Decembers can bite me.

Well, maybe not all of them. This December has been a roller coaster, and lemme tell ya... I hate roller coasters.

Two dear friends ended up in hospital after trying to off themselves, my husband's uncle ended up in hospital with a pacemaker after being revived twice, my body has been One Major Fucking Bitch, and this Friday is my 35th birthday. Now, I'm not saying all of these are bad things; my friends and uncle-in-law are all alive, turning 35 is something I never thought I'd do, and my body is going to be a bitch forever. I'm counting my blessings that my loved and liked ones are all alive and I fervently wish I could just hold them all until everything is better, but I can't. And that makes me sad.

You know what else makes me sad? Fucking winter. I got a SAD-rated light bulb recently, and as soon as I find a dang light fixture that can handle it, I'll be sitting under it each day. For now, I just sit under the crazy led-bulbs the hub has in every lamp. And I draw. And sleep. Oh, so much sleep, in chunks, following so little sleep for so long. I'll take it when I can get it, though.

One good - nay, great thing that happened this month was a little hashtag on the twitters: #NotAloneAtXmas. It'll be turning into NotAlone365 soon, fyi. I met some new friends who were also alone on the 25th, and felt much less alone for a large portion of the day. The reason I was home alone was, as usual, due to body bullshit but the hub sent me photos of his family party which was nice. Also sad, but hey! what other time of year is greater for self pity? Luckily, the lovely twitter peoples made me realize I was being an asshole for feeling sorry for myself, so I stopped that. I really do wish I could hug everyone, though. The world would be better overall if everyone was able to be hugged, comforted, loved and laughed with whenever necessary.

And with that, I'm off to get my bones ready for the day.

Goofy and Pain

The holiday tree is up, 90% of the ornaments made by my own two hands, it is december and I am in pain. I had a thought, though; what if my pain sounded like Goofy when he flew off of a cliff? That "yaaaaaahooohooohoohoooooey" noise, you dig? If that was the case, I don't think I'd mind quite so much.

It appears that today will be spent on the couch, watching the original Death at a Funeral and trying not to drool too much over Peter Dinklage. I haven't watched any of the Game of Thrones because I don't have book #2 and I'm a nerd who can't watch what I haven't read, if it was written to begin with, so I'm missing out on quantity of Dinklage, but it's okay. One of my besties sent me a video link to him filming his GQ spread, and my complaint was that there were too many scantily clad women in it - and I love me some women. But I guess I love me some Dinklage more.

So, enough with the rambling. I'm either going to nap or movie, and either way it'll be just me and the cat.

Well, sheeeeeit. Been a while.

Another list, because I love you all and I need sleep:

1. We're living in the house, it is adorable and awesome and half-painted because my hub is a crazed maniac when it comes to house-setting-up-ness.

2. Still having mild panic attacks and more insomnia, but things are getting slightly better. Purchased a SAD-rated light bulb because, damn.

3. People actually come over to visit and it is really strange and also kind of lovely.

4. Hub got me the best goddamn gift a gal like me could ask for (since he already gave me himself, that is): he got me an old-fashioned re-pro record player with a HORN and EVERYTHING.

5. I started a new blog, over at http://stinkywishes.blogspot.com/ and if you like it, please let me know. If you don't, you can let me know that as well, and maybe I'll give a shit.

6. If I don't get off of this fucking laptop soon I will never sleep.

So with that, I bid you buona sera.

Brainfarts

 - I need to stop living my life as an "abled" person and really get my teeth into being this disabled person. With a negative implication in the very word, however, it is difficult to embrace it. Examples would be the resisting of naps (even though they make my body MUCH happier), waking at 5am and staying awake all day (which increases my pain levels) and this whole "lifting boxes around because we moved and I'm a neurotic little weirdo" thing I've gotten into this week.

 - I also need to stop hearing those judgmental voices from my past; the ones who said I was just trying to get attention, the ones who dismissed me as a hypochondriac, the one who didn't sign up for this. Fuck 'em.

 - My wheelchair is my way of getting around. It is up to ME to decide how I'll rock that, and if I want to do 360s in the supermarket or dance to the muzak, I damn well will. There is not a goddamn thing wrong with yelling "wheeee!" when I"m rolling down a hill. Again, if I'm going to wheel myself around this earth, I should OWN it and WORK it.

