Bestestest.

Maybe the friggin' best day that ever bested a best. Board games, delicious noms, my BFFhb and our respective digestive issues made for a mostly great day. Can't wait for tomorrow, oddly enough. 

Thirty seven ought to be fun. 

Tag I'm It

Spending a quiet birthday morning with breakfast in bed, tea, and cats is maybe the best start-of-day ever. 

This marks seven years past when I'd thought I'd be dead. So far, so good. So, so good. 

<3

Forward Facing

It boggles my fucking brain trying to sort out why that man would fwd me some insulting, disrespectful "jokey" email; it is the exact opposite of everything positive necessary to any sort of future relationship. 

Good to know he has not changed. Still oblivious to what is socially acceptable, still blindly forging ahead insulting all in his path. I am over-sensitive as a result of his lifelong, fucked up sense of humour. Of telling me to take it easy, what's wrong with you, you just want attention. 

I did want attention, just not yours.

Merry happy fuckoff.

Step Up

An apology arrived today from a past so long ago I'd almost forgotten it. Ollie (less a name than an act) was a skater I hung out with, part of a group of misfits and mean-wells in my township. He was less than kind, to put it nicely, and put me down when I tried to help him up. Details are repetitive.

He has been growing, though, in all these years. Learning. Now, he's hoping for forgiveness, from those he hurt - including little old me, who was barely a kick flip on his social half pipe. He expected no response, just wanted me to know his apology was there. 

So. 

It's never too late to make things right. 

I'm very glad that Ollie has gotten himself in gentler hands. I hope he forgives himself, too. 

Purpose

My therapist repeatedly asks "what purpose does this or that serve?"

This or that = He or she. 

He or she = assholes from my past

Assholes from my past. There are so many to choose from, how to begin? Why not begin with the end; the last momentous memory the ubiquitous "they" gave. 

"I promise, I'll write to you." 

(but it was nice knowing you)

"I didn't sign up for all that,"

(get your crippled ass away from my life)

"You're my favorite daughter!"

(you exist to market my business)

"According to these books, you're fucked up anyway so what I say shouldn't matter."

(broken toys are easier to shatter)

What purpose did these, and too many others, serve in my life? Perhaps to show me the myriad lies people tell. Or maybe to give me a vaulting point, to go higher or sink lower. 

Sometimes a Crank

This week's performance by the Internal Orchestra is apparently quite the corker, with what feels like reinforcements rounding out the usual cacophonous pain symphony. Thunderous bass notes play a vibrato upon the skeletal theater. The autumnal rains give extra weight to the already swelling strings. Tiny bells ring out pinpricks within each section, lending a spasm to the symphonies. 

Looking for a more laid-back way to spend your every moment? Lucky you! 

Also appearing are the Nap Ninjas by day, and the Insomnia Gerbils by night.

Don't forget to stop by the Depression Hamsters' booth for pointless refreshments and terribly inaccurate non sequiturs. 

It really doesn't matter how I describe the chronic pain; it's just more entertaining this way. Anthropomorphizing and silly imaginings help keep my lid on tightly enough to get through the days. The nights are more difficult, but silence makes for a poor companion. 

Sometimes, I vent. Sometimes, I cry. Sometimes I laugh. 

Dogwood.

Oh, those damn Borderlines.

Not knowing the proper social responses to life is a bit of shit. Knowing them, yet STILL having awkwardness spill from one's mouth is a bit more shit. 

Knowing that this is a disorder with potential control in the future makes it more like flowers. They grow from shit sometimes, too. 

Crazy Days

Home improvements and the purchase of a very used, very awesome, and very well-priced pickup truck have been my main focuses [read: distractions] of late. I am to name said truck, because reasons*. 

I've "focused" this week on drawing and painting and reading and gaming and planning and designing and making and cooking and writing and cat-soothing and crocheting and stretching and cleaning and witching and hugging and trying my gods damnedest to make it one day without losing my shit and sobbing. 

Friends are your family, just as you are their family. You love them. You give pieces of your heart to them, trusting they'll do the same and be kind about it all. You wrongly assume that they will always be right there, making that silly face, forever and ever amen. 

Wrongly. Painfully, naively, innocently and trustingly, but still: wrongly. 

