The other day I saw something that I have never seen before and may probably never see again. It was so odd I can't NOT tell you about it.
I saw a man parked on the side of the highway, racing backwards through traffic. I couldn't figure what in the hell would make a man do such a thing, till I saw something fluttering and then I ran over it:
Money. Lots of it. Fluttering all over the highway.
"Was it dollar bills or bigger bills?" asked my husband. "Well, I'm pretty sure a guy wouldn't run through sixty mile an hour traffic to catch the twenty one dollar bills he lost..."
Besides, how on earth did he manage to have a pile of cash fluttering down the highway? He was far enough down the highway for it to not have been left on the roof of his van. If it was in a wallet the whole wallet would have blown off, right? So how in the world did he manage to have handfuls of cash fly out his window? Sketchy, if you ask me.
While driving home later, I passed the same place and thought, "Hmm. I wonder if I should look around..." I mean, how often do you find money on the side of the road? Could be my lucky day... but I drove on home. Even if it was there, it's not worth it. Chasing money down the road is for crazy people. As is throwing it out the window. Or whatever.
Weeeeird.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Thursday, June 28, 2007
answers and more questions
Well, yesterday was my appointment with the orthopedist, to see if someone can figure out what in the bloody hell is wrong with me and why I hurt so much. He looked at my x-rays. He ordered more x-rays. He looked at those, too. I bent, stretched, squatted, he poked, prodded, thumped and poked some more. Finally he tells me, "There's nothing wrong with your bones."
Um. Ok?
"You won't need any kind of surgery," says the surgeon. I breathed for the first time since entering his office, quite possibly.
But... what? There was a lot of long pauses on his end. There was a lot of patience for him to get to the point on mine. Finally he said, "What you've got is Chronic Myofascial Pain Syndrome." Oh.
I had read up a lot about such things when I was in physical therapy last year. I told him so. I asked him if that was like fibromylagia, because the stuff I read about that seemed to fit me to a tee.
No, it's different, he said. Although it's possible I may have both, he said. I'll have to schedule a follow up with my regular doctor, as he does not specialize in things he cannot perform surgery on, he says. Oh. Ok.
I left there feeling like I had an answer finally, but a thousand more questions. I felt happy that I wasn't going to end up in surgery, but sad because there was no magical cure for what was (is) wrong with me. He told me I can expect to live with this for another thirty years or so. It usually fades with old age. Well, that's something, I told him.
No matter what it is, it requires lifestyle changes. And..stuff. Hmm. I don't have much to say about it right now, quite frankly. I'm a bit overwhelmed and freaked out.
I've been reading last night, and off and on since I woke up tweaking out at 4 am this morning. Most of the stuff is like dredging through, but this bit is bearable, if you're curious.
I'm glad to finally have a name to this THING. All these THINGS. All these years I've had doctors throwing me on one medication after another, people not taking my pain seriously, me not taking my pain seriously, and it's only gotten worse. I've gotten to the point that I don't really like going out because sometimes it hurts too badly to walk and it's embarrassing. At thirty two years old I shouldn't be hobbling around and wincing. Hell, I was in tears on the x-ray table. That was bloody awful.
So... that's what's up. I'm sure I'll have more to say about it... sometime.
*shrugs*
Um. Ok?
"You won't need any kind of surgery," says the surgeon. I breathed for the first time since entering his office, quite possibly.
But... what? There was a lot of long pauses on his end. There was a lot of patience for him to get to the point on mine. Finally he said, "What you've got is Chronic Myofascial Pain Syndrome." Oh.
I had read up a lot about such things when I was in physical therapy last year. I told him so. I asked him if that was like fibromylagia, because the stuff I read about that seemed to fit me to a tee.
No, it's different, he said. Although it's possible I may have both, he said. I'll have to schedule a follow up with my regular doctor, as he does not specialize in things he cannot perform surgery on, he says. Oh. Ok.
I left there feeling like I had an answer finally, but a thousand more questions. I felt happy that I wasn't going to end up in surgery, but sad because there was no magical cure for what was (is) wrong with me. He told me I can expect to live with this for another thirty years or so. It usually fades with old age. Well, that's something, I told him.
No matter what it is, it requires lifestyle changes. And..stuff. Hmm. I don't have much to say about it right now, quite frankly. I'm a bit overwhelmed and freaked out.
I've been reading last night, and off and on since I woke up tweaking out at 4 am this morning. Most of the stuff is like dredging through, but this bit is bearable, if you're curious.
I'm glad to finally have a name to this THING. All these THINGS. All these years I've had doctors throwing me on one medication after another, people not taking my pain seriously, me not taking my pain seriously, and it's only gotten worse. I've gotten to the point that I don't really like going out because sometimes it hurts too badly to walk and it's embarrassing. At thirty two years old I shouldn't be hobbling around and wincing. Hell, I was in tears on the x-ray table. That was bloody awful.
So... that's what's up. I'm sure I'll have more to say about it... sometime.
*shrugs*
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
babies, pregnancy and unworthiness
Last night Jack and I got onto the subject of The B Word and The P Word again. We do this every once in a awhile. Then we talk about how we don't want more children and we talk of vasectomies and I feel sad but relieved.
This time the conversation didn't go that way. This time I was crying. This time I told him that all I ever wanted was to have children, and it's true. It was my dream. Why I decided to breed with one of the planet's biggest assholes is truly beyond me. Why did I think that was a good idea? And will I ever be able to stop hating myself for cursing my son with a father like that? I don't know.
(deep breath) We've been talking around the subject for a few days. We talk about it now and then. The other day I told Jack that I was terrified to have another baby because I fucked up so badly the first time... how could I look my own son in the face, knowing his younger sibling was getting the life and the treatment that he should have gotten, but I was too young and stupid to give that to him? Cue guilt and tears.
Last night I was crying about it again. A show we were watching on TV sparked it. Next thing I knew I was in a puddle of inconsolable guilt and regret and I told Jack about my dream. I told him that having babies was all I ever cared about when I was younger, and that I pictured the family I would make as being full of laughter and joy, but in reality, I had a baby with an alcoholic who had a hidden double life as a coke addict and a whore. My dream was crushed. I was crushed. I went through a depression so dark and bleak that I spent every day terrified at my mind's ability to picture the myriad of ways that I could kill myself and my son. We had to both go, of course. I couldn't leave him to his father. That was a fate worse than death.
Shocked? Some of you already know this about me. Not many. It's true. I needed help, and badly, and I told the Spermdonor that. He ignored me. He went back to the bar. He told me if I cleaned the house I would feel better. When I hear about women who kill themselves and their children, the women who just lose their minds and snap, I am always ashamed. The media and the public cannot understand how they could DO such a thing, but I can. I stood precariously close to that edge and stared into the abyss for over a year.
No one but my son's father knew. And he didn't care. I was too afraid to tell anyone else. I was afraid they would lock me up in a loony bin, where I clearly needed to be, but I couldn't risk my baby being left to his father. Even in the psychotic state I was in, I was too afraid of that. It sounds stupid, I know.
Eventually I found out he was cheating on me, and I snapped. All of that anger I had aimed at myself for being so stupid came out in a torrent of rage, raining down upon his head. I almost killed him. I made him leave the house one night because I was holding the ten inch cast iron skillet and picturing splattering his brains across the wall, and when I looked at him, all I could see was his face and fractals. There was just his head, my target, and everything else was a splintered psychotic hallucination.
Why didn't I do it?
They would take my baby away.
Even if his mother was a psychotic mess, teetering on the edge of complete annihilation, I knew he needed me. I was all he had. I had to hold it together. And so I did.
I left his father as soon as I could and struck out on my own. I didn't do very good, but I did the best I could. I never paid enough attention to my poor baby, but I did what I could. And although I might never forgive myself for what seems to me to be a clearly traumatic childhood, my husband points out that my son didn't know. All he knew was that his mother loved him. He has never had to wonder if I loved him. That's the most important thing, Jack says.
I look at my son, who is a kind hearted softy, a kid who loves babies and animals, and child who chose to stop eating animals because he didn't want to harm another creature ever again, a child who turns blotchy and red and wrings his hands when he's nervous, a child who takes anxiety medication and is all the better for it, a child who is funny and loving and I see my baby. I see the baby I didn't do enough for. The baby I was too stupid to take care of correctly. I see the baby that suffered at my inept hands and could be so much happier today if it weren't for me. How could I do such a thing?
And more so... how could I have another?
It'll be different this time, Jack says. I'm sure. It would be so different I can't even imagine. But... what if it's not?
Cue my paranoia.
What if I just lose it? I won't be able to be on my anxiety medication. And I'll be reliving one of the most traumatic experiences of my life. I didn't realize how traumatic it was, somehow, until last night. But the thought of getting pregnant and having a baby filled me with a sense of terror so utterly complete that I could barely look at Jack. I started to hyperventilate. I was shaking. I haven't stopped yet...
What if Jack suddenly changes into a jerk? What if he cheats on me? What if I have the baby and realize he's an asshole?
What if the sky rained unicorns?
I know they're all concerns without a base in reality. I have no reason to think they could come true... or do I? There is a little voice that whispers the horrible possibilities in the back of my head, and reminds me that I was stupid and naive and how can I possibly trust my own judgment? I KNOW I'm easy to lie to. I believe because I WANT to believe. When Jack says he won't ever leave me I hear him and I believe him, but I also hear the echoes of my son's father making me the same promise, and I hear the echoes of the next boyfriend saying the same thing. I think about my son crying his heart out for his dad when he didn't show up, on so many many occasions, and I think about my son crying himself to sleep when my last boyfriend and I broke up. I think about what he would do if Jack and I split up, and it tears my fucking heart out. Could I risk adding another baby to the mix?
I had nightmares about it all night. I had various dreams all centered around me having more children. In one I was their nanny, but I had my son, too, and I remember sobbing because I was alone. Then their parents announced they had to go on the road for a few months and I cried and cried, horrified at the prospect of trying to hold it together well enough to take care of my son and two other small children while grieving the loss of my relationship with Jack. I felt like I had been sentenced to a prison of emotional and mental torture. I woke up from that and laid awake for a long time. I slept again and dreamed I was in my father's house, and I couldn't manage to make it safe. My son was sleeping in my father's bedroom and I knew people would try to break in. The last part I remember was being outside and trying to drag some kind of heavy chains across the front of the house, but then some big guys were closing in fast and I had to hurry and get away. I couldn't protect my son and my baby if I was dead.
I woke up alone this morning. That never happens. I couldn't believe that I slept through the alarm and my husband getting out of bed. After all the baby talk from the night before, I was feeling fragile and tiny, and I walked down the hall to find Jack jerking off to some porn. I just said, "Oh." I turned around, walked back to the bedroom, covered my head with pillows and started shaking.
Talk about bad timing. All night I dreamed of having children and Jack abandoning me, and I woke up to being alone and Jack looking at porn. Did he not find our conversation last night to be meaningful? Was he just talking shit, or what? How could he talk to me about having children and then waste the next morning with porn? He had to leave to go to work soon! He was just going to let me sleep in? Not talk to me? Did he not realize I was freaking the fuck out? (No.) Instead he just decided to jerk off to some porn?
Obviously, I thought to myself while crying, obviously we are not On The Same Page. Obviously we should not have more children. Obviously we should NEVER have children. Obviously I am not mentally stable enough to have children. Obviously I have issues. Obviously the talk last night was a stupid stupid moronic idea, made clear by the light of day. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I cursed myself for even believing for a second that it could happen. I stopped just short of wishing my uterus would just burst into fucking flames, right on the spot, ridding me of any future stupid ideas. Me and my dreams of having a family. What the hell am I thinking?