 - Starting my days with homemade hot cocoa is not a bad thing. I can digest it, somehow, which is more than I can say for my morning tea routine.

 - Not everything is about being disabled; sometimes it's just nice to be about hot cocoa, or a good book, or the sunshine.

So Many Holy Craps.

We bought a HOUSE. We're moving in tomorrow, during the friggin' SNOW in OCTOBER. With two male helpers, one strong female, three female relatives who are over 60, me in my wheelchair and my grandmother, who is 87.

Yeah. This is gonna go GREAT.

We're very lucky, don't get me wrong! The fact that we have *any* help is fantastic, and those who are coming are all really kickass people. I am just in major-over-panic-stress-holy-crap-mode, and while the Rescue Remedy and lavender are helping, they're just not helping enough. Every muscle is tense, and my right leg is shooting pain all up in that bitch, and my eyes are too wide.

See? I get stressed out pretty damn easily. We've got a 3 bedroom house, but we're stuck in our 2 room closet/apartment until we can get over there with furniture and it's raining and will be snowing and high winds and and ...

*pow*

Okay. Now it seems we're going to move on sunday, when it is supposed to be not-snowing and not-raining. I should be less stressed.

*twitchtwitch*

More soon.

Oh, Those Pachyderms.

It's list time again, and this week our list is brought to you by the good people at Stressing Me The Fuck Out Ltd.! Let's see what they've been cooking up this past week and a half, shall we?

1. The flu plague is still here, albeit in a less fevery manner. I'm down to a half box of tissues per day and coughing up things that my old microscope would have run from, had it been gifted with legs.

2. The insomnia bunny visited me 7 times in the past 14 days, which was so nice and such thoughtful timing!

3. The panic attack gerbil got nice and comfy over here as well, making a record three visits in 7 days! I think I won a kewpie doll and I'd like to give it to my doctor, who didn't think calling me back last week was a good idea.

4. Our bank, who we were getting our mortgage through, decided at 6ish last night that they are no longer doing FHA loans, which is what we had. So hooray for us, we have to get a new mortgage in exactly 30 days! I bet they spoke with that damn gerbil and planned this as a surprise present.*

5. I am spending today trying to stay calm, cool, collected and quiet. Last night's panic attack was draining (not that ALL panic attacks aren't), and sometimes it is okay if my only accomplishment today was breathing.

6. My bff dude is making a webpage for me to pimp out my artwork in exchange for some custom t-shirts I'll be making for his kids. This is a Good Thing, as the last time I did anything like that html was a young language.

7. I would really enjoy diving into my bottle of mead right now, but it is only 1:17pm and I take medications that do not like alcohol. It's okay, though; I'll drown those later on.

As of this moment, I am sitting on my couch, listening to my lovely classical music and drinking water. Bartering with my stomach so that it will calm the fuck down and let me digest something. So far, my twitches have dwindled to a mere 50 per minute. I should be packing, but the hub insists I am still too sick to do that. He's probably right (he usually is).

Deep breaths, soothing music, cool water, ridiculous internets. Yes.



*Huzzah! New mortgage achievement unlocked! So glad I added that +10 to my charisma column. Whew!

DUDES. It has been a while.

I know I addressed this to "DUDES" but honestly, I doubt there are any dudes (or dudettes?) actually reading this and that is liberating.

What is not liberating is this fucking cold. Or flu. Or plague. Whatever it is, the hub and I are so sick we're begging the cat to go to the store for supplies. Bitch keeps saying she has no thumbs, but we don't care. She'd look pretty dang awesome driving my car.

In other news that may prove liberating, we are buying a house. A real house, fit for real people, with no real asshats living above or behind us. Obviously, I don't give a shit about what the people living near our house will be like, because I can shut the goddamn door and they're gone!

Oh, fever, we are a fine pair today.

So yeah, we're buying a house, which means we're both batshit nuts about packing and paperwork and deadlines and pachyderms. (I like elephants.) The hub has to work as he hasn't built up any sick time at his new job, so I'm trying to make it as easy on him as possible here...that means I throw out my own tissues and clean my own dishes when I can stand long enough to scrub.

Again, I ask: why don't cats have thumbs? Or little monkey sidekicks?

Yes. Naptime.

just a wee bitch.