Please, as a gift to this anonybitch with too many feels, please hug your friends a squinchy bit longer. Tell them they make your life brighter for being in it. Tell them they are your family, your bros and sis' and cousins, whatever - just don't wait. 

And hey, for the record? You make my life brighter, just by being you. 

*of the three things I swore as a kid that I'd have someday, this truck is #2. Also it is huge and I am tiny and dammit, I like that kinda shit. 

G-dizza.

That's what we called him. Our friend. My hub's brother-from-another-mother from childhood to present. Best man at our wedding. Part of our happiest and longest memories. Gone. 

Fucking gone. 

He went to sleep and never woke up. 

Fucking gone. 

We cling to each other in disbelief. Shock. Anger. 

Fucking gone. 

Why. Why, goddammit. Why at 37. 

We will celebrate the selfless joy of you. 

We miss you. May you wake in the summerland, dear brother, friend, Gabe.

Borderline

Borderline.

Borderliiiiiine. 

Borrrrrderline. 

No matter how you say it, it still means my internal processors were bunk from the start of my awareness.

That my mind digests things very differently than others, and that it is very difficult to explain fully because hey! my brains don't work like yours. 

So. 

I think I'm going to lose my mind...if you keep on pushin my love...

Same Thing we do Every Night, Pinky

Wake, ache, creak, crack

Each day is the same

Snifflelolsnorrrrt

Don't think I don't notice you, sneaking along the radiators and squeezing through the screens with your congestive little feets!

Now is not the opportune time for a cold, yo. 

Eh...it isn't like we haven't beaten worse!

Ahoy, tissues; away nyquillish, Away!

no no, is too much; Lemme Sum Up

The hub and I keep joking about exchanging ourselves for better models; both of our bodies have issues, so it isn't a beauty thing (not that he could get any hotter, honestly. Hubba hubban). Between us we could write volumes of books on digestive disorders, arthritis and chronic pain. Lately, it would appear that our bodies are ganging up on us, hellbent on destruction. Thus, no posts. 

Present Worries

Too many variables in health, home, hearth and head. My man, my mom, my mind; my, my. Pay no attention to the meds behind the curtain, they're simply monitoring for quality assurance. 

Future Worries

See above. 

(Goodbye, Babygirl, wee furry sister.)

It has been one long fucker of a month. Here's hoping the next month will be less fuckity fucker-y. 

Yawns

There are several reasons for not posting lately. These are some of them:

- too much sleep

- not enough sleep

- sims scuba diving

- nerves

- courage building

- letting go of bullshit

- the nearness of my niece, who is awesome

And today? Today we can add allergies and phone calls to the good ol' ssa. 

*grabs new box of tissues*

Old!

That moment when you realize the book you bought is twenty years old... 

Get off my lawn! Ha!

Oh, Darlin'

Last night my great aunt Gladys died. She was in her 90s. She lived a good life. I hope she is hugging the shit outta her husband, my uncle Vince, and her daughter, my godmother Pat. 

Ah, life. You're a dick sometimes, but I'm glad you gave me the time you did. 

"I love you a bushel and a peck..."

Spring Razing

Hey, guy-who-judged-me -- your opinion doesn't matter anymore.

Psst, guy-who-never-talked-or-loved -- you're outta here too, go on with yer life. 

Yo, me -- you fucked up, they fucked up...it doesn't matter anymore. We all fuck up. 

I'm imagining that forgiveness would erase fear, but I'm not sure. If I let the First Beater off the hook won't I still be terrified when I see his lumbering hulk? "To err is human, to forgive is divine"

is a hard pill to take, mainly because I cannot find the fucking pill which I would gladly ingest if I could just stop reliving the traumas, jebus fnargling crust amen. 

It was easy to forgive Riot; he made real efforts to heal our relationship (and himself, in some ways) even after the divorce was final, and is to this day a good part of my life. Deevis is still unforgiven, but he is also blocked from contacting me, so that's sorted. The two knuckleheads mentioned at the post's beginning are back in one another's devious arms and out of my life. 

The ones I cannot seem to forgive (and this makes sense,) are the relatives; the men who royally fucked up and fucked me up in the process and who are FUCKING RELATED TO ME. I mean...if you can't trust family, you're fucked. In my world, at least. Although heyo! two of my family members used their members against me, so what do I know of family? 