Jack came in and was clearly surprised to find me curled up in bed, shaking. We talked. The whole talk was horrible, because I knew he was trying to talk fast because he had to get ready for work. I wanted to smack him. How dare he talk to me about wanting children and stare into my eyes and talk about how beautiful it would be, only to wake up and leave me alone while he looked at porn? I was clearly, CLEARLY distressed last night, I had straight out told him I was terrified and didn't even want to talk about it anymore. When he went to initiate sex I stared at him, horrified. "I can't have sex with you right now!" I told him. "My head is filled with babies! You don't understand! I'll get knocked up in a heartbeat, pill or not! My body was made for making babies. You stay away from me!"
Think I'm kidding? I'm not. It's a cruel joke, I've always thought, that I can be so incredibly fertile and not want babies, when so many of my friends are trying so hard to have them. I've offered to carry their children for them, even. And I would. But to have my gorgeous husband talking baby-making smut in my ear while staring into my eyes and then go have sex? Oh, hell no.
We did have sex. It took awhile, but I calmed down enough for us to have sex. It was GREAT sex. It was mind blowing sex. It was, as I told a friend of mine once, the kind of sex that makes babies.
Afterwards, I sat in the bathroom trying to pee and started to have a nervous breakdown right then and there. I could actually feel my mind starting to fragment, splinter, as my brain tried to disassociate. Pregnancy? No. Shut up, uterus. Die, eggs. Don't you do this to me. It's not worth it. Just shut up right now and don't even THINK about it. I'm not having a baby. I don't CARE what those deep dark pools in my husband's eyes were whispering, I'm not LISTENING. Stop it right now or so help me...
I've had abortions. Plural. In the past. I don't talk about it. Of the few soul searing secrets of my life that I haven't written about, that is the one thing that stays under lock and key. When will I be ready to pull out my own secret demons? I couldn't tell you. Not now. But I will tell you this: I'm sure it contributes to my terror.
And my dream of having lots of children, with a man who loves me and would appreciate his own babies? I feel like... it's pulled from my heart just as violently as an abortion. But. But... maybe it doesn't have to be. Maybe I get a second chance. Would I be brave enough to risk it? Is my love and desire for a family stronger than my fear of it not working out?
I don't know.
I don't have long to think it out, either. I'm thirty two, and experiencing the first signs of menopause approaching. Early, granted, but there you have it. Besides that, the older a woman is, the more likely it is there can be complications. So... what am I going to do, think about it for years?
*sigh*
I wanted children so badly...
At one point last night, while I was crying and relaying my guilt to Jack, I told him of my dream and sobbed into his shoulder. He held me for a few minutes while I cried, then asked, "What is it, baby? What's wrong?"
I looked up into his big beautiful eyes and saw a man who would make a wonderful father. Who IS a wonderful father. I told him, "I feel like... if I let you go through life without getting to experience your OWN children, your own flesh and blood, I would... be doing you... such a disservice. I don't know..." I started sobbing again, then looked up and said, "I'm so sorry."
"For what?" Jack asked me.
"For not waiting for you." And I cried. And he understood.
It's not that I wish my son wasn't born, that's insane. But I wish Jack was his father. Oh, for the love of all that is beautiful, I wish he was Jack's son. But he isn't. I didn't wait for the right man. Instead I went ahead and had a baby, and the emotional toll from that mistake has me terrified to ever have another. Even though I finally met a good man, and he married me, and he wants to have a baby, I don't know if I can do it.
Sometimes I really don't understand how Jack can put up with me. I am such a fucking mess.
This time the conversation didn't go that way. This time I was crying. This time I told him that all I ever wanted was to have children, and it's true. It was my dream. Why I decided to breed with one of the planet's biggest assholes is truly beyond me. Why did I think that was a good idea? And will I ever be able to stop hating myself for cursing my son with a father like that? I don't know.
(deep breath) We've been talking around the subject for a few days. We talk about it now and then. The other day I told Jack that I was terrified to have another baby because I fucked up so badly the first time... how could I look my own son in the face, knowing his younger sibling was getting the life and the treatment that he should have gotten, but I was too young and stupid to give that to him? Cue guilt and tears.
Last night I was crying about it again. A show we were watching on TV sparked it. Next thing I knew I was in a puddle of inconsolable guilt and regret and I told Jack about my dream. I told him that having babies was all I ever cared about when I was younger, and that I pictured the family I would make as being full of laughter and joy, but in reality, I had a baby with an alcoholic who had a hidden double life as a coke addict and a whore. My dream was crushed. I was crushed. I went through a depression so dark and bleak that I spent every day terrified at my mind's ability to picture the myriad of ways that I could kill myself and my son. We had to both go, of course. I couldn't leave him to his father. That was a fate worse than death.
Shocked? Some of you already know this about me. Not many. It's true. I needed help, and badly, and I told the Spermdonor that. He ignored me. He went back to the bar. He told me if I cleaned the house I would feel better. When I hear about women who kill themselves and their children, the women who just lose their minds and snap, I am always ashamed. The media and the public cannot understand how they could DO such a thing, but I can. I stood precariously close to that edge and stared into the abyss for over a year.
No one but my son's father knew. And he didn't care. I was too afraid to tell anyone else. I was afraid they would lock me up in a loony bin, where I clearly needed to be, but I couldn't risk my baby being left to his father. Even in the psychotic state I was in, I was too afraid of that. It sounds stupid, I know.
Eventually I found out he was cheating on me, and I snapped. All of that anger I had aimed at myself for being so stupid came out in a torrent of rage, raining down upon his head. I almost killed him. I made him leave the house one night because I was holding the ten inch cast iron skillet and picturing splattering his brains across the wall, and when I looked at him, all I could see was his face and fractals. There was just his head, my target, and everything else was a splintered psychotic hallucination.
Why didn't I do it?
They would take my baby away.
Even if his mother was a psychotic mess, teetering on the edge of complete annihilation, I knew he needed me. I was all he had. I had to hold it together. And so I did.
I left his father as soon as I could and struck out on my own. I didn't do very good, but I did the best I could. I never paid enough attention to my poor baby, but I did what I could. And although I might never forgive myself for what seems to me to be a clearly traumatic childhood, my husband points out that my son didn't know. All he knew was that his mother loved him. He has never had to wonder if I loved him. That's the most important thing, Jack says.
I look at my son, who is a kind hearted softy, a kid who loves babies and animals, and child who chose to stop eating animals because he didn't want to harm another creature ever again, a child who turns blotchy and red and wrings his hands when he's nervous, a child who takes anxiety medication and is all the better for it, a child who is funny and loving and I see my baby. I see the baby I didn't do enough for. The baby I was too stupid to take care of correctly. I see the baby that suffered at my inept hands and could be so much happier today if it weren't for me. How could I do such a thing?
And more so... how could I have another?
It'll be different this time, Jack says. I'm sure. It would be so different I can't even imagine. But... what if it's not?
Cue my paranoia.
What if I just lose it? I won't be able to be on my anxiety medication. And I'll be reliving one of the most traumatic experiences of my life. I didn't realize how traumatic it was, somehow, until last night. But the thought of getting pregnant and having a baby filled me with a sense of terror so utterly complete that I could barely look at Jack. I started to hyperventilate. I was shaking. I haven't stopped yet...
What if Jack suddenly changes into a jerk? What if he cheats on me? What if I have the baby and realize he's an asshole?
What if the sky rained unicorns?
I know they're all concerns without a base in reality. I have no reason to think they could come true... or do I? There is a little voice that whispers the horrible possibilities in the back of my head, and reminds me that I was stupid and naive and how can I possibly trust my own judgment? I KNOW I'm easy to lie to. I believe because I WANT to believe. When Jack says he won't ever leave me I hear him and I believe him, but I also hear the echoes of my son's father making me the same promise, and I hear the echoes of the next boyfriend saying the same thing. I think about my son crying his heart out for his dad when he didn't show up, on so many many occasions, and I think about my son crying himself to sleep when my last boyfriend and I broke up. I think about what he would do if Jack and I split up, and it tears my fucking heart out. Could I risk adding another baby to the mix?
I had nightmares about it all night. I had various dreams all centered around me having more children. In one I was their nanny, but I had my son, too, and I remember sobbing because I was alone. Then their parents announced they had to go on the road for a few months and I cried and cried, horrified at the prospect of trying to hold it together well enough to take care of my son and two other small children while grieving the loss of my relationship with Jack. I felt like I had been sentenced to a prison of emotional and mental torture. I woke up from that and laid awake for a long time. I slept again and dreamed I was in my father's house, and I couldn't manage to make it safe. My son was sleeping in my father's bedroom and I knew people would try to break in. The last part I remember was being outside and trying to drag some kind of heavy chains across the front of the house, but then some big guys were closing in fast and I had to hurry and get away. I couldn't protect my son and my baby if I was dead.
I woke up alone this morning. That never happens. I couldn't believe that I slept through the alarm and my husband getting out of bed. After all the baby talk from the night before, I was feeling fragile and tiny, and I walked down the hall to find Jack jerking off to some porn. I just said, "Oh." I turned around, walked back to the bedroom, covered my head with pillows and started shaking.
Talk about bad timing. All night I dreamed of having children and Jack abandoning me, and I woke up to being alone and Jack looking at porn. Did he not find our conversation last night to be meaningful? Was he just talking shit, or what? How could he talk to me about having children and then waste the next morning with porn? He had to leave to go to work soon! He was just going to let me sleep in? Not talk to me? Did he not realize I was freaking the fuck out? (No.) Instead he just decided to jerk off to some porn?
Obviously, I thought to myself while crying, obviously we are not On The Same Page. Obviously we should not have more children. Obviously we should NEVER have children. Obviously I am not mentally stable enough to have children. Obviously I have issues. Obviously the talk last night was a stupid stupid moronic idea, made clear by the light of day. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I cursed myself for even believing for a second that it could happen. I stopped just short of wishing my uterus would just burst into fucking flames, right on the spot, ridding me of any future stupid ideas. Me and my dreams of having a family. What the hell am I thinking?
Jack came in and was clearly surprised to find me curled up in bed, shaking. We talked. The whole talk was horrible, because I knew he was trying to talk fast because he had to get ready for work. I wanted to smack him. How dare he talk to me about wanting children and stare into my eyes and talk about how beautiful it would be, only to wake up and leave me alone while he looked at porn? I was clearly, CLEARLY distressed last night, I had straight out told him I was terrified and didn't even want to talk about it anymore. When he went to initiate sex I stared at him, horrified. "I can't have sex with you right now!" I told him. "My head is filled with babies! You don't understand! I'll get knocked up in a heartbeat, pill or not! My body was made for making babies. You stay away from me!"
Think I'm kidding? I'm not. It's a cruel joke, I've always thought, that I can be so incredibly fertile and not want babies, when so many of my friends are trying so hard to have them. I've offered to carry their children for them, even. And I would. But to have my gorgeous husband talking baby-making smut in my ear while staring into my eyes and then go have sex? Oh, hell no.
We did have sex. It took awhile, but I calmed down enough for us to have sex. It was GREAT sex. It was mind blowing sex. It was, as I told a friend of mine once, the kind of sex that makes babies.