I need to get off of my rapidly enlarging ass and exercise. The reason my ass is rapidly enlarging, however, is that I no longer can work out in a cardio-blasting manner; I have to stick with gentle stretches and geriatric yoga, if I'm lucky.

Yeah, yeah, I know; it could be worse.

It would be a hell of a lot easier to accept this new body image if I hadn't spent twenty years with eating disorders, but hey! I had some seriously fuckled self esteem issues, and here we are. So while I'm 90% thinking "yes, I will keep stretching and gentle-yoga-ing and that will get me back into some sort of shape!", I am still 10% thinking "thin tastes better than food", which we all know is stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The more I say it, the more it'll stick in my thick skull that starving myself is a Bad Idea (you know I"m serious when I use Capital Letters, yo), and hopefully it'll stick in some other gal's head.

I wish I could be comfortable in my own skin. That I could wake up and see that this body is mine, we are one, and that it is perfectly okay to have filled out a bit. Healthy and natural. Some day, I will.

Okay, enough of that bullshit. On to something constructive! I made my hub a sock cat the other day, and my mom loved it so much I think I might make her one. See, there are a lot of crafty things one can do when one is home alone all day, and it is all getting me used to being a crazy old lady who has a house full of shitty homemade decorations.

My hub is SO LUCKY.

Impotent Anger

Today is a hot, sweaty, short-tempered kind of day here in the suburbs of Philly. This is nothing new. What is new is that my aunt called me an hour ago, frantically wanting to know exactly where I was at that moment. As there is nothing gained in lying to a nun, I told her the truth: I was laying on my couch with my cat, watching "The Pick Up Artist". She then told me that my grandmother received a call from someone pretending to be me, and that "I" was in jail in Niagara Falls with several girlfriends for having drugs in the backseat of the car. Now, the first thing that should have tipped her off is that I don't actually have any female friends that I would go with on a madcap adventure. The second thing is that if I was in trouble with the law, the last person I would call would be my grandmother, who is the sweetest little 87 year old on the planet and has already has heart issues. So why am I bloggenating this tawdry tale? To tell you, my very few (if any) readers that there are scumfucks out in this crazy world who call the elderly, trying to scam them out of their bank account information. My gran is smart enough to not have given anything to the jerk on the phone, but she was plenty scared and in tears when I arrived at her house no less than 5 minutes after my aunt called me with the story.

I try to be a peaceful person; I do my best to give everyone the benefit of the doubt. I'd like to think that this was just a wrong number gone horribly wonky but I can't, because I'm a cynical human being. I was unable to trace the call, but if I had been able to, you can bet your sweet bippy that I'd be driving to this asshole's house to beat the ever-loving shit out of them with my cane. My family is everything to me, and for someone to think that it is perfectly okay to scam my grandmother makes me want to scream and rage. RAGE.

The point of this is to beg you to talk to your grandmother, your grandfather, your mom and dad if they're elderly - hell, talk to any and every adorable old person you know - and warn them that strangers are fucking shitstains and will try anything to get their money.

Of course, you might want to tell them in less incendiary terms.

And Here We Go Again...

Well, my neurologist believes I do not have MS; he just doesn't know what is going on, which is aligned with my rheumatologist, my GP and my therapist. The things I do have are still fibromyalgia, the double knee issue, PMDD, carpal tunnel, arthritis, and now we can add vertigo and a huge increase in both my pain and fatigue levels. I've had tests and more tests, and will have more tests in the near and not-so-near future, but for now, we are all goddamn confused.

I just do not have the energy to do a fucking thing.

Which is why this post is so damned short.

 I'll update when I have something.

Updates Downdates

Well, kiddos, I saw my rheumatologist on Friday and have some updates to share, so now would be the time to go check out postsecret or whatever you do on Sunday mornings.

If you're still here, I'll share what the doc said.

Firstly, my doctors are all awesome. They are determined to find out what the hell is wrong with me, and won't stop until they do, so I love them very much. Doctor KM, the rheumatologist, said that there is "something" on my kneecap but no one knows what that may be. It's "probably benign", and possibly a cyst or pre-cyst, and there are more tests to come.

