This is not how I wished my birthday to be.

Today should have been a day of great accomplishment. Proudly celebrating the successful completion of my degree and looking ahead to postgraduate aspirations through a summer rich with opportunity. Finally staying the course to the end, even as a mature student, and making a difference for myself and others. For very good reason, however, it’s all on hold.

The as-yet undiagnosed neurological condition that manifested in April continues to rage, with relapses constant and debilitating. Whatever respite came from medication dulled my mind to incapacity, so I ride this raw and make the most of lucid moments. Focus fails, co-ordination falters, and I dare not drive long distances. I’m very much a prisoner of myself now, and as I yearn for answers I have no choice but to seek them within.

I reflect on prior years for a sign of symptoms that could explain this, and consider the moments where things started to go wrong. But looking to the past will only expose seductive excuses and false comfort, written off as brief lapses or just the onset of age. It is ahead that I must find my way through.

Unable to finish the final term, I am now suspended from the Academy, with a meticulous Risk Assessment cataloguing the whys. Negotiations persist for a possible return in upcoming years, depending on my return to health and whether discretionary funding can be secured. Nothing is certain there.

Yet certainty comes from a legacy I have already achieved. My tenure as Wellbeing Officer has also ended, and another has stepped up to inherit my mantle. With that and my mentoring, I know I have set a positive example with all the support and care I could muster. The Hierophant thrives.

I cannot work right now, nor meet others. Contact with the music scene has diminished, save a few sparks of sincere sympathy. The mountain, especially at this crux of mourning, is lost to me, with travel cancelled and ticket delivered to another deserving soul.

My neurology referral will be next month at the earliest, and from there hopefully a diagnosis. Because that would at least give a point of focus, of understanding, then treatment and a way forwards. To put a name to the demon that plagues me so.

In the nadir of the longest nights, lying awake with scratching in my skull like nails down chalkboard, I wish this condition were terminal. At least then there would be an end to it, and I would be spared the burden of rebuilding whatever life I may from the remains of what was.

But rebuild I must. I know I am supported. I know I am loved. Those I need at this point in life have stepped forward in kindness, and I am grateful. Not just for their compassion, but for the perspective to see this not as a death sentence, but rather an appreciation of every moment of life that remains. My anchor to the future.

I’ve striven half a century to get where I am. I can give it another year or two.