Afterwards, I sat in the bathroom trying to pee and started to have a nervous breakdown right then and there. I could actually feel my mind starting to fragment, splinter, as my brain tried to disassociate. Pregnancy? No. Shut up, uterus. Die, eggs. Don't you do this to me. It's not worth it. Just shut up right now and don't even THINK about it. I'm not having a baby. I don't CARE what those deep dark pools in my husband's eyes were whispering, I'm not LISTENING. Stop it right now or so help me...
I've had abortions. Plural. In the past. I don't talk about it. Of the few soul searing secrets of my life that I haven't written about, that is the one thing that stays under lock and key. When will I be ready to pull out my own secret demons? I couldn't tell you. Not now. But I will tell you this: I'm sure it contributes to my terror.
And my dream of having lots of children, with a man who loves me and would appreciate his own babies? I feel like... it's pulled from my heart just as violently as an abortion. But. But... maybe it doesn't have to be. Maybe I get a second chance. Would I be brave enough to risk it? Is my love and desire for a family stronger than my fear of it not working out?
I don't know.
I don't have long to think it out, either. I'm thirty two, and experiencing the first signs of menopause approaching. Early, granted, but there you have it. Besides that, the older a woman is, the more likely it is there can be complications. So... what am I going to do, think about it for years?
*sigh*
I wanted children so badly...
At one point last night, while I was crying and relaying my guilt to Jack, I told him of my dream and sobbed into his shoulder. He held me for a few minutes while I cried, then asked, "What is it, baby? What's wrong?"
I looked up into his big beautiful eyes and saw a man who would make a wonderful father. Who IS a wonderful father. I told him, "I feel like... if I let you go through life without getting to experience your OWN children, your own flesh and blood, I would... be doing you... such a disservice. I don't know..." I started sobbing again, then looked up and said, "I'm so sorry."
"For what?" Jack asked me.
"For not waiting for you." And I cried. And he understood.
It's not that I wish my son wasn't born, that's insane. But I wish Jack was his father. Oh, for the love of all that is beautiful, I wish he was Jack's son. But he isn't. I didn't wait for the right man. Instead I went ahead and had a baby, and the emotional toll from that mistake has me terrified to ever have another. Even though I finally met a good man, and he married me, and he wants to have a baby, I don't know if I can do it.
Sometimes I really don't understand how Jack can put up with me. I am such a fucking mess.
cheers
The way some people choose to celebrate their wedding seems odd to me. What do you hand out as wedding favors with something like that? Miniature shotguns wrapped in tulle?
empathy
All tremble when there is a weapon,
Everyone fears death;
Feeling for others as for oneself,
One should neither kill nor cause to kill.
-Dhammapada
Everyone fears death;
Feeling for others as for oneself,
One should neither kill nor cause to kill.
-Dhammapada
Friday, June 22, 2007
I bred with an idiot
My son's birthday was a month and a half ago. His retarded father called to tell him he was going to send him a hundred bucks and some presents. Lofty promises from someone who never actually delivers. Shockingly, said crap did NOT arrive, but a birthday card postmarked the DAY of my son's birthday did show up a week late.
Today, mere minutes ago, I got this e-mail from his father:
sorry please send adress again. i m an idiot
Literally, I quote, that's all he wrote. A month and a half later. I've been wondering why he didn't pull his usual whiny "Why don't I get a bunch of credit on Father's Day?" bullshit that he's done every year since I stopped bothering. Ah. Guilt. The great demotivator.
I would like to point out that we've lived at the same address for nearly three years now. And I have a phone? Two, to be precise. Three, if you want to count my husband's. So... a month and a half after his kid's birthday, he sends me this... e-mail... to state the obvious, that he is indeed an idiot. Well.
I do believe I'm speechless. Don't worry, it'll pass.
Today, mere minutes ago, I got this e-mail from his father:
sorry please send adress again. i m an idiot
Literally, I quote, that's all he wrote. A month and a half later. I've been wondering why he didn't pull his usual whiny "Why don't I get a bunch of credit on Father's Day?" bullshit that he's done every year since I stopped bothering. Ah. Guilt. The great demotivator.
I would like to point out that we've lived at the same address for nearly three years now. And I have a phone? Two, to be precise. Three, if you want to count my husband's. So... a month and a half after his kid's birthday, he sends me this... e-mail... to state the obvious, that he is indeed an idiot. Well.
I do believe I'm speechless. Don't worry, it'll pass.
Thursday, June 21, 2007
Bitch In A Hole
I went to go see the orthopedist yesterday. I've been dreading the visit because I'm afraid of what they might tell me. I even took some extra Xanax before I went just in case they suggested surgery, I didn't want to burst into tears in front of my son. Gotta keep it cool. Especially in front of the little guy.
As it was, I never got to SEE the doctor. I got there, filled out an hour's worth of paperwork, went back up to the counter and some bitch behind the counter told me that I would have to sign an piece of paper saying I was willing to pay full price for the visit because, "You don't have a referral." She said it with a scowl, and loudly enough for every person in the waiting room to hear her, despite the fact that the tiny hole in the glass between us made almost everything else she said inaudible. The look she gave me was one of contempt, as if she clearly thought I might be better off going to the health department and not wasting her precious time trying to pay for my doctor's visit with food stamps or Monopoly money, or whatever my broke ain't-got-a-referral ass was going to try to pay with.
While relaying this story to my husband, he said, "Did you ask her if they installed that glass AFTER she started working there?" Because, even with it, I imagined myself reaching through the little hole in the glass and wrapping my hand around her thick bitchy throat and giving her a good throttling. I don't know how she could manage to look down on me while she was a good five inches shorter, but she was damn sure trying.
What made her more unbearable was the fact that she was being completely obstinate about telling WHAT, pray tell, this referral might look like, and how I might go about proving that I have one. I explained that my doctor referred me to this doctor, and that much I knew. My doctor's office made the appointment to see THIS doctor. What was it I needed?
She was just a continual blur of self righteous obfuscation. She told me they tried to contact my doctor but couldn't. She told me they called my insurance company and there was no referral. She even smiled shittily at me and said, "Trust me, our girl that does the referral process is GOOD. If there was one, she would know." But she didn't tell me how I would know that. I just had to trust her. Yah, right.
I didn't trust her. When I first came up to the window she waved some paper at me and loudly announced that I would have to sign it to prove I would pay for the visit. I asked her how much the visit was, just in case anything went wrong with the paperwork. I thought it was a logical question. She stared at me and said, "We won't know until you see the doctor." I stared back at her and said, "So, you're telling me that you can't tell me how much my doctor visit will cost until AFTER I see the doctor, but you want me to sign this piece of paper BEFORE I see him to prove that I will pay for the appointment when I have no idea how much it will cost?" I thought, perhaps, if I stated how inane it was she might pick up on it and realize that was something only a stupid person would do. Instead she stared at me and said, "Yes."
The whole time she was standing a good three feet back from the glass, and off to the side, so if she wasn't speaking loud enough for the whole waiting room to hear her I couldn't hear her at all, and I had to move over to the little hole in the glass and stick my ear up to it to hear her speak. I can tell you who is NOT winning Customer Service Award of the Year. It's a bitch in a hole that is getting an imaginary throttling by me, that's who.
She waved the paper at me again and said loudly, "If you want to be seen today, you're going to HAVE to sign this paper." My patience was fading fast, sedatives be damned, and I snapped at her, "Are you going to SHOW me the paper, then?" She was just waving it on the other side of the window, as if I were a rat in a maze and she held the cheese. How bad do you want it, little rat girl? Bad enough to sign this paper? Huh? Huh?
She actually said to me, "I mean, it's up to YOU. You can either sign it and be seen today or reschedule your appointment when you actually HAVE a referral." She paused. "How bad a pain are you in? Can you wait till another appointment?" I just stared at her, totally appalled at her complete and utter bitchiness. She went on, "You can sign it, of course. You're up next. But is it something you're going to lose sleep over? Is signing it going to keep you up at night?"
Where the hell does this bitch get off? Oh. She probably doesn't. Hence the attitude.
I just stared at her, mind racing with the last sentence. Will it keep me up at night? I can barely sleep as it is. THAT paper wasn't going to keep me up at night, however my husband ranting at me about why I let some total bitch bully me by humiliation into signing it would. A million things keep me up at night, but nothing in particular. Mostly pain. Which was the reason I was standing in front of the bitch hole, talking to the bitch behind it. I am indeed in very bad pain, made worse by the weaning off the narcotics. Depending on what the orthopedic specialist tells me, I may very well just end up back on them again, in which case all the suffering through withdrawal would have been pointless and I really want to know what the hell the doctor has to say. I've been stressing about it for weeks, technically months because I've put off going to see a specialist. But to see the specialist, I must somehow get through the hoop this bitch in the hole is holding up, and frankly, she reminds me way too much of Lucy and I feel like Charlie Brown running towards the football that she's holding up. At any moment I'm going to sign the paper and she's going to walk away yelling, "YOU BLOCKHEAD!" Keep me up at night? I got five hours of sleep, max, every night for the last week. That's the bitch of withdrawal, and I'm prone to insomnia anyway. Will this paper keep me up at night? Technically not knowing what it wrong with my hip might, although maybe knowing what is wrong with my hip might be worse, however the pain is definitely keeping me up, not that paper, and all I could do was stare at her in utterly overwhelmed, sleep deprived, withdrawal stricken pain.
"Hand me the paper," I demanded. "I want to read it."
It seemed like the only thing to do. It was that or just stare at her while my mind unraveled right there, ear awkwardly bent over the counter to hear her. She slid the paper through the bottom and I stared at it instead. What did it say? I don't know. I went and sat back down in the waiting room, and when I passed by an older couple I heard the man say, "Poor thing, she really is in pain..." quietly to his wife. I assume he reached that conclusion by the Frankenstein lopsided gait I had while I walked back to my seat. Leaning over the counter to listen to the bitch in the hole had thrown my hip back out. Goddamn her.
I sat there in the corner and stared at the ceiling. I had to stop myself from crying, just from pure pissed off frustration. I was so close to knowing what might be wrong with me, what might need to be done, and the only way I could get through the curtain to see The Wiz was to sign a paper that might cost us thousands of dollars, for all I know. Or come back in a few more weeks. Fuck it.
I hobbled back up to the counter and told the bitch, "I'm rescheduling. This is ridiculous. I don't know why the referral is not complete, but frankly, my doctor has proven to be an ass before and I'm not risking them messing up my paperwork." I added, "Again." They have done it before. I was supposed to see a neurologist about my migraines. That never happened. They were going to call me... Ech, whatever. Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it. Just get me out of here before I say something I'll regret, please. But I wanted her to understand that I wasn't some bag lady who couldn't afford treatment, I'm an intelligent woman who isn't willing to gamble on something that can wait.
While telling this part of the story to my husband he reminded me of the woman who rang me up in Jos. A. Bank last week. I was buying him a shirt to wear to his bosses wedding, and for some reason the woman rudely asked me, "Do you work?" I really didn't know what to say to such a rude question. She's a salesperson, not a friend or even an acquaintance. Do I work? I don't hold a job with a paycheck, if that's what you're asking. Do I take care of my son and my husband and run every errand as if I were both of their personal assistants, down to taking my husband's car in to get the oil changed, fill it up with gas and wash it before I drop it back off at work for him? I work. But no one signs my paycheck. They sign my husband's. Am I a Kept Woman? That was what she was asking. She who had a job, and was selling me a shirt, currently, while working at her job. The job that I could see she clearly resented me not holding, for whatever reason.