This past week I experienced a dizziness which was new to me. As a result of it, I spent most of the week slamming into walls and falling down, which was funny to me but also a bit scary. I fell twice on Monday (or Tuesday? I can't recall), and that was a doozy of a funny in my opinion. See, I was in the kitchen trying to decide what to have for lunch and, in the human style, I looked up while thinking. Next thing I knew, I was on the floor. Five minutes later, I'd pulled myself back up to standing and was looking about myself in triumph - I did it myself! Woohoo! Then, I fell again, this time slamming into the floor and the fridge, and at that moment the hub walked in and helped me up after freaking out a little bit. The pain levels on my right side have increased a bit over the past month or six, and when I mentioned that along with the dizziness, the muscle spasms, the confusion and numbness, my doctor said that she's frustrated because there's something she's missing when it comes to my health. As a result, we talked about MS, which she (along with most of my fam/friends) believes is what's going on, so I'll be seeing a neurologist soon for a battery of tests.

Now, some might think oh noes, bitchylady! That is scary and bad! But I'm hopeful. No, really, I am. If I can get a solid diagnosis of MS, then all of my suspicions will be confirmed, I'll finally have An Answer, I'll be able to get treatment for it and maybe, just maybe, the government will believe me when I say I am disabled. Now, it doesn't change the diagnoses I've already got going on; I've still got the bi-patello-femoral syndrome, the carpal tunnel, the arthritis, the PMDD, the IBS and the fibromyalgia. But those alone aren't disabilities in the eyes of the government. Oh, no, I've got to have something BIG that they RECOGNISE and ACKNOWLEDGE, because the government is simpleminded when it comes to actual human health. A clear diagnosis of MS would also take away about a Mount Rushmore sized bundle of stress from my life.

It's one thing to know that you've got a half-dozen things wrong with you, but it's entirely something else to know that, on top of those things, you've got something that can be regulated. Something people have heard of, that they know is real. Not that what I've got already isn't real per se; it's just that fibromyalgia is STILL barely recognised by the medical field and - of course - the government.

I've said before how I feel about being on disability, I think, but I'll reiterate here and now:

I don't want to be disabled, but I am. I want to work, but I can't. I want to be independent but I am not equipped for that. The government has this program for people just like me, where they take care of their people. The government does not want to take care of me. They want me to flip burgers or work in a factory, doing repetitive motion tasks which would incapacitate me. I don't want the money, but I do need it. I don't want the label, but I already have it. I don't want a handout, I just want help.

So now that I've stated the obvious, I'll leave you with this:

My depression has become immeasurably better since my doctor said that she thinks I do have Multiple Sclerosis. If that's not proof of the power of a good doctor who cares for her patients, I don't know what is.

That Fast, eh?

After last week's excursion, a dear, wonderful old friend came to stay with us for the weekend-to-tuesday, and it was so lovely to see him that I forgot how depressed I was. Score, right? Yes. But it's all back, beginning with the day he left and, since then, has been digging it's claws deeper and deeper into my skin. I don't like feeling this way. I certainly don't like finding my cheeks to be tear stained without my knowledge. That's a bunch of bullshit.
I'm just...not very happy. With my body, with my mind, with my social "life", with my sex "life" and the rest of my ridiculous excuse for a life.

Wait, wait... I'm delving into self-pity land, aren't I? Yes, I think I am.

I want the freedom to do whatever I'd like to do with no limitations. Ten years ago, that "whatever" would have been drinking & drugging until I stopped breathing. Twenty years ago, it would have been cutting and pilling until I stopped breathing. Now, however, I'd just like to go out and get some sunshine without risking another fall, or another i.b.s. attack, or another bruised feeling in my skin.

Whatever, right? Right. So... the hub is awake, which means our day is beginning. I'll try to be more cheerful, but it's hard sometimes.

A Little Bit of Beachy Perspective

Oh, honeybutts, I got OUT for almost 2 whole days this week! Calloo, callay, a frabjous day and a half! The hub and I took advantage of one of those coupon dealios and motored on down to Atlantic City, and it was really wonderful. Just what I needed, actually. A romantic dinner, some gambling, a new friend (who will hopefully become one more of my rib-tickling bad joke buddies) and the acquisition of not only a faaaaabulous 1920's straw hat and grey/silver scarf, but something from my childhood which brings back belly-aching giggly memories: a switchblade comb.

Come on! You remember them, if you were born before 1979 and had a terrible sense of humour as a kid! My bro and I used to pretend to threaten one another with ours, and probably half of the kids in my grade school had one of their own. The comb actually does work, and each time I whip it out (huh huhuh), I find myself grinning like an eight year old again.