I know the women I come from kick ass and take no shit. 

I know my lady friends - the real, stick-by-ya friends - are family and also kick ass/take no shit. 

I know my great-grandmother let no man push her around or control her, and I hope she forgives me for being weak at times. I hope she's proud of my strength. 

So. Do I return the call? Do I engage once more in conversation with the pater? Do I let him hear my voice, which he said he missed in his message? 

Still thinking. 

Always thinking. 

It's the Loneliness.

That's what gets me. Sitting in a room with or without others, my me screams out for contact! conversation! connection! 

Too shy. Too this. Too that. Too me. 

FEAR: No Beer

Man, I loved the band Fear. Loved a lot of good old punk, and I still do. Getting out to shows now is an effort in futility, but a gal can hope. 

My fear isn't about missing a concert, though. I know, I know; no shit. My fear is about missing out on the hugs and laughs of a lifetime. Cheesy, but there it is; the fear of Something Wrong in my Brain is all-encompassing and I do not want to miss the chance to laugh with friends, family, strangers and animals! 

Dammit, I haven't danced with my husband yet and I intend to dance my silly ass into retirement with him, nerves or no nerves!

Breathe. 

I'm breathing. 

I get angry. Scared. Panicked. Petrified. Horrified at what is slowly taking away my once reliable limbs and mind and nervous system. 

So I breathe. 

Breathe. 

Deeply, until my head slows down and I can --- can what? Silence the panic? Pretend I'm not what I am, or what I am not? 

Until I can distract myself with something, anything to forget the Fear. 

Man...I want beer. MORE BEER

Hot as BALLS dude

There are many things that come with health issues, but the one lesson I'm learning right fucking now is that I get overheated VERY GODDAMN QUICKLY. 

So quickly that with an actual blink of the ol' eyes I could be on the ground, passed out. It's like flying, except at the last moment I remember that I can't fly. 

The conundrum for me now is how to get my vitamin D without fainting...wonder if I can talk the hub into a front-porch-mini-pool. I'm small, I'd fit in a cooler. 

Mmmmm...ice cuuuuubes

Panic, No Panic

My brain gets its picture taken in a few days, gotta make sure all the angles are covered. Curls all in place, spots where they should be? Maybe? Maybe not? I don't honestly know what to hope for at this point. 

Some restful sleep would rock, that'll happen next weekend, once our Fonz cat gets the all-clear from the vet. Maybe I'll take a warm bath this week, loosen up and attempt meditation again. It's been difficult on the couch the last month-ish, but I've gotten to comfort the derpiest of derp cats so...call it even. 

My everything hurts, so yeah. Off to rest and rest some more. 

Make silly faces, yo! 

Dude. Seriously.

I'd like to cease being an advertisement, Pater. 

Sigh. 

Non-Divination

More tests! 

More MRIs! 

More questions! 

More fear! 

More xanaxes

More panic

More depression

Less life. 

Face It

Tomorrow is a Big Day. New neurologist, possible/probable diagnosis, more tests to run, more words to file away in my musty old mind...more fear. I know, I know; being diagnosed with MS changes nothing about me as ME, but it certainly changes the future. Right? Not that I've ever successfully envisioned a future with myself in it, but hey! What can ya do. Thought I'd be long dead by now, suicide or abuse related, protesting or procreating...but never this. Never being slowly destroyed from the inside out. 

How do I stop thinking and worrying and fearing this, this thing that once was my own body, now an untrustworthy stranger? How do I quiet the white noise of fear?

There will come a time when my acceptance is transparent. When I'll no longer question it. That time is not now. 

Now is the time for bolstering, for tomorrow, we divine. 

Bursting

Overwhelmed this past week-ish. Cat with ruptured eye needed emergency surgery to remove it, is now snoozing on my leg as we settle into the couch for the night/next two weeks. He follows me wherever I go, must be touching me at all times and has been needing a mom for a long time, I guess. So. I am that mom.
I won't be one in the traditional raise-human-from-infant-to-independent sense. Just in the general, mom to those who need one for a bit. No kids here.


Thud.