My husband said, "You should have just demanded that bitch give you the information you needed. If you rolled up in there and played the whole 'I'm a kept woman' card, you could have. You could have just been like, 'Yes, my husband takes care of all the insurance and paperwork and I'm fine with that. Now why don't you explain to me what this referral is, who it comes from, what it looks like, or let me speak to someone who CAN explain it to me, NOW.' She works behind a desk. Do you understand? It is her JOB to help you, and since she clearly wasn't, you have every right to make a total scene if need be, to make her sour pissed off ass cooperate with you. It's her JOB. If she can't do her job, demand to speak to someone who CAN do her job!"
My computer geek husband is not to be trifled with, not when he's angry. He may be a geek, but he's a six foot one geek who people constantly assume is in the military. We live near a military base, so it's not like it's unusual, but it is strange to me to have women I don't even know sidle up to me and start making chummy "I know just how it is being a military wife" talk. This is a regular occurrence, and I've learned to just roll with it instead of correct them anymore. He's big, and he can be VERY intimidating when he uses that Big Voice, which is the one he was using to describe to me just how I should have put Bitch In A Hole in her place, which was sitting sedately at her desk, hanging on my every word and emanating helpfulness from her very being. The fact that she got me so upset pissed him off. Not at me, but at her. It's frustrating for him when I'm upset about a situation that he feels he could have solved had he been there. *shrugs* It s a common feeling. I get it. For that matter, I wish he was. I was so overwhelmed already, before I got to the door I was trying to suppress my fear at what they might say, that dealing with the Bitch In A Hole just threw me completely off balance.
As it is, the only thing she could have done was
1) not be a total bitch and
2) explain to me how a referral process works
Had she done the latter, at least, I would have known that my dumb doctor did NOT, in fact, call in the referral, and THAT was who I needed to deal with. As it is, I just got done with a ten minute phone call to the doctor's office, where I spoke to a very polite lady who fell all over herself in apologizing and righting the situation personally, while I stayed on the phone. She will fax it, she says, and call to confirm when everything is done, and there will be a copy of said referral at the front counter so I may have a copy of it myself, in hand.
Now that's what I'm talking about.
Granted, it was their screw up in the first place, but still... old Bitch In A Hole could have been more helpful. Or helpful at all, even. Unfortunately for her, she is now on my shit list. If she's there when I go in with my referral, she won't catch me off guard again. And maybe she was just having a bad day... but maybe not. Regardless, if she tries that haughty-assed crap with me again, she WILL be having a very bad day indeed. I just thought I was going to the doctor's office, I didn't realize I was going to play Who Can Be A Bigger Bitchface.
For those of you who have never played Bitch Poker, a Bitch In Pain always trumps a Bitch In A Hole. A hole you can move around in, but pain you cannot escape from, no matter where you go. It's a much stronger motivator. She may have felt like she one the first hand, but she's going to lose the game. I don't have time to help her exercise her stupid ego skills. I came to see a DOCTOR.
Begone, foul bitch in a hole, begone.
As it was, I never got to SEE the doctor. I got there, filled out an hour's worth of paperwork, went back up to the counter and some bitch behind the counter told me that I would have to sign an piece of paper saying I was willing to pay full price for the visit because, "You don't have a referral." She said it with a scowl, and loudly enough for every person in the waiting room to hear her, despite the fact that the tiny hole in the glass between us made almost everything else she said inaudible. The look she gave me was one of contempt, as if she clearly thought I might be better off going to the health department and not wasting her precious time trying to pay for my doctor's visit with food stamps or Monopoly money, or whatever my broke ain't-got-a-referral ass was going to try to pay with.
While relaying this story to my husband, he said, "Did you ask her if they installed that glass AFTER she started working there?" Because, even with it, I imagined myself reaching through the little hole in the glass and wrapping my hand around her thick bitchy throat and giving her a good throttling. I don't know how she could manage to look down on me while she was a good five inches shorter, but she was damn sure trying.
What made her more unbearable was the fact that she was being completely obstinate about telling WHAT, pray tell, this referral might look like, and how I might go about proving that I have one. I explained that my doctor referred me to this doctor, and that much I knew. My doctor's office made the appointment to see THIS doctor. What was it I needed?
She was just a continual blur of self righteous obfuscation. She told me they tried to contact my doctor but couldn't. She told me they called my insurance company and there was no referral. She even smiled shittily at me and said, "Trust me, our girl that does the referral process is GOOD. If there was one, she would know." But she didn't tell me how I would know that. I just had to trust her. Yah, right.
I didn't trust her. When I first came up to the window she waved some paper at me and loudly announced that I would have to sign it to prove I would pay for the visit. I asked her how much the visit was, just in case anything went wrong with the paperwork. I thought it was a logical question. She stared at me and said, "We won't know until you see the doctor." I stared back at her and said, "So, you're telling me that you can't tell me how much my doctor visit will cost until AFTER I see the doctor, but you want me to sign this piece of paper BEFORE I see him to prove that I will pay for the appointment when I have no idea how much it will cost?" I thought, perhaps, if I stated how inane it was she might pick up on it and realize that was something only a stupid person would do. Instead she stared at me and said, "Yes."
The whole time she was standing a good three feet back from the glass, and off to the side, so if she wasn't speaking loud enough for the whole waiting room to hear her I couldn't hear her at all, and I had to move over to the little hole in the glass and stick my ear up to it to hear her speak. I can tell you who is NOT winning Customer Service Award of the Year. It's a bitch in a hole that is getting an imaginary throttling by me, that's who.
She waved the paper at me again and said loudly, "If you want to be seen today, you're going to HAVE to sign this paper." My patience was fading fast, sedatives be damned, and I snapped at her, "Are you going to SHOW me the paper, then?" She was just waving it on the other side of the window, as if I were a rat in a maze and she held the cheese. How bad do you want it, little rat girl? Bad enough to sign this paper? Huh? Huh?
She actually said to me, "I mean, it's up to YOU. You can either sign it and be seen today or reschedule your appointment when you actually HAVE a referral." She paused. "How bad a pain are you in? Can you wait till another appointment?" I just stared at her, totally appalled at her complete and utter bitchiness. She went on, "You can sign it, of course. You're up next. But is it something you're going to lose sleep over? Is signing it going to keep you up at night?"
Where the hell does this bitch get off? Oh. She probably doesn't. Hence the attitude.
I just stared at her, mind racing with the last sentence. Will it keep me up at night? I can barely sleep as it is. THAT paper wasn't going to keep me up at night, however my husband ranting at me about why I let some total bitch bully me by humiliation into signing it would. A million things keep me up at night, but nothing in particular. Mostly pain. Which was the reason I was standing in front of the bitch hole, talking to the bitch behind it. I am indeed in very bad pain, made worse by the weaning off the narcotics. Depending on what the orthopedic specialist tells me, I may very well just end up back on them again, in which case all the suffering through withdrawal would have been pointless and I really want to know what the hell the doctor has to say. I've been stressing about it for weeks, technically months because I've put off going to see a specialist. But to see the specialist, I must somehow get through the hoop this bitch in the hole is holding up, and frankly, she reminds me way too much of Lucy and I feel like Charlie Brown running towards the football that she's holding up. At any moment I'm going to sign the paper and she's going to walk away yelling, "YOU BLOCKHEAD!" Keep me up at night? I got five hours of sleep, max, every night for the last week. That's the bitch of withdrawal, and I'm prone to insomnia anyway. Will this paper keep me up at night? Technically not knowing what it wrong with my hip might, although maybe knowing what is wrong with my hip might be worse, however the pain is definitely keeping me up, not that paper, and all I could do was stare at her in utterly overwhelmed, sleep deprived, withdrawal stricken pain.
"Hand me the paper," I demanded. "I want to read it."
It seemed like the only thing to do. It was that or just stare at her while my mind unraveled right there, ear awkwardly bent over the counter to hear her. She slid the paper through the bottom and I stared at it instead. What did it say? I don't know. I went and sat back down in the waiting room, and when I passed by an older couple I heard the man say, "Poor thing, she really is in pain..." quietly to his wife. I assume he reached that conclusion by the Frankenstein lopsided gait I had while I walked back to my seat. Leaning over the counter to listen to the bitch in the hole had thrown my hip back out. Goddamn her.
I sat there in the corner and stared at the ceiling. I had to stop myself from crying, just from pure pissed off frustration. I was so close to knowing what might be wrong with me, what might need to be done, and the only way I could get through the curtain to see The Wiz was to sign a paper that might cost us thousands of dollars, for all I know. Or come back in a few more weeks. Fuck it.
I hobbled back up to the counter and told the bitch, "I'm rescheduling. This is ridiculous. I don't know why the referral is not complete, but frankly, my doctor has proven to be an ass before and I'm not risking them messing up my paperwork." I added, "Again." They have done it before. I was supposed to see a neurologist about my migraines. That never happened. They were going to call me... Ech, whatever. Fuck it, fuck it, fuck it. Just get me out of here before I say something I'll regret, please. But I wanted her to understand that I wasn't some bag lady who couldn't afford treatment, I'm an intelligent woman who isn't willing to gamble on something that can wait.
While telling this part of the story to my husband he reminded me of the woman who rang me up in Jos. A. Bank last week. I was buying him a shirt to wear to his bosses wedding, and for some reason the woman rudely asked me, "Do you work?" I really didn't know what to say to such a rude question. She's a salesperson, not a friend or even an acquaintance. Do I work? I don't hold a job with a paycheck, if that's what you're asking. Do I take care of my son and my husband and run every errand as if I were both of their personal assistants, down to taking my husband's car in to get the oil changed, fill it up with gas and wash it before I drop it back off at work for him? I work. But no one signs my paycheck. They sign my husband's. Am I a Kept Woman? That was what she was asking. She who had a job, and was selling me a shirt, currently, while working at her job. The job that I could see she clearly resented me not holding, for whatever reason.
My husband said, "You should have just demanded that bitch give you the information you needed. If you rolled up in there and played the whole 'I'm a kept woman' card, you could have. You could have just been like, 'Yes, my husband takes care of all the insurance and paperwork and I'm fine with that. Now why don't you explain to me what this referral is, who it comes from, what it looks like, or let me speak to someone who CAN explain it to me, NOW.' She works behind a desk. Do you understand? It is her JOB to help you, and since she clearly wasn't, you have every right to make a total scene if need be, to make her sour pissed off ass cooperate with you. It's her JOB. If she can't do her job, demand to speak to someone who CAN do her job!"
My computer geek husband is not to be trifled with, not when he's angry. He may be a geek, but he's a six foot one geek who people constantly assume is in the military. We live near a military base, so it's not like it's unusual, but it is strange to me to have women I don't even know sidle up to me and start making chummy "I know just how it is being a military wife" talk. This is a regular occurrence, and I've learned to just roll with it instead of correct them anymore. He's big, and he can be VERY intimidating when he uses that Big Voice, which is the one he was using to describe to me just how I should have put Bitch In A Hole in her place, which was sitting sedately at her desk, hanging on my every word and emanating helpfulness from her very being. The fact that she got me so upset pissed him off. Not at me, but at her. It's frustrating for him when I'm upset about a situation that he feels he could have solved had he been there. *shrugs* It s a common feeling. I get it. For that matter, I wish he was. I was so overwhelmed already, before I got to the door I was trying to suppress my fear at what they might say, that dealing with the Bitch In A Hole just threw me completely off balance.