Another part of our little trip was to visit the local aquarium where we got to actually touch a baby manta ray! How freakin' cool is that?! It was so smooth and silky; well, to my fingers, it was. To the hub, it was slimy. He's pretty cute.

To add to the awesomeness that is this week, we found a house that would be a perfect fit for us, AND it comes with a cat, so we're putting in an offer this week, and one of my very dearest and tallest friends is coming to visit for the weekend which will include at least one cookout and elebenty hundred laughs.

It's rare that I have a smile on my face for so long that my cheeks ache, but this is one of those wondrous, beautiful weeks and I am in love with it.

Razortalk and Depression and the Happy Ending

A large part of being disabled, for me at least, is dealing with the depression. The crippling depression, if I may be so bold (I may). The horrid, mean Thing In My Head which makes it so difficult to get out of bed, to stop crying, to make a phone call...anything. That Thing In My Head was on a roll today, and I don't know how many minutes I spent in contemplation of veins and sharp things, but when I caught myself I forced my sad ass out of bed and onto the couch to write here, instead of writing there with the wrong kind of ink.

The razors were my weapon of choice for a long, long time. The lack of any emotion other than crushing sadness for so very, very long warped my head into thinking that, even if I didn't off myself, at least I could feel something even if it wasn't the end of my existence. That started when I was 11, and didn't stop until a few years ago. The cutting, that is; the depression is still here, every day, with no abatement in sight.

It is a good thing that I have developed this sense of self-control. I didn't have it for a long time, and would encourage rather than discourage myself to get out the blood box (where I kept my stash of sharp things). Most days it's easy; I just turn on the teevee, or call a family member, but days like today? They are goddamn difficult. I don't actually want to see or speak to anyone, I don't want to go out in the sun and be all fucking smiley, and I certainly don't want to do a friggin' thing except crawl back into bed and try to sleep until it passes...but here's the secret: it never passes. It never goes away. It never ceases - it just changes the volume. Today, it goes to eleven.

I have a list of things I need from the local shops, of which my prescriptions are a top priority, obviously. The zoloft is supposed to help with the fibromyalgia and the depression, but it doesn't. It pacifies everyone else. A while back, I'd submitted a postsecret about how I only took the pills to make everyone else feel better, that they didn't do a goddamn thing to help me. I'm beginning to be concerned that it is happening again, that these pills aren't working.

Maybe I need sun. Maybe I need smiles. Maybe I need a break from this apartment. Maybe I need to stop this song from going 'round in my head with the lyrics my brain came up with:

"Another Saturday stuck in this damn apartment; I never get out and I don't get paid; how I wish I had someone to talk to; I'm in an awful way."

The thing is, though, that I don't actually want company; at least, the Thing In My Head doesn't. It wants me to stay sad, to keep crying, to crawl back under the covers and let it win. It wants to make the pain so loud that it drowns out everything except morbidity.

List time, kiddos:

• I am surrounded by my books; they who have been my friends when I shut everyone else out. 
• I am surrounded (slightly higher on the walls) by my art, which has carried me through countless Bad Days.
• I am loved.
• I am not going to succumb to this crapfest of emotions. Nope; not gonna do it.
• I have to pee.
• I'm hungry.

*And Now For Something Completely Different*

Well, I peed. I decided that I'm going to call my mommala and get out of this apartment, at least for a few hours. I'll eat some brekkie, take my meds, and tell my pain and depression and the Thing In My Head to fuck off for the day. I'll paint if I can, or crochet, something to keep me occupied until my husband gets home at bedtime tonight. I'll sketch out the cake design for my family's annual 4th of July reunion, and I'll laugh. Goddammit, I will laugh today because it really, truly is the best medicine.

Some days it's really, really hard to stay positive, but I do. And I will. Because I'm stronger than I give myself credit for, and shit; if I made it thirty four years feeling this way, I can make it another thirty four.

On Paper.

As much as I hate to admit it, I am officially in the throes of depression. Not suicidal depression, not self-harm levels or anything dangerous like that, but depression nonetheless. My therapist says it's perfectly "normal" for me to feel this way, that he'd be surprised if I wasn't depressed considering my mobility status of late, so...so I'm validated in feeling like shit. Hooray for me, I'm supposed to have no interest in a goddamn thing!