I'm not gonna lie to you, Marge; being told that I can and cannot reproduce back and forth for almost twenty years can get to a gal. Now the issue isn't my lady-bits, but my nerve-bits. My knee bits. My myelin bits, what's left of them I suppose. My possible multiple sclerosis, my body rejecting me, my legs failing me, my, my, my, this is some bullshit!

Overwhelming. Yes. Also filed under overwhelming? The levels of cuteness radiating from the sprouts in the garden. Lavender, salad mix, butterfly bushes...so tiny! So squee!

My attention is being demanded by a very soft kitteh paw in need of reassurance.

Be good.

Head Cheese

Too many minutes spent worrying and thinking and fretting and waiting and worrying some more, thoughts churning steadily and stinkily ever onward to







?

Still, Trepanning Might Be Nice

Things are mostly fantastic here. New docs, new tests, new assistive devices, new respect for my limitations. So yay, woohoo, yeehaw! I shouldn't be bitching about my not quite yet a migraine. No no no! (But I am, because ow, goddammit.)
Headaches are becoming slightly more common lately. Lets hope it is due to the changes in meds and not a new member of the gang.

Lets also end this on a ridiculous note:

The other day I decided to bake a cake and so I set to work in the kitchen. I discovered that I didn't have any butter, so I sent my dog to buy some. On the way, he passed a bookstore and, being intrigued by a display in the window, he went in and came home with a dog-eared book of poems. The point of my story is:
Never send a literary dog to the grocery store because . . . he'll get verse before he gets butter!"

- via teh interwubs

Feeling Good

This:

Just So You Know

I am most definitely still kickin ass and takin names. PT and OT twice per week if my body cooperates, assistive devices I didn't even know existed and the best motivation possible: making life less worrisome for the hub. If I'm stronger, he can relax a bit (not that he would, heh,) and we can get back to enjoying life together. Less fears, more fun. Plus, I'd sure like to play me some sled hockey one day, and this is a good way to start that path.
Now, there's no guarantee that I'll ever actually be able to play sports, but that does not mean I have to give up trying. If I give up, what happens? Do I melt in a puddle of probable MS and fade away? Pfft. Fuck that. I'm going to keep going. Keep moving. Keep kickin ass. Beat the voices down, the You Can't and the You Won't jerks can just piss up a rope as far as I'm concerned! I'm sick of the sedentary, done with the doldrums, ready for the revolution within my mind. The pressure valve has, somewhere along the way here, been loosened. Right now, I no longer feel the need to lug my guilt and my fear and the judgmental assclowns on replay in my head around on my shoulders! Fuck em! Fuck em all! They served their purposes, I learned the hard lessons, so arrividerci, culos! My life is pretty bitchin, and I aim to keep it that way.

Today was simply one damn fine day.

Almost forgot

My GP tweaked my meds (hooooraaaaaay futhamuckas!!), set me up with in-home PT & OT (physical and occupational therapies), got me a new neurologist and gave me hugs!

If I could clone both her and my gran, this world would be so much better. They are truly lovable and those who meet them want to make the world better for them. Win win, yo!

So it WAS my meds, but not just them; it was also my aching progress through some inner struggles. I broke through and am (if you saw the previous post) stronger for it. Rawr!

Well Dang, Girl!

A message appeared in my inbox recently from someone I'd hoped and begged the gods would leave me alone forever and ever, amen.

Obviously he didn't get the memo.

This was my first abusive partner, the one I kept going back to EVEN THOUGH I knew he was breaking me. The one who got me into drinking & drugging, the one who inspected my every inch to ensure I'd not embarrass him in public with my "fuckin weird-ass shit." The one who refused to buy a phone to ensure that I, his wife, could not contact my family or friends, so many states away. The one who punished me with sex, which should NEVER be used as a weapon. Of course, he did, along with his hands and his words.

The words hurt for much longer than the hands.

Initially, I was calm. Asked him to please stop contacting me. Did my deep breathing exercises. Had a shot of my rescue remedy. He called me rude, asked where I lived. My pulse began to thud. The old fear sweats crept up. Old me, the scared little weakling, would have given him anything he wanted until he'd leave me alone. Would have fallen to her knees and begged forgiveness for the attitude.
But new me? Pfft.
I asked him if he honestly thought I'd want to speak to him, who first broke me, and explained (using small words...) that I am finally free and happy, that he can no longer hurt me. Then I wished him a long, healthy life with his family, hit send, blocked him and his wife, and got hugs from my real Prince Charming. Because hugs make everything better, if even for a moment.

