office, but he could really do with you back in as soon as possible.
1 Massive Guilt Trip! ALL ABOARD! *chuff-chuff-chuff*
1 visit to the doctor

Lift with your knees not your back from now on, you dolt

1 resigned diagnosis from doctor: “Let me guess: 30 day abs challenge off Facebook? You’re the third one I’ve seen today…”
1 very kindly “I think you’ve overdone it. Maybe next time you should really get some advice from a physiotherapist before doing this sort of thing at your age” which translates as: “What the actual fuck do you think you’re playing at, at your age, with your level of fitness, you dozy fat wanker?! Do you believe everything you read on the internet?? Fuck’s sake…”
1 sick note, good for one week off work! YIPPEE!!!
1 glorious ringing of work saying you have a sick note.
1 boss saying in a resigned voice “FIIINE! OK, well, get well soon. If you can do anything at home, let me know and I’ll email some stuff to you”
(Subtext: It’s just me and Sandra in the office, which is great for our illicit affair, but shit-all is being done, what with no one else in, and all the shagging we’re doing in the stationary cupboard and once on my desk for the LOLz. I can’t bully you back to work, and I know you’re going to eke out the sicknote for all it’s worth, but I really need you in ASA-fucking-P.
Your response: Fuck him. Fuck work. Go for it Sandra, you deserve it! I’m totally legit on the sick for a bit)
1 prescription for Tramadol and Diazepam
1 checking up on the internet what Tramadol is. It’s the stuff Glaswegian smackies nick from the local chemist. OPIATE-TASTIC!!!
1 dose each of Tramadol and Diazepam. 30 minutes later, Bargain Hunt now made of pillows. Mmmmmmm…
1 “KRULL’S ON CHANNEL 5! FUCK YEAH!!!”

FUCK YEAH!!!!

1 refusal from the wife on request of back rub with added: “Look, can you just take it a bit more gently in future? Because every time you put your back out, it means I have to take up the slack around here, and I just don’t have the time or energy to be your nurse on top of everything else”
1 checking up of symptoms on the internet. Find support group for victims of 30 Day Abs Challenge. What the hell do you mean by “in pain for months and unable to work”???!!!

DAY 15:
FUCK EXERCISE FOR A LARK DAY!!!
1 “Got my TV…”
1 “Got my tea…”
1 “Got my sofa, despite doctor’s advice to keep mobile and not lying prone all day…”
1 “Got my fluffy blanket…”
4 joyful realisations of “Got my pain drugs…”
1 “Woo! Diagnosis Murder whilst doped up on Diazepam!”
12 woozy thoughts of “Hey, this is just like being a student again!”
7 feelings of “SORTED!”
1 wife coming home with child and shopping and sarcastically going “Oh, don’t get up and help then!”
3 whining replies of “But I’ve got a bad back!”
2 or 3 inaudible grumbles as she stomps off to the kitchen carrying 8 bags in from the car
1 child coming over and stroking face “Poor Daddy…”
4 feelings of smugness
1 watching Frozen with child AGAIN, but secretly acknowledging its utter awesomeness, and even singing along to Do You Want To Build A Snowman? with child

DAY 16:
BORED OF LYING ON THE SOFA DAY!!!
1 snarky comment from wife (“can you at least put a wash on?”) which makes you feel somewhat guilty for most of the day
4 thoughts of “daytime telly really is fucking shit…”
1 turning off of Jeremy Kyle in disgust at all of humankind, but mostly at screeching unfaithful alcoholic junkie doleites having fights on national daytime television, and of course Jeremy Kyle and his fucking reprehensible pleb-baiting
1 blissful Tramadol’d-up falling asleep to a David Attenborough DVD instead. “Mmmm, rainforest animallllssssss…”
1 child coming home, enthusiastically rushing up to you and slamming their fists into your prone gut and balls, waking you up in the worst possible way
1 “NYYYEEEAAAAARRRGGGHHHH!!!! FFFFFUCCKKK OFFFFF!!!!!”
1 child running from the room in floods of tears and wailing
1 painful struggling off sofa with fulsome apologies, and promises of cuddles and lollipops to make amends
1 very stern wife reminding you not to use bad language in front of child, and ordering you off the sofa, and set to work tidying in the kitchen and “It won’t hurt your back to wash a few pots and pans”. It actually does, but you keep quiet. You have spent all your sympathy points, possibly until the autumn when the ‘flu kicks in, and even then you’ll be pushing your luck
1 very chilly family atmosphere for remainder of evening and bedtime cuddle from child somewhat lacking in affection
1 wife very obviously utterly and totally fed up of you, your whimpering, Top Gear, and back rubs

DAY 17:
VERY BORED OF THIS NOW DAY!!!
1 “Oh, so this is what the lyrics to Comfortably Numb is all about…”
7 thoughts of “Fucking hate that twat off Homes Under the Hammer… and that weird giggly cow as well…”

The twats from Homes Under the Hammer. For all I know they could be lovely in real life, but they do come across as twats on the show

2 realisations of “I’m a bit bored of Channel 5 showing Krull now, despite it being awesome. What did happen to leading actor Ken Marshall anyway?”

What happened to you, Ken?

1 looking up on Ken Marshall’s filmography on IMDB
1 “Wow, he was in Deep Space 9??! I don’t remember him in that at all…”
1 finding a picture of him and being a bit disappointed because, somewhere in the dark cupboard in the very back of your normally heterosexual mind, you thought he was a bit… phwoar

Wow. What the fuck happened to you, Ken?

1 switching off Top Gear and quietly going upstairs, slightly disgusted with yourself
2 answering of work emails, and doing some work from home in a massive cloud of guilt
5 thoughts that: “Possibly maybe could and should go back to work tomorrow. I’ve got a couple more days on sicknote, but…” *gloomy guilt*
1 child not saying “Poor Daddy” anymore, but instead poking you on the arm and saying “Mummy says you’re milking it a bit. Can I have another lollipop?”
1 wife enthusiastically encouraging return to work, some movement, help around the house, and return to normality, and her saying “Can we just agree that you won’t do this sort of fitness challenge ever again??”, which implies “If you’re so stupid as to attempt some sort of Facebook-based fitness programme, you’ll be reliving your wild student days by sleeping in the bath”.
3 glum realisations that for some considerable time, maybe for a year or so, you’re not getting any (NSFW!) “Adult Sexy Funtime” back rubs from the wife, but that you owe her BIG.

DAY 18:
NEVER EXERCISING AGAIN DAY!!!
1 returning to work to discover boss has knackered his back “playing golf” and is off for three weeks. Tempted to send boss a massive bouquet of flowers, particularly the ones that smell like cum, and sign it “Sandra xxx” and hope that his wife reads it
14 very firm resolutions of “I’m gonna stick to the Wii-Fit from now on. And maybe take up badminton. Badminton’s painless, right?”

…all painful