Wait. That's not very comforting. The idea that my "normal" state of mind is a sad and lonely place doesn't make me feel any better, not really. It does make my daily routine slightly less pathetic, at least to me, but it's not a reassurance the likes of which I need. My husband has been working nonstop for weeks, leaving us approximately one hour each night to see one another and that time is generally spent in front of the teevee, his meaty dinner on his lap and my brain fuzzified by painkillers. Not the most quality time imaginable by far, but at least we've got that time. The one person who offered to come and spend time with me was unfortunately denied by my honest realization that I am a shitty companion when I'm on the painkillers. No, really, I am. It's bad enough that I chain smoke when I'm on 'em (as I believe she is not a smoker), but add to that the fact that I struggle to form a coherent sentence, fall over whenever I move and can - and do - fall asleep with no notice... I'm obviously not fit for social interaction. Until the doctors figure out what's going on with me, this is my life.

This. THIS. This is not what I wanted, but it is what I've got, so I still try to make the best of it. My brother came over twice this week and oh, honeybutts! It was so good to spend time with him! He's always been there for me, ever since we grew from fighting children to commiserating teens. There was a moment when he was here last week when he made a seemingly innocuous comment and I'd like to share it with you, paraphrased of course since hey! I was on painkillers. He said that, on paper, I have the life everyone wishes they had. I don't have to work, I don't have to deal with people all day long, I can paint or read or watch movies to my heart's content. But the reality is different, and those envious people don't realise that it's not that I don't want to work, it's that I can no longer work. That painting only happens when I'm having a "good day", and those are very rare of late. That reading in daylight gives me headaches, and movies get really fucking boring when that is the only entertainment available (yeah, yeah; first world problem. I know). That I generally cannot make my own meals, that I absolutely am unable to go anywhere alone, even to take a wee bag of trash to the bins out back of our apartment building. That my every movement is stricken with pain in places I didn't know could feel pain. That I am, effectively trapped.

In a perfect world, I'd be living the perfect life; in this world, I am merely perfect on paper. They say paper is more patient than man, though, so it would behoove me to practice being more patient. More like paper.

Seems I'm Back Again

When I said previously that I wanted to blog more often, I didn't actually think I would, but here I am, back again, bitchin' up a storm.

Today's bitchin', however, is nothing new. Well, okay, maybe it's a teensy bit new, but not really. I'm still mostly immobile, still bored out of my gourd, still trying to stave off the cabin fever crazies. The present immobility is possibly due to the water therapy, but who knows when it comes to this body. I was x-rayed last week and will be MRI'd this week, with a probable visit to an orthopedic surgeon in my near future, but no one actually knows why my knees are so dang stupid. Yes, I've been diagnosed with patello-femoral syndrome or whatever the kids call it these days, in both knees, but people with this knee-fuckle-stravaganza got it by running. A lot. I ran very little. Skateboarding, however, can also cause it, so there you go; further payback for being the one girl skater in my town. People with this disorder also are successfully back up and running (or skating, natch), after a week or two of rest, ice, compression and elevation, but my knees don't dig on RICE, yo. Instead, they prefer to be moving every ten minutes to relieve pain that never actually goes away. They're bitches, basically. But they're my bitches, and if I knew how to fix them I so fucking would have by now!

Truth is, they're un-fixable. Un-surgery-able. Un-changeable in a positive way; they'll get worse, I'll end up in my wheelchair full time, and at this point that's it. Until science catches up with me, that is, and when that happens (note: WHEN, not if), I will dance my ass off for as many hours as I possibly can, because dancing is the joy I miss the most.

I make desperate pleas to my socially networked friends to come over and hang out, watch movies or play games, but none of them ever actually do it, except for one amazing person and her absolutely distracting kids (whom I love to the ends of the earth). As I sit here, day after day on my couch or in my bed, I wonder what happened to the people who said they'd be here for me? What happened was life; it gets in the way of living sometimes, and as much as I'd like to join them, I can't, and it is frustrating. To say the least. I can't get angry at anyone, can I? I can't allow myself to be irritated with my friends for not coming over, right? It wouldn't be proper courtesy for me to get snippy when someone once again bails on hangtime for whatever reason... right?

Breaking Up is Good to Do.

