By Hannah Price in BBC News.
It’s hard not to feel suffocated by the stale air and sterile, white ceilings of a hospital ward. The incessant beeping and patient grumbling provides a constant, miserable soundtrack as you wish you were literally anywhere else.
When I was admitted to hospital in February, I was worried that everything I had worked so hard for was crumbling. I was off sick from my dream job, in a new city away from my support system, and recovering from a Valentine’s Day breakup.
When I spoke about my recent heartbreak with friends, most of them could relate. People were reassuring – they’ve been through it and they told me it’ll get better with time, and I nodded tearfully. If only the same could be said of my chronic illness.
Lying in that hospital bed, it was impossible to stop anxious thoughts invading my brain. Memories of the time an ex used my illness against me, worries about explaining my absence to colleagues, and the fear that this time I could end up entirely bed-bound.