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.
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Saturday, May 21, 2011
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:
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
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?
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?
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