A friend of mine recently had a breakup, and it got me thinking about my own splits. There were far too many of them. They all took longer than they should have due to my intense phobia of hurting other people, even when the other person was hurting me in every way possible. I wasted so much time trying to be the "good" person, all the while being hurt by the "bad" person I couldn't seem to leave. The pathetic thing is that I kept on dating "bad" people - I just didn't friggin' get it. It took a Large Concentrated Dose of therapy and trustworthy friends/family to get my head on straight, and now I'm married to the man who fills me with joy every day. Every DAY, people! That's a goddamn miracle in my life. It may not sound like much, being happy, but after twenty four years of suicidal thoughts /attempts, twenty years of eating disorders and more than twenty shrinks, being happy was as foreign to me as being healthy.

My man and I met in high school. He hung out with the guy every (other) girl wanted: tall, blonde, dimpled and gorgeous. I became friends with that guy for one reason: to get to my man. My incredibly hot Korean with a hobby cv that reads like an action flick. The one with the low-rider Volkswagen (it was as juxtaposed as you think, trust me). The one who never, ever let me down, except when he dumped me, but hell - we were teenagers. After a few years of whatever, we got back in touch and stayed good friends over the next decade plus through my divorces and rifts and his few relationships. I had a horrendously bad breakup a few years back and he was there for me, yet again. He'd listen to me talk about my life, my mistakes, my regrets, and encourage me. Hope for and, eventually, with me. There he was, after sixteen years, still with that smile that slays me. And here he is, still, working his hot ass off to put food on our table. Pushing himself harder after a sixteen hour day so that he can cook dinner for me since I can't walk presently. He does everything for us, and he loves me, and that is my joy.

I wish I hadn't been so fucking idiotic for so long, but you know what? I wouldn't be who I am if not for those years and years of Stoopid. They made me who I am, and I like me these days. I even like my body, which is close to another miracle, and that includes the pain and tears that it brings me. There are still days when I catch myself fantasizing about my old razors or pills, but I'm strong enough now to think of something else. Something worth living for. Someone worth living for - and that someone is me. Sure, it helps to have this miracle of a man in my life, but I learned before we became a couple to love myself. Not long before, but hot damn - what a revelation! I didn't have to hate myself, I didn't have to cut or take pills or exist on a spoon of rice per day. I didn't have to do anything that was bad for me and no one could make me.

"No one can make you feel inferior without your consent." Eleanor Roosevelt said that, and it's so true! I swear on my nose, it's the most true thing I've ever heard. I gave so many people silent permission to scare me and hurt me and break me, and when I stopped doing that, I lost a large chunk of people who I'd thought were my friends. Turns out they just liked the idea of a doll they could dress up and manipulate. Well, folks, I am no one's marionette anymore, and I'm relieved to be rid of those shitty people.

And again, I wouldn't be this strong person if I hadn't been weak for so long. So thank you, horribly cruel and sickeningly controlling people: you contributed in making this capable and enduring woman.

Babbling

I'd like to blog here more often, I really would. The reason I don't is that I don't have much to talk about. I could tell you about the episode of "The Golden Girls" that I watched the other night, or the knee pain that woke me up, or the latest chapter of the book I'm reading, but they are equally insipid. Not much happens around here. There is no commute for me, no coworkers to interact with, no random stranger's smiles while grabbing my lunch. In many ways, I miss having a job to go to each day. I felt somehow more...well, more. Not to say that I am less now that I can no longer work. I am more of an artist, thanks to the opportunity to hone my skills and discover new ones, which means thanks to my disabilities. Yeah, you read that - thanks to my disabilities.

My therapist always asks me what my pain is telling me. That it has a message, or else it wouldn't be so loud. I'll admit, I used to kind of brush the question off, telling myself that my pain has no message, it just screams unintelligibly on a constant basis (much like my ex husband was doing, the first time I saw him as a teen). Lately, I've been really trying to listen for something clear, some idea of what my pain wants of me. I've tried to meditate when the cacophony was at a lower level, I've had herbal teas to calm my spirit a wee bit, I've painted with my eyes closed, but clarity, I have none. All I know is that the levels of pain I've experienced in the past week are unprecedented.

