I hate saying that. It sounds so pathetic. Needy. Reminds me of what I one was and what I have become. Sometimes, looking at photos of my past self - a radiant May Queen surrounded by adoring attendants; a graduating student on the road to success; the bronzed half of a once devoted couple - I wonder if such things actually happened to me.
Help me - the bitter words of the forcibly dependant. I much prefer the French - "M'aidez" - give me aid. A tad more dignified, and God knows I could do with dignity these days. It's been in short supply ever since this disease began to invade my body: unsheathing my nerves; paralysing my legs, muscle by atrophying muscle.
At first, I wasn't quite disabled enough for an accessible flat. But now my limbs have given up in the battle for motion, I have at last reached the nirvana of eligibility. Fiftieth on the waiting list for a home with doors wide enough for my wheelchair. I'll be there in a couple of years.
In the mean time, the Council makes sure to meet my needs. Each day the carer brings my state-sanctioned salt-infused pre-cooked meal leaving it for me to microwave. They've given me a rail in the toilet so I can pull myself up to do the necessary. The shower chair is beyond me though. I make do with a flannel and hope for the best.
It would be nice to get out once in a while. Feel the breeze on my face. Collect posies of may blossom, like I did when I was girl. But since I lost my Attendance Allowance, there's no-one to take me. So I curl myself on a beanbag with my mobile phone - sending distress flares to the world.
Can somebody help me please?