As it is, the only thing she could have done was
1) not be a total bitch and
2) explain to me how a referral process works
Had she done the latter, at least, I would have known that my dumb doctor did NOT, in fact, call in the referral, and THAT was who I needed to deal with. As it is, I just got done with a ten minute phone call to the doctor's office, where I spoke to a very polite lady who fell all over herself in apologizing and righting the situation personally, while I stayed on the phone. She will fax it, she says, and call to confirm when everything is done, and there will be a copy of said referral at the front counter so I may have a copy of it myself, in hand.
Now that's what I'm talking about.
Granted, it was their screw up in the first place, but still... old Bitch In A Hole could have been more helpful. Or helpful at all, even. Unfortunately for her, she is now on my shit list. If she's there when I go in with my referral, she won't catch me off guard again. And maybe she was just having a bad day... but maybe not. Regardless, if she tries that haughty-assed crap with me again, she WILL be having a very bad day indeed. I just thought I was going to the doctor's office, I didn't realize I was going to play Who Can Be A Bigger Bitchface.
For those of you who have never played Bitch Poker, a Bitch In Pain always trumps a Bitch In A Hole. A hole you can move around in, but pain you cannot escape from, no matter where you go. It's a much stronger motivator. She may have felt like she one the first hand, but she's going to lose the game. I don't have time to help her exercise her stupid ego skills. I came to see a DOCTOR.
Begone, foul bitch in a hole, begone.
Tuesday, June 19, 2007
the perception of pain
I just tried to paint my toenails. It didn't turn out very well. As a matter of fact, it rather looks like a crackhead did it. And frankly, I feel like that's not so far from the truth. I'm no crackhead, mind you. But I am suffering from withdrawal. And truth be told, it's fucking miserable, but worse than that, for a vain bitch like me, it's embarrassing.
(Photograph property of © 2002 Purdue Pharma L.P.)
For about eight months of the past year, I've been taking Darvocet, a painkiller. As far as painkillers go, it's one of the weaker ones. I started taking it in September of last year, I think. I was going through physical therapy for my back and neck, and the therapy itself was excruciating, but the exercises I had to do to strengthen the muscles was unbearable. When I told my doctor that I couldn't do the exercises because of the pain, he put me on Skelaxin, a muscle relaxer, and Darvocet.
My husband points out that I have a legitimate reason for taking the medication, but that really doesn't make me feel better about it. The only thing that's really going to make me feel any better is not being addicted to it, which I am.
I've been slowly weaning myself, like the doctor told me to. I cut the amount by a quarter, felt like I could die and waited it out for a few weeks till the feeling passed. Then I cut it in quarters again. Same thing. I'm down to taking three to four little slivers of it a day (I chopped them into little pieces) just enough to keep from a total withdrawal tailspin, but it still sucks. I want to be DONE. I want my body to figure out how to deal with pain on it's own again, and not feel like a pitiful slave to a stupid pink pill.
I shook the bottle of slivered up pills at my husband last night and said, "Look! I've been weaning myself off of these damn things for months! I've been working on this same bottle for TWO MONTHS already!" He gently took it out of my hand and said, "And THAT is what makes you different than the guy on the street, the one that is buying them from quacks and faking prescriptions to get his hands on it. You're not THAT KIND of person, Jill. You had a legitimate reason to take it and you're working hard to get off of them."
But I FEEL like that kind of person, I tell him. It doesn't seem to matter if I had a good reason or how hard I'm working on getting rid of it, I still feel like the thing that I am: an addict. "When I'm laying on the living room floor and hot and cold and my entire body hurts so badly that I don't even want to walk the ten feet to the kitchen to take more of the damn drug that I know will ease my suffering, that's fucking pitiful," I said. That was exactly what happened last night. I started to cry.
"The thing is..." I paused for breath, completely humiliated, "the thing is... I never thought I would get addicted to them! I know it sounds stupid, the doctor even told me I would. He told me how hard it would be to get off of them. But I didn't believe him. I just didn't. I thought I was stronger than all that and I just didn't believe him." I sobbed for a moment. "I feel so stupid. I feel so weak. I just... I feel like a total pussy." I lowered my head and went on, "I take this stupid little tiny sliver of a pill, and magically I feel better. It's just so fucking stupid."
He tried to talk some logic into me, and I tried to nod and be agreeable, but when I'm in that state it's really hard to feel anything but miserable. I know it will be over, but it won't be over soon enough. And my other option is cold turkey, which I tried with the damn muscle relaxers and felt like I would die. I would lie in bed, feeling whole parts of my body clench up and refuse to let go, so painfully that I couldn't be touched. I went back to weaning myself instead.
Comparatively, this morning my husband came and laid his stubbly face on my bare chest before I got out of bed. Every single stubble on his chin felt like needles, and I already felt like someone was playing some kind of homicidal maniac banjo music on every nerve cell in my body. He was being so cute, too, which just made it somehow more miserable. I couldn't join him in what was Happy Fun Time. He was singing some song about "C is for Cookie!" like the Cookie Monster from Sesame Street. He was smiling and laughing, and all I could do was weakly flop back and forth and groan in misery. My attempt at a smile was probably pathetic, but I tried. I love it when he's silly. It cheers me up to no end, even if it doesn't seem like it. I like to know that at least HE is ok. One less thing for me to worry about, because I don't have the energy to devote to taking care of anything. I will do it anyway because I have to, but it's like that guy who pushes the boulder up the mountain every day. Maintaining a positive outlook on life is damn difficult when everything hurts.
But I've learned something. Like all of those crappy lessons that you learn while attending the school of hard knocks, it teaches you something about your fellow humans: compassion. Where once I had no sense of sympathy for the morons who whined about being addicted to pain pills, I get it now, loud and clear. It's not just some whiny little thing you tough out, it's so much worse than I ever imagined I feel shitty for admitting I ever judged them so harshly.
As I told my husband, "I thought it would be like quitting smoking. I just smoked, realized it was stupid, decided to quit and Bob's your uncle. It sucked, sure, but whatever. I was irritated and pissy and it all passed in a few weeks. But THIS, THIS is horrible." Granted, there were only brief times that I was ever a heavy smoker, but it was a fairly constant habit for fifteen years, minus my pregnancy with my son. Even then it didn't seem so hard, because what was the alternative? Smoke while pregnant? Hell no. I did dream I was smoking a lot, though. That sucked. But quitting smoking was a walk in the freaking park compared to a narcotic addiction. I'm a smart girl. Why didn't I foresee that?
Why didn't I foresee a lot of the stupid things I've done that were only obvious in retrospect? Or from someone else's shoes? Does it really matter to answer the question?
Currently, I say no. Currently, I can't remember if I took my little sliver of Darvocet since this morning, either, so I don't want to take one despite my general feeling of overall wretchedness. Maybe I didn't. But what if I did? I'll be one sliver farther away from achieving my goal. And so I wait. I wait until it's so unbearable I just can't take it anymore, or at least, can't function. Then I reach for the damn bottle.
Until then, I'll be here, looking at my stupidly painted pink toes and thanking the heavens for whoever invented press on nails and spell check. And occasionally I will think about THOSE people, out there somewhere, suffering along with me, for legitimate reasons or not...and I'll feel a flood of sympathy instead of self righteousness. Because no matter the reason they started doing them, quitting narcotics fucking BLOWS. And I literally feel their pain.
(Photo from Time magazine's article on holistic health.)
(Photograph property of © 2002 Purdue Pharma L.P.)
For about eight months of the past year, I've been taking Darvocet, a painkiller. As far as painkillers go, it's one of the weaker ones. I started taking it in September of last year, I think. I was going through physical therapy for my back and neck, and the therapy itself was excruciating, but the exercises I had to do to strengthen the muscles was unbearable. When I told my doctor that I couldn't do the exercises because of the pain, he put me on Skelaxin, a muscle relaxer, and Darvocet.
My husband points out that I have a legitimate reason for taking the medication, but that really doesn't make me feel better about it. The only thing that's really going to make me feel any better is not being addicted to it, which I am.
I've been slowly weaning myself, like the doctor told me to. I cut the amount by a quarter, felt like I could die and waited it out for a few weeks till the feeling passed. Then I cut it in quarters again. Same thing. I'm down to taking three to four little slivers of it a day (I chopped them into little pieces) just enough to keep from a total withdrawal tailspin, but it still sucks. I want to be DONE. I want my body to figure out how to deal with pain on it's own again, and not feel like a pitiful slave to a stupid pink pill.
I shook the bottle of slivered up pills at my husband last night and said, "Look! I've been weaning myself off of these damn things for months! I've been working on this same bottle for TWO MONTHS already!" He gently took it out of my hand and said, "And THAT is what makes you different than the guy on the street, the one that is buying them from quacks and faking prescriptions to get his hands on it. You're not THAT KIND of person, Jill. You had a legitimate reason to take it and you're working hard to get off of them."
But I FEEL like that kind of person, I tell him. It doesn't seem to matter if I had a good reason or how hard I'm working on getting rid of it, I still feel like the thing that I am: an addict. "When I'm laying on the living room floor and hot and cold and my entire body hurts so badly that I don't even want to walk the ten feet to the kitchen to take more of the damn drug that I know will ease my suffering, that's fucking pitiful," I said. That was exactly what happened last night. I started to cry.
"The thing is..." I paused for breath, completely humiliated, "the thing is... I never thought I would get addicted to them! I know it sounds stupid, the doctor even told me I would. He told me how hard it would be to get off of them. But I didn't believe him. I just didn't. I thought I was stronger than all that and I just didn't believe him." I sobbed for a moment. "I feel so stupid. I feel so weak. I just... I feel like a total pussy." I lowered my head and went on, "I take this stupid little tiny sliver of a pill, and magically I feel better. It's just so fucking stupid."
He tried to talk some logic into me, and I tried to nod and be agreeable, but when I'm in that state it's really hard to feel anything but miserable. I know it will be over, but it won't be over soon enough. And my other option is cold turkey, which I tried with the damn muscle relaxers and felt like I would die. I would lie in bed, feeling whole parts of my body clench up and refuse to let go, so painfully that I couldn't be touched. I went back to weaning myself instead.
Comparatively, this morning my husband came and laid his stubbly face on my bare chest before I got out of bed. Every single stubble on his chin felt like needles, and I already felt like someone was playing some kind of homicidal maniac banjo music on every nerve cell in my body. He was being so cute, too, which just made it somehow more miserable. I couldn't join him in what was Happy Fun Time. He was singing some song about "C is for Cookie!" like the Cookie Monster from Sesame Street. He was smiling and laughing, and all I could do was weakly flop back and forth and groan in misery. My attempt at a smile was probably pathetic, but I tried. I love it when he's silly. It cheers me up to no end, even if it doesn't seem like it. I like to know that at least HE is ok. One less thing for me to worry about, because I don't have the energy to devote to taking care of anything. I will do it anyway because I have to, but it's like that guy who pushes the boulder up the mountain every day. Maintaining a positive outlook on life is damn difficult when everything hurts.
But I've learned something. Like all of those crappy lessons that you learn while attending the school of hard knocks, it teaches you something about your fellow humans: compassion. Where once I had no sense of sympathy for the morons who whined about being addicted to pain pills, I get it now, loud and clear. It's not just some whiny little thing you tough out, it's so much worse than I ever imagined I feel shitty for admitting I ever judged them so harshly.