Recently, I began going to water therapy; it involves getting into a 4 foot deep pool and walking around it, swinging my legs or arms, and other low-impact exercises. My rheumatologist suggested it and I was so excited! The opportunity to lose some weight, tone my body and strengthen my muscles? Awesome! The reality, however, is that something went wrong, and now there is a new and Very Loud Pain in my right knee. Have you ever experienced one baby crying, which triggers other babies to cry as well? That is what happened to my body. First the new knee pain, then the back pain, then the wrist pain (this has taken me several hours to type), and so on and so forth. Waking in the night from a strangled scream is not a fun way to pass the wee hours, and doesn't allow for the kind of restful, deep sleep my ol' bones so desperately need right now. The upside of this is that I've had plenty of time to snuggle with the cat, and, since I can't actually cook meals, my husband is learning how to be a vegan, gluten-free chef of sorts. His work schedule doesn't allow for a lot of time together, though, so for the most part I'm gimping solo here, but we make it work.

There was a point to this post, but damned if I remember what it was. What I do know is that, no matter how loud and cranky my pain gets, I still have my art, my heart, my husband and my hope.

Dear Immune System: Suck It.

Okay, so I haven't been around for a bit here, and the reason is that my body is being a complete bitch.  A cold in January, my knees giving out and forcing me on bed rest, a steroid treatment which did nothing save make me feel worse and now?  Now I've got another fucking cold.  So forgive me if 1.I make no sense or 2. I whine.  As much as I try to avoid whining, sometimes I need to and the cat is avoiding me today.  But as I said in my last post, It Could Be Worse.

But you know... I honestly don't feel like whining now that I got all of that out of my system (yes, I am fully aware that it was whining.). There are more important things to convey to you, peoples of the internets.  A little girl (www.zoecadence.com) has a condition called OMS (www.omsawareness.com) and needs help, desperately.  Her insurance company won't pay for certain treatments because they are stupid.  The insurance companies, not the treatments.  So go over there and help out if you can, and if you're broke like me, spread the websites across the interwubs and earn your badge for the day.

In other, less serious news, I found a great blog today (www.beautyability.com) that is all about the wheelchair fashion.  Now, if you know me, you know I'm about as fashion savvy as Gladys Ormphby (if you're confused, watch Laugh In), but lately I've been hankering for comfortable clothing when I'm out and about.  I can hardly believe I'm about to say this, but... I am going to get jeggings.  Yes, they bother me because GODDAMMIT BE ONE THING ALREADY but they do look pretty comfortable, and I'd like an end to the phantom penis action my regular jeans give me when I'm riding the four wheels of fury. It wouldn't seem like such a big deal, but I've been mistaken for a male before so hey! I'm sensitive.

So there you go; I've been sick, I'm going to buy pants that are not pants, and you are going to help Zoe Cadence by going to the above listed sites and either donating or spreading the word.  

It Could Be Worse

Winter is beloved by some folks out there as a wonderland of snow, brisk climate and sports that occur on mountains.  I am not one of those folks; no, I am one of those who despises the chill in the air.  When the temperature plunges, my pain levels rise and I end up as I am today: on bed rest.  I've got my laptop, my phone, my cat and my husband in the other room, ready to assist me at a moment's notice, so I'm much better off than I could be... but still.  I don't like having to stay in bed all day!  I much prefer to be up and about at 6am, making tea and toast and planning out what creative crap I'll come up with that day. Not today, though, and if my knees don't stop their incessant bitching, not tomorrow either. 

It Could Be Worse.

I know, I know; it really could be so much worse! That's been my mantra for over a decade now, and one that works sometimes but not nearly as often as I'd like.  It could be worse, though; I could be unable to walk at all, or unable to type, to read, to paint or to sculpt.  I could be homeless, living under a bridge in the city, or living with a disease much more volatile than fibromyalgia and the rest of my wee little list of ailments. 

It Could Be Worse.

But you know what?  It could also be a fuckload better.  I could still be going dancing each weekend, or taking the trolley downtown, or going hiking, or doing my 2 hour workouts each morning as I used to. My knees could have been formed correctly, my cartilage could still be happily cushioning my every bend and twist, my nerves could have been normal and kept the pain signals at a reasonable, normal level - but none of that happened.  What did happen is that my life became a daily challenge, and thanks to that challenge, my art has blossomed.  My brain has slowed down a bit, but my creative grey matter bits popped open a six pack of Red Bull and went for it.

So yes, It Could Be Worse, and It Could Be Better, but it couldn't be anything other than what it is; I'm glad that it is at all, because the alternative isn't.