Rewind Musings

Looking back on the mistakes I've made (read: men I trusted/loved), it's a wonder I made it this far without going either certifiably insane or Lizzy Borden on them. There was the redneck who had great drugs (which is pretty much how we stayed together), the punk rocker who thought I was his maid (see also: redneck), the one who knocked me up and then said that he'd raise the baby when I died from giving birth (oooh, what a winner HE was), the agoraphobic who was skilled at manipulation and degradation and then, his best friend came along and convinced me that he was the good one, when in reality he was worse for me than all of them combined. And these are just the major ones from my adulthood, mind you. I've made more mistakes than National Geographic has issues, but I'm still here. I'm still alive. I'm still strong, stronger than I was then, and strong enough to know that should any of those I've not forgiven (the punk & I are fast friends to this day, thanks to some reality checks that were sorely needed) happen to cross my path, there will be no hesitation to show them just how strong I am now.

A gal doesn't need muscles to show her strength.

This may seem to come from nowhere, and maybe it does, but I wanted to get it out before I forgot. Not that there's much chance of erasing memories, but each little bit I expel from my head makes space up there for something more pleasant, more positive.

Yesterday, a friend I've never met in person was kind enough to make a little video of him playing the mandolin and shared it with me. He lives in London, I am in america, and my mind is still blown that this kind of technological thing is possible, but the point here is that a man with nothing to gain did something nice and shared it with me.

That is exactly the kind of man this world needs more of, immediately.

Let's trade my exes in for more men like my London friend. Let's do away with the abusers, the manipulators, the tricksters and the rapists and replace them all with wonderfully kindhearted men who don't need muscles to show their strength either.

Here We GO

Back around that ol' mulberry bush of testing for MS! Last week I saw my neurologist and this week I'm to schedule my MRI and blood work again. My brain doc did the normal reflex tests on me and whoopsie! When he tapped my right elbow, my left arm shot out and almost punched him! That gave me a much needed laugh. Prior to the appointment, my anxiety decided to throw a big ol' party and I had to be xanaxed up until the day of, which was a calm day. Weird. My brain is a weird ol' gal.

Since my brain doc didn't say anything about MS one way or the other, my depression hamsters started telling me that I don't really have it, that I'm just imagining it, that it really is just the "worst case of fibromyalgia" my docs have seen, etc, but it then occurred to me that he can't say anything until he sees my brain scan. There were dots in my brain before, and now we've just got to see if they've enlarged. His grunts and raised eyebrows made me believe those damned hamsters, but this morning I realized that he could just be extra concerned for my health and unable to admit it.

I hope that's why he was so grunty. Getting diagnosed, finally, would be a huge load off of my shoulders. Telling myself it's 'just the fibromyalgia' only makes me angry and sad, because there are so many things going on with my body lately and they're not things I've experienced in the years since my fibro diagnosis, neither are they things my brother has experienced since he was diagnosed even more years ago. SO! It's either MS or I've got goblins inside throwing raves.

Let's hope it's MS. (Goblins probably don't pay rent.)

Plug This

I'm not even sure what to write here, but if I don't stop crying, I'm going to go mad.

How's that for a dramatic opener...yeesh. There have been, in the past month or two, rapid changes in my health. Of COURSE this is about my health, that's all I fucking think about lately. More signs of MS, more proof that my body is fighting me from the inside, blah blah blah.  Every time I start to talk to others about it, I end with that: blah, blah, blah. Because who the hell cares, right? I mean, outside of my family and few close friends. I'm pretty sure they're sick of me crying and being hysterical, but hey! at least it's a different kind of hysterics, right? Eh.

And here comes the inevitable list:

- muscle spasms that make me think there are tiny little ravers inside of me dancing to every noise

- feet and legs that don't always respond to my brain saying MOVE

- a bladder that also doesn't always respond

- partial blurred vision

Those are the newest members of the cabaret here in good ol' Body Central. Tomorrow I see my neurologist again to restart the tests. Maybe this is the year I get a diagnosis, maybe not. I hope I do, because not knowing why one's body is trying to destroy oneself is a hell of a way to live.

Someone, anyone, send that little dutch boy to plug up my tearducts. 

Less

Less stress. Just enough less to help me erleichda.

*bandaloops off into background*

Hamsters

When will this pass?

Depression hamsters.

They burrowed into my brain and heart and, much like certain wasps, are eating their way out one pathetic organ at a time.

I call them hamsters because those wee little cuties are something I know I am stronger than, something I can put back in the cage and walk away from.

Soon.