This woman is a strong woman, and no man has ownership over her. No man can make her cower. No man can make her hide under beds or in closets ever again.


*tittybump*

Some Might Say...

Some might say I have no life; that my rare excursions to the World Beyond the Porch can't possibly be entertaining or enough to stave off cabin fever. And I'll admit that it does get me every few months, especially if I've not left the interior of our home for three-plus weeks. But right now? I'm good. Hub snoozing next to me, cat snoozing next to him, my favourite game loaded...some might say I'm missing out, but I'm not missing a thing.

Sweet Jebus

Maybe it's the meds.
Maybe it's my age.
Maybe it's my brain slowly and painfully accepting, really-truly-I-swear-this-friggin-time, that everything I'd dreamt about my career, social life, body and mind are now 100% swept off the table, to be replaced with cats, early bedtimes, pc games, loneliness, silence.


Maybe it's the meds.

When the hub is home, it's all a bit better. He's my anti-panic. He's my hero.

I Don't Even

Borked my back last week. Hub working altered schedule to take care of my gimp ass. Hard to feel useful.

Blargh.

Sometimes

Sometimes you need a smile. A hug. A laugh. Reassurance that you are loved.

Sometimes, a cat.

State of My Bed, Dammit

Watching the present president's state of the union address has each time been a fire-in-my-belly joy to watch, and in the twitterverse, to take part in discussing each point as it comes along. I'll not describe the drinking games that came with the previous president's addresses to the nation. Ow.
I've got to bail on tuning in tonight (do people still remember tuning in) (fuck I'm old) because fuck I'm old. My bad math: 2 days sans meds +/- 3 hours sleep in days and I'm off babbling about how, were I a twin, I'd have done better in school but the sex would have been gone because two brains could Wonder Twins activate, form of oh my, I've gone crosseyed, thank you and good night.

Lest I Forget

Ffffffuuuuuuuuu fibromyalgia.

Because Rodents

It seems the depression hamsters have taken a break, bringing in reinforcements of the insomnia gerbils. They must have snuck off for a drink or something earlier, giving me one and one half hour of actual good sleep! But then, as late night revelers will, they returned in a rush of Awake and Alert, bringing their new pals the ol' allergy tribbles. Man, those things breed fast. And mucousy, ugh.

In Other News...

Lucy's brand gluten-free vegan ginger snaps are the tastiest crack atm. Holy moly, I can't stop homphing them.

Get yourself some, yo!

Surrealism in Daily Living

Think of the most stressful, demeaning experience you've encountered wherein strangers decided your future. A small room of authority figures, all squeezed in together too tightly, adding a cumbersome wheelchair and a borderline-panic attack. Recipe for disaster, right? They'll treat you like a drain on the system, a street beggar, less than human, less than domestic animals...

Or they'll surprise and astound you with their courteous welcomes and warm smiles. They'll make little jokes to ease the tension and relax you before the proceedings. They'll believe you. They will read every scrap of paper in your files and say, with no sarcasm or insult, that you really can no longer work. That you did work, very very hard in fact, but you are unable to continue because you are obviously disabled and will never improve in physical health.

That you deserve the benefits you will receive.

Then, after all of the questions and incredulity over the length of time you've been waiting and fighting for your rightful benefits, they'll wish you a great day and send you on your happy and secure way.

Surrealism, I tells ya. Juxtaposed with a whole lotta holy shitballs, Batman.

There is no doubt in my mind that I'd have given up on myself if not for the unwavering support, love and understanding from my best mate (who is fortunately also my life mate and husband). He has never once given up on me. He's delighted to see me so validated and joyful, and is valiantly putting up with my awful puns as well as the groaner jokes. Love him.

Scaredy Cat

Two days until my disability hearing. Scared it'll be like the last one, afraid it could possibly be worse, anxious over everything that could maybe happen...

I know the system is this way to weed out the scammers. Does eight goddamn years of begging and pleading and fighting count me as "not a fucking scammer" in their book?

I hope to the gods it does. My body needs help and so does my heart.