As I told my husband, "I thought it would be like quitting smoking. I just smoked, realized it was stupid, decided to quit and Bob's your uncle. It sucked, sure, but whatever. I was irritated and pissy and it all passed in a few weeks. But THIS, THIS is horrible." Granted, there were only brief times that I was ever a heavy smoker, but it was a fairly constant habit for fifteen years, minus my pregnancy with my son. Even then it didn't seem so hard, because what was the alternative? Smoke while pregnant? Hell no. I did dream I was smoking a lot, though. That sucked. But quitting smoking was a walk in the freaking park compared to a narcotic addiction. I'm a smart girl. Why didn't I foresee that?
Why didn't I foresee a lot of the stupid things I've done that were only obvious in retrospect? Or from someone else's shoes? Does it really matter to answer the question?
Currently, I say no. Currently, I can't remember if I took my little sliver of Darvocet since this morning, either, so I don't want to take one despite my general feeling of overall wretchedness. Maybe I didn't. But what if I did? I'll be one sliver farther away from achieving my goal. And so I wait. I wait until it's so unbearable I just can't take it anymore, or at least, can't function. Then I reach for the damn bottle.
Until then, I'll be here, looking at my stupidly painted pink toes and thanking the heavens for whoever invented press on nails and spell check. And occasionally I will think about THOSE people, out there somewhere, suffering along with me, for legitimate reasons or not...and I'll feel a flood of sympathy instead of self righteousness. Because no matter the reason they started doing them, quitting narcotics fucking BLOWS. And I literally feel their pain.
(Photo from Time magazine's article on holistic health.)
puzzling atwork indeed
A friend of mine was telling me that he saw some glued together puzzles, in frames, in a second hand store. I started to laugh. Who does that? And why?
My ex-shrink had them all over her office. 3-D puzzles that presumably she had put together, just sitting out as if they were artwork or something. Because she had one crooked eye, I always wondered if maybe she had them out because she was really proud that she could put them together. I imagine having a deficiency in your eyesight having to do with depth perception would make a 3-D puzzle pretty darn difficult. But a puzzle as artwork?
As my friend pointed out, "I could understand if the picture on them was really beautiful or something, but wouldn't you just, I don't know, get the picture itself and frame it? Why put together a puzzle of it, glue it, and put it on your wall?"
I agreed. "Having a glued together puzzle in a frame is right on the same level as having a velvet Elvis. Or... maybe a black light poster. But... still. Those both imply that maybe you like, do drugs or something. A glued together puzzle in a frame implies that maybe you wear a helmet. Like, all the time."
I could see if it was something sentimental. Maybe a puzzle you did with someone who passed away, or the first one your child managed to put together. But as my friend pointed out, "Yeah, ok, but who actually RE-SELLS them? I mean, who goes into a second hand store and BUYS a glued together puzzle in a frame?"
Frankly, I can't imagine. Of all the strange things people collect, are there people who collect thrift store glued together puzzles, I wonder? I bet...somewhere there are.
My ex-shrink had them all over her office. 3-D puzzles that presumably she had put together, just sitting out as if they were artwork or something. Because she had one crooked eye, I always wondered if maybe she had them out because she was really proud that she could put them together. I imagine having a deficiency in your eyesight having to do with depth perception would make a 3-D puzzle pretty darn difficult. But a puzzle as artwork?
As my friend pointed out, "I could understand if the picture on them was really beautiful or something, but wouldn't you just, I don't know, get the picture itself and frame it? Why put together a puzzle of it, glue it, and put it on your wall?"
I agreed. "Having a glued together puzzle in a frame is right on the same level as having a velvet Elvis. Or... maybe a black light poster. But... still. Those both imply that maybe you like, do drugs or something. A glued together puzzle in a frame implies that maybe you wear a helmet. Like, all the time."
I could see if it was something sentimental. Maybe a puzzle you did with someone who passed away, or the first one your child managed to put together. But as my friend pointed out, "Yeah, ok, but who actually RE-SELLS them? I mean, who goes into a second hand store and BUYS a glued together puzzle in a frame?"
Frankly, I can't imagine. Of all the strange things people collect, are there people who collect thrift store glued together puzzles, I wonder? I bet...somewhere there are.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Happy Fathers Day: Come See Me When I'm Dead
Father's Day came and went. There was no big huzzah, there was some stress, and there was some more stress, and there were a few tender moments. There were tears (mine). I must say, at least this year there was no mention of the trees in Japan. Instead, my father mentioned how I said I was going to come visit, but he hasn't heard from me since then, and I did an adept dance avoiding the reason of why that might be. The fact is, I can't remember the last time I talked to my dad. He's so damn depressing.
This time he asked me, "How are you?" to which I answered, "Oh, pretty good..." He immediately started going off about how NOT good he is, how he needs some eye surgery and he has diabetes and the horrible tests the hospital did for that, how he doesn't understand how the hell he could have diabetes since he only has sugar in his coffee, he refused to listen to anything I had to say about the working of simple carbohydrates and insulin, he told me he didn't even know he HAD a pancreas, much less what it was good for except that his was no good anymore, he told me about how the doctors keep cutting off various parts of his skin because of skin cancer and how he wishes they would give him chemotherapy instead because, "it's a great way to lose weight", he told me about telling the doctors to go to hell about his diet and his eye surgery, how he's too old to bother, and ended the conversation with the mention that the last time he heard from me I told him I was coming up to visit but not to bother, he jovially added, "The next time you come up will be for my funeral! Just come see me when I'm dead."
Oh ha ha, Dad, you really are such a card.
I called my step dad next. I haven't spoken to him since before Christmas, when there was a pile of drama between us. Ugh. But as I pointed out to him, I still talk to him more often than my "real" dad. The conversation went well. I felt better. At least I have a dad who doesn't constantly remind me of his impending death at every opportunity, since I was a small child. We all die. I know. Trust me, I know, I know, I know.
Later I called my grandpa to wish him a happy father's day and got my grandma on the phone first. She tried to sound upbeat but couldn't keep it going for long, telling me she was going to the casino on Tuesday and my mom was coming to watch my grandpa because he can't be left alone anymore. She said something about his state of health, or lack thereof, and mentioned vaguely how she just couldn't take much more of it. Meaning, she didn't WANT him to die, but she knows it will happen and she's so stressed out that she's coming to terms with it. She then put my grandpa on the phone, who was the most coherent I've heard in a long time. He told me tales of going to the dentist and military stuff and we shared some good laughs, and then he hung up. I laid on the bed and cried for awhile.
The majority of my day was spent trying to keep my son quietly occupied while I helped my husband hammer out a project he's been trying to finish at work. It's been stressing him out so freaking much that I can't honestly say I enjoy his arrival home lately. I love him, oh yes I do, but I would like the surly and jumpy jerk that replaced my husband to take a fucking hike and bring back my real husband, thank you very much. I stayed up till midnight helping him, and he still wasn't finished. I wonder, if he comes home today and it's still not finished, will I just freak the fuck out and lose it? Because, honestly, I've been walking on eggshells around the man for over a week now, and it's infuriating when there's nothing I can do. Worse, he told me he wanted me to help him, but every time I tried he brushed it off saying he was too stressed out. What that means is that he was too stressed out to deal with it so he just kept procrastinating. Knowing that full well, he never "relaxed", he just became more and more pissy all week and my patience is gone daddy gone. It's not that I'm not a high maintenance pain in the ass, it's just that if the situation were reversed the same patience would not be extended my way. But it's that or just fight continually, so how is that a choice?
We gave him his father's day gifts at dinner, a very later dinner indeed, at 9 pm. I then stayed up past midnight helping him, and felt emotional enough about the various conversations I had with the male members of my family, I really wanted some emotional support myself. Nope. We fell asleep, exhausted.
Earlier in the day I had asked my son if he wanted to call his biological dad to wish him a happy father's day and he said, "No. If he wants to call me he can." I explained that his dad wants him to call HIM on father's day and my son started to talk about the birthday presents he didn't get. Now, it's not that my son is being greedy, it's that his dad (who is ever NON present in his life) called him on his birthday and told him he was going to send him a card, a hundred bucks, and a pile of presents. My son finally got the birthday card, which was postmarked ON his birthday, I noticed. The rest of his dad's usual bullshit promises never arrived, and as usual, he hasn't heard from him since.
Of all the things that happened on father's day, the one thing that strikes me as odd was my dad's invitation to come see him when he's dead. The last time I talked to him he told me to not come up to his funeral. "I'll be dead, it's not like I'll give a damn."
Maybe he changed his mind.
Ugh.
This time he asked me, "How are you?" to which I answered, "Oh, pretty good..." He immediately started going off about how NOT good he is, how he needs some eye surgery and he has diabetes and the horrible tests the hospital did for that, how he doesn't understand how the hell he could have diabetes since he only has sugar in his coffee, he refused to listen to anything I had to say about the working of simple carbohydrates and insulin, he told me he didn't even know he HAD a pancreas, much less what it was good for except that his was no good anymore, he told me about how the doctors keep cutting off various parts of his skin because of skin cancer and how he wishes they would give him chemotherapy instead because, "it's a great way to lose weight", he told me about telling the doctors to go to hell about his diet and his eye surgery, how he's too old to bother, and ended the conversation with the mention that the last time he heard from me I told him I was coming up to visit but not to bother, he jovially added, "The next time you come up will be for my funeral! Just come see me when I'm dead."
Oh ha ha, Dad, you really are such a card.
I called my step dad next. I haven't spoken to him since before Christmas, when there was a pile of drama between us. Ugh. But as I pointed out to him, I still talk to him more often than my "real" dad. The conversation went well. I felt better. At least I have a dad who doesn't constantly remind me of his impending death at every opportunity, since I was a small child. We all die. I know. Trust me, I know, I know, I know.
Later I called my grandpa to wish him a happy father's day and got my grandma on the phone first. She tried to sound upbeat but couldn't keep it going for long, telling me she was going to the casino on Tuesday and my mom was coming to watch my grandpa because he can't be left alone anymore. She said something about his state of health, or lack thereof, and mentioned vaguely how she just couldn't take much more of it. Meaning, she didn't WANT him to die, but she knows it will happen and she's so stressed out that she's coming to terms with it. She then put my grandpa on the phone, who was the most coherent I've heard in a long time. He told me tales of going to the dentist and military stuff and we shared some good laughs, and then he hung up. I laid on the bed and cried for awhile.
The majority of my day was spent trying to keep my son quietly occupied while I helped my husband hammer out a project he's been trying to finish at work. It's been stressing him out so freaking much that I can't honestly say I enjoy his arrival home lately. I love him, oh yes I do, but I would like the surly and jumpy jerk that replaced my husband to take a fucking hike and bring back my real husband, thank you very much. I stayed up till midnight helping him, and he still wasn't finished. I wonder, if he comes home today and it's still not finished, will I just freak the fuck out and lose it? Because, honestly, I've been walking on eggshells around the man for over a week now, and it's infuriating when there's nothing I can do. Worse, he told me he wanted me to help him, but every time I tried he brushed it off saying he was too stressed out. What that means is that he was too stressed out to deal with it so he just kept procrastinating. Knowing that full well, he never "relaxed", he just became more and more pissy all week and my patience is gone daddy gone. It's not that I'm not a high maintenance pain in the ass, it's just that if the situation were reversed the same patience would not be extended my way. But it's that or just fight continually, so how is that a choice?
We gave him his father's day gifts at dinner, a very later dinner indeed, at 9 pm. I then stayed up past midnight helping him, and felt emotional enough about the various conversations I had with the male members of my family, I really wanted some emotional support myself. Nope. We fell asleep, exhausted.
Earlier in the day I had asked my son if he wanted to call his biological dad to wish him a happy father's day and he said, "No. If he wants to call me he can." I explained that his dad wants him to call HIM on father's day and my son started to talk about the birthday presents he didn't get. Now, it's not that my son is being greedy, it's that his dad (who is ever NON present in his life) called him on his birthday and told him he was going to send him a card, a hundred bucks, and a pile of presents. My son finally got the birthday card, which was postmarked ON his birthday, I noticed. The rest of his dad's usual bullshit promises never arrived, and as usual, he hasn't heard from him since.
Of all the things that happened on father's day, the one thing that strikes me as odd was my dad's invitation to come see him when he's dead. The last time I talked to him he told me to not come up to his funeral. "I'll be dead, it's not like I'll give a damn."
Maybe he changed his mind.
Ugh.
I love it when you suck
I remember the glorious day I bought my beloved Hoover. The upright canister, the HEPA filter, the undeniable three hundred and fifty dollar declaration of death upon all things of or pertaining to The Dust Mite. My stupid and short sighted boyfriend laughed at me, spending hundreds of dollars on something to CLEAN with, while he sat in his wretched little room with overflowing ashtrays and mostly empty rank beer bottles. Looking back, it may just have been his total filth that drove me over the edge. I had been bad before. I had to quit smoking pot when I was nineteen because I would mostly spend my time kneeling on my kitchen tiles with a toothbrush and a bottle of bleach, industriously scrubbing the grout clean. My friends said something has got to go. Deciding between the bleach or the weed, that was a no brainer. My love for bleach has only grown with time.
But my darling vacuum... well, it's started to spit dust. That, in and of itself, is clearly an act of blasphemy. It is the very antithesis of it's purpose. But as long as I didn't pull the handle at a certain angle while cleaning, I could get it to behave. Mostly. I still found it distressing.
Then, this morning. I was happily vacuuming away, bopping along to the sound of a million tiny dust mites screaming in terror, when I smelled what can only be described as Imminent Electrical Meltdown. I rather hurriedly finished the bedroom and turned it off. One would think that turning it off before it burst into flames might have been a better idea, however that person would not share my feelings about cleanliness (If A Fire Extinguisher Is Required, So Be It).
Now it sits in the hallway, until I feel the powers of reassembly take over me. I've done it before, when something or other was wrong with it. It came with a silly guide, one that claims if anything more than a new belt is required, one must Take It To A Person Who Charges You Because You Are Lazy And/Or Incompetent. I just googled the assembly manual and took that thing down to nuts and bolts. The boyfriend of previously mentioned filth and vacuum purchase demoralizing came in to laugh at my progress, but I managed to put it back together while simultaneously reminding him that I did manage to take apart and reassemble a lawn mower engine while in auto shop class in high school, thank you very much, and remind him that he couldn't find his own ass with both hands much less fix a household appliance.
So now it shall be done again, it seems. It's that or the other option, which I don't much care for, although the dust mites secretly hope for:
Thursday, June 14, 2007
MySpace fun:
Sometimes I like to just flip through people's profiles to see how many of them have issues about television. Particularly, those that write things like, "Kill Your TV" or "TV is stupid" and then follow it with a list of their favorite shows.
They may as well write, "I want you to see me as an intelligent person, despite the fact that I do enjoy these TV shows".
It's especially amusing when they have some negative thing to say about how stupid TV is, then list some of the most moronic shows available as their favorites.
Give TV a break. Sure, it can be a source of immense evil, but there's a lot of really great stuff on there, too. We all know how smart you are. So stop being a dork, ok?
They may as well write, "I want you to see me as an intelligent person, despite the fact that I do enjoy these TV shows".
It's especially amusing when they have some negative thing to say about how stupid TV is, then list some of the most moronic shows available as their favorites.
Give TV a break. Sure, it can be a source of immense evil, but there's a lot of really great stuff on there, too. We all know how smart you are. So stop being a dork, ok?
summer fever
I was thinking of making my son a nice mix CD to celebrate the last day of school. You know, some good old school tunes that really exemplify the glorious feeling of summer vacation, especially after suffering through an entire school year with a total bitch for a teacher.
Some thoughts:
Twisted Sister- We're Not Going To Take It
Quiet Riot- Bang Your Head (Metal Health)
The Ramones- Rock N Roll High School
Beastie Boys- Fight For Your Right
Run DMC- You Talk Too Much
And of course the classic song intro would be Stray Cats (She's) Sexy And Seventeen, although I think the rest of the song might leave my ten year old embarrassed:
"Hey , man , I don't feel like goin' to school no more.
Me neither.
They can't make you go.
No, you daddy-o
Yeah!
I ain't goin' to school it starts too early for me
Well listen man I ain't goin' to school no more it starts much, much too early for me..."
As it turned out, the first CD I stuck in on the way to school this morning was Weird Al's Dare To Be Stupid, and we rocked out to the title song on the way. Yah. 'Cause I'm a cool mom. I totally roll like that.
Some thoughts:
Twisted Sister- We're Not Going To Take It
Quiet Riot- Bang Your Head (Metal Health)
The Ramones- Rock N Roll High School
Beastie Boys- Fight For Your Right
Run DMC- You Talk Too Much
And of course the classic song intro would be Stray Cats (She's) Sexy And Seventeen, although I think the rest of the song might leave my ten year old embarrassed:
"Hey , man , I don't feel like goin' to school no more.
Me neither.
They can't make you go.
No, you daddy-o
Yeah!
I ain't goin' to school it starts too early for me
Well listen man I ain't goin' to school no more it starts much, much too early for me..."
As it turned out, the first CD I stuck in on the way to school this morning was Weird Al's Dare To Be Stupid, and we rocked out to the title song on the way. Yah. 'Cause I'm a cool mom. I totally roll like that.
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
just call me iron maiden of the morning
Picture an Iron Maiden. No, no, not the band,
which would be plural, silly, but the Iron Maiden of a slow and painful death (whose actual usage seems to be disputed, but any use would be most unwelcome by the person inside, I'm sure.)
(Image copyright Erik Ruhling, used with permission.)
This was the image I had in my head this morning when I was trying to explain to my husband what it felt like to wake up most mornings. As if the morning itself were an iron maiden, and awakening was a slow realization that this device is my immediate future.
The feeling doesn't last. Once I get up and get moving, really moving, the feeling passes. But for the first hour or two of being awake, all I can think of is how I wish I were not conscious. I do not wish to inhabit my body at this time, thank you very much, please try back later. But I have to get up and move, or the feeling persists.
This morning was pretty rotten. Rotten enough that I started pondering how long I've been in pain. My husband stated that he loves the morning, and every time he wakes up from a good nights sleep in a good bed, he is very excited to start the day. I, on the other hand, also love the morning but I do not feel excited about the day. I feel extreme anxiety. I know that in order to do the things I have to do
(insert They Might Be Giants intoning in my brain, "Memo to myself: do the dumb things I gotta do. Touch the puppet head...")
I have to first get up and get through the pain of loosening up all my stiff joints. Various spasming muscles must be loosened, through various painful methods.
I am weaning myself from the Darvocet the doctors had me on during physical therapy. To know that there is a bottle of painkillers in the cabinet and I'm not just stuffing them down my throat ought to clearly define my dedication to an actual cure, whatever the hell it is, not just medicating the pain away. I must note, when I had my wisdom teeth pulled last week and the doctor gave me Vicodin, I was for a few brief days, really happy. And that makes me terribly sad. I was so cheerful and chipper, because nothing hurt. It was a beautiful vacation from the pain that is my body, but alas, with all highs come the lows, and the first few days off of the Vicodin were so awful I honestly believe a lesser person would have killed themselves. As it was, I had to inform my husband, "Look. I'm not trying to freak you out, but I need you to understand: I'm in pain. I don't mean I'm in pain. I mean, I'm in PAIN, and throwing myself in front of a train seems like a really good idea right now." He freaked. I had to assure him I wasn't going to try to stop a speeding train with a single hand, ala Superman, but just that I needed him to really grasp the severity of my pain. I tend to be stoic. I'm proud. I don't want people to witness how badly I hurt, because pity is pointless. Unless they're willing to massage me, there really isn't anything else they can do. I have to move. I have to keep moving. And therein lies the problem.
I'm so tired.
On bad days it seems like my life is a never ending stream of me dragging my ass out of bed, pushing myself around all day just to ease the pain, only to end the day with pain and an inability to sleep well. Wake, repeat. Wake, repeat. You get the idea.
Jack said, "I think a lot of that is just normal stiffness. I mean, we're in our thirties. It's probably just part of getting older." No, I don't think so. Maybe for him, but I seem to have always been in pain. I wouldn't have even realized it except for being in physical therapy. My therapist asked questions. A lot of questions. Always she was trying to narrow down the problem, the source, the cause, to find a solution. I thought this was all from falling down the stairs, but as we kept working on me month after month, we kept talking, and I kept thinking. Remembering. And I realize: the pain has always been there, I just never really paid attention. I always excused it. I must have hurt myself playing. I rode my bike too long and I'm sore. I fell off my sled. Maybe I pulled my arm while climbing trees. But I do remember my mom giving me hell about eating those little orange flavored baby aspirins, she was afraid I was going to overdose. Baby aspirin? I was young.
I remember getting busted shoplifting when I was about twelve. I remember my mom asking me why in the world I had tried to steal bottles of over the counter sleeping medicines, stimulants and pain medications. I remember telling her that I had trouble sleeping, trouble staying awake during school, and I thought maybe those things could help.
My husband stared at me while I relayed that memory. "WHAT THE HELL? You were actually trying to steal over the counter medications when you were TWELVE? Why didn't your parents take you straight to a doctor?" I shrugged. Who knows? They probably dismissed it as me being weird. I didn't think anything of it, but looking back, I realize that I was always used to the pain being there, so why would I make a big deal out of it?
This was made exceptionally clear to me in the past year when my mother sent me all my old medical records. As I flipped through them, I found one in which she had taken me to the emergency room with a raging urinary tract infection. Basically, I was pissing blood. I had been since the night before, but stayed on the bathroom floor crying as silently as possible in the dark, all night long. When my mom got up and found me, she asked me why in the hell hadn't I woken her UP? I don't know. It didn't occur to me. I thought I should just be quiet and wait. I was sixteen. I have no idea why I didn't think to wake her up, that something wouldn't be seriously wrong with me. So she took me to the hospital, and on the paperwork it says, "Patient is experiencing back pain, but states that it is perfectly normal."
I read that, reread that, and just sat there, shocked. At sixteen years old, I had doctors trying to figure out if the pain I had was the beginning of a kidney infection (which I had later in life), and I told them the pain I was in was NORMAL?! What in the hell? What's wrong with me?
Around the age of twenty three, I developed my first ulcer. I thought it was the stress of suddenly becoming a single mother while trying to get through college, and I'm sure that didn't help, but looking back I realize I had been such a hard core Motrin addict that it ate a freaking hole in my stomach. In the years after, I couldn't shake the ulcer, and still haven't. It comes back, over and over. It does so because I take Motrin, over and over. I try to stick with Tylenol, but sometimes it's just too much. Like when I get migraines.
No, I never have seen a specialist about the migraines. The first one started when I was about twelve, I think. I remember my mom finding me halfway down the stairs, sitting there silently weeping. She asked me what was wrong and I told her my head hurt, really bad. It hurt so bad, in fact, that I only made it halfway down the stairs. I simply stopped there, unable to do anything else. I couldn't even cry because it made my head pound harder.
Small wonder I was stealing medication.
Even before I fell down the stairs, I was occasionally seeing a chiropractor. Occasionally because I had no insurance, and paying out of pocket can put a real damper on trying to get the medical help one needs. Something he said is another clue into my pain mystery. He asked me one day: when had I broken my ankle, what had happened? I just laughed and said, "I never broke my ankle. I've never broken anything. Ever." He then asked me what HAD I done to that ankle, and I said, "Nothing. What are you talking about?" He pointed out that when I laid on my stomach on the table, one ankle laid down flat and the other one was bent, very obviously crooked. He asked me to straighten it, and I couldn't. He asked me again what I had done to it, and I just looked at him mystified. "I have no idea. I don't remember ever hurting my ankle."
A year or two after that was when I fell down the stairs while I was working. A triple somersault on concrete steps, landing head first onto the sidewalk- I was pretty badly hurt. The doctors asked me what happened, and all I could tell them was, "I went to take that first step and it was like my leg just wasn't there." I don't remember feeling it give out on me or anything, I just remember stepping down and my leg didn't respond. I tried to reach for the railing and control my descent, but you'd be amazed at how quickly something like that occurs. I suspect I don't remember much of it because the first somersault had my head crack into one of the steps. I remember seeing it coming towards my face and I tried to curl up and closed my eyes. After that, I remember spinning and flailing and hitting the sidewalk, too stunned to do anything but curl in a fetal position and cry. I heard people running up and asking me if I was ok, but I couldn't open my eyes. I did, after a minute, and managed to sit up, at which point I felt my head and was shocked to realize I had three separate and massive lumps on my head. One of them is still there, years later. One of the helpful people had to point out to me that my arm was gashed up and I was bleeding. I went to an urgent care place. I wish I had gone to the damn hospital. I might have actually gotten some help. The urgent care place took an x-ray of my wrist to make sure it wasn't broken. I told them I wasn't worried about my damn wrist, it was my head and my back that had me concerned. They told me to take some Motrin and go home. Great. Thanks. Very helpful.
Later I realized that the leg that had given out during my fall was the same one that had given out when I was pregnant. I fell over at work, caught myself on a desk and I was fine. I dismissed it because I read that womens hips tend to become loose and disjointed during pregnancy.
I then realized that was also the leg that has the twisted ankle.
And one day in physical therapy, my therapist was working on my neck. She had me scoot to the edge of the table so my neck was hanging over and my head was in her hands. I started crying, just raw instinctual fear, and told her that I do not LIKE to be upside down. It just Freaks Me Out.
Having uncovered quite a bit of physical, emotional, and sexual trauma through the course of therapy, she was already wise enough to ask me, "Jill... why don't you like to be upside down?" God, that voice. That tone. When she knew she had hit on something big, she would ask me a question in that voice and it was like a hot knife in butter, just ripping through any emotional defense system I have. I started bawling, head in her hands, and told her my dad used to hold me upside down by one ankle and tickle my foot. He was six foot four, and I was young, maybe five at the most. I couldn't reach the floor, I couldn't reach him, and I hated, HATED being tickled. Of course I laughed at first because I was a kid, a kid who was getting attention from her emotionally vacant father, but once he started tickling my foot I would howl and scream and cry, wildly thrashing to get out of his grip. That I remember very clearly. At that age, I remember using every bit of my strength in trying to whip myself around hard enough to grab onto anything, anything at all.
What happened to my ankle?
Why does my hip pop out?
Why have I always had back pain?
I think I know.
I recently went to the doctor, having put it off for months since I started piecing the bits together. They x rayed my hip and my ankle. I told the doctor some brief history, mentioning my suspicion about how I messed up my hip. The problem is, it still is wrong. Very, very wrong. When I went into physical therapy, it was because of my neck pain. I thought it was left over from my fall down the stairs. Somehow I just forgot that I've been in pain for so long. It's normal to me. But my neck still hurts, my back still hurts, and I suspect it's because my hip is so messed up that it can't help but continually throw my back out. Sometimes I walk fine, sometimes it feels like one hip is moving in a tight circular motion while the other hip is on a much wider and erratic swing, sometimes not even circular. I end up walking with a weird offset gait.
Which reminds me...
When I was in high school there was this weird kid who was, I'm guessing, some kind of autistic savant type. Really strange, in some ways genius and in other ways, pretty retarded. But I found him bizarrely interesting, which unfortunately seemed to cause him to have a crush on me. He would follow me around a lot. One day in particular he was walking along beside me and staring at my legs. I asked him what he was doing and he said, "It's fascinating! Sometimes I walk along next to people and mimic their stride, just to see what I can learn about them. But yours... yours is impossible to mimic! I've tried, and I can't do it. Why do you walk like that?" I just shook my head and said, "Dude, I have no idea," and thought no more about it until recently.
After a while the doctor came back into the room with the x rays and sat down. She looked at me, silent for too long, and I knew something was not going to be good. I finally said, "Look, out with it! God! What is it?" She said, "Well... you're right. Your hip has... too much space in it. It's looks like it's dislocated, although I'm going to refer you to an orthopedist to let them see it. You need to see a specialist." I looked at her, seeing she was trying to decide how much to say. I prodded her. "So, what happens?" She sighed and said, "Well, the injury is very old. Your body grew and just adapted. This sort of injury, being as old as it was, and you still being in your formative growing years..." She paused. "Physical therapy isn't going to do anything for you. They'll probably suggest surgery, perhaps to stitch the tendons closer together, perhaps shave off parts of the bone that are rubbing up against each other." I just shut down. I know she's right, something has to happen. I know I'll seek second and third opinions if they suggest surgery. But I think part of me knows that there may not be another option, and it's either do something drastic or live my life in pain. I'm thirty two. And this has only gotten worse over the years. At this rate, I'll be unable to walk eventually, and live my life on a morphine drip, or try to chew on the explosive end of a firearm.
That leads me thoughts of my own father. The tickler. The recovering alcoholic. The incredibly jaded and with occasional suicidal tendencies person that quite possibly precipitated this whole deal. He too has severe back problems, and years ago the doctors told him that he should have some surgery on his spine. It would require a torso cast for six months. I'm sure physical therapy after that. My dad said to hell with it, he's old and he didn't want to spend any time in a body cast. Instead he just suffers with it. They prescribe painkillers for him, since he can barely move around, and he refuses to take them. Instead, he just lives his miserable life, enjoying it where he can, but he's been in horrendous pain for at least the last ten years, probably more. I look at him and think, "You dumbass. Why not get the surgery? Shit." I have no intentions of following in his feeble footsteps. I see where that path goes, and it's nowhere good.
Sure, there's plenty he COULD do that might ease his pain but I doubt he does it. Where did I get this stoic bullshit attitude from? Look no further.
So, that's where I'm at right now. I have appointments with the orthopedist twice in the coming weeks, and maybe I'll know more then. As far as what caused my condition, well, I'll never really know, I can only speculate that I know the cause, and it makes me sad but it's not like he meant to hurt me. In fact, I don't even intend to let him find out; what good would it do? Life has been an endless punishment for him because he chooses to let it be, I have no desire to add to it. All I can really affect is me. And my life is the one I'm in control of, although it sure doesn't feel like I can control this shell I walk around in very much. *sigh*
I'll see what can be done, decide what to do, and do it.
Sure, I could be a lot worse off and maybe I should even be glad that this is all I have to suffer with, but I'm me and it's a low grade but incessant form of torture. Frankly, I'm sick of feeling like my mornings are filled with a stabbing suffocation and helpless atrophy.
And I never did like the band, either.
which would be plural, silly, but the Iron Maiden of a slow and painful death (whose actual usage seems to be disputed, but any use would be most unwelcome by the person inside, I'm sure.)
(Image copyright Erik Ruhling, used with permission.)
This was the image I had in my head this morning when I was trying to explain to my husband what it felt like to wake up most mornings. As if the morning itself were an iron maiden, and awakening was a slow realization that this device is my immediate future.
The feeling doesn't last. Once I get up and get moving, really moving, the feeling passes. But for the first hour or two of being awake, all I can think of is how I wish I were not conscious. I do not wish to inhabit my body at this time, thank you very much, please try back later. But I have to get up and move, or the feeling persists.
This morning was pretty rotten. Rotten enough that I started pondering how long I've been in pain. My husband stated that he loves the morning, and every time he wakes up from a good nights sleep in a good bed, he is very excited to start the day. I, on the other hand, also love the morning but I do not feel excited about the day. I feel extreme anxiety. I know that in order to do the things I have to do
(insert They Might Be Giants intoning in my brain, "Memo to myself: do the dumb things I gotta do. Touch the puppet head...")
I have to first get up and get through the pain of loosening up all my stiff joints. Various spasming muscles must be loosened, through various painful methods.
I am weaning myself from the Darvocet the doctors had me on during physical therapy. To know that there is a bottle of painkillers in the cabinet and I'm not just stuffing them down my throat ought to clearly define my dedication to an actual cure, whatever the hell it is, not just medicating the pain away. I must note, when I had my wisdom teeth pulled last week and the doctor gave me Vicodin, I was for a few brief days, really happy. And that makes me terribly sad. I was so cheerful and chipper, because nothing hurt. It was a beautiful vacation from the pain that is my body, but alas, with all highs come the lows, and the first few days off of the Vicodin were so awful I honestly believe a lesser person would have killed themselves. As it was, I had to inform my husband, "Look. I'm not trying to freak you out, but I need you to understand: I'm in pain. I don't mean I'm in pain. I mean, I'm in PAIN, and throwing myself in front of a train seems like a really good idea right now." He freaked. I had to assure him I wasn't going to try to stop a speeding train with a single hand, ala Superman, but just that I needed him to really grasp the severity of my pain. I tend to be stoic. I'm proud. I don't want people to witness how badly I hurt, because pity is pointless. Unless they're willing to massage me, there really isn't anything else they can do. I have to move. I have to keep moving. And therein lies the problem.
I'm so tired.
On bad days it seems like my life is a never ending stream of me dragging my ass out of bed, pushing myself around all day just to ease the pain, only to end the day with pain and an inability to sleep well. Wake, repeat. Wake, repeat. You get the idea.
Jack said, "I think a lot of that is just normal stiffness. I mean, we're in our thirties. It's probably just part of getting older." No, I don't think so. Maybe for him, but I seem to have always been in pain. I wouldn't have even realized it except for being in physical therapy. My therapist asked questions. A lot of questions. Always she was trying to narrow down the problem, the source, the cause, to find a solution. I thought this was all from falling down the stairs, but as we kept working on me month after month, we kept talking, and I kept thinking. Remembering. And I realize: the pain has always been there, I just never really paid attention. I always excused it. I must have hurt myself playing. I rode my bike too long and I'm sore. I fell off my sled. Maybe I pulled my arm while climbing trees. But I do remember my mom giving me hell about eating those little orange flavored baby aspirins, she was afraid I was going to overdose. Baby aspirin? I was young.
I remember getting busted shoplifting when I was about twelve. I remember my mom asking me why in the world I had tried to steal bottles of over the counter sleeping medicines, stimulants and pain medications. I remember telling her that I had trouble sleeping, trouble staying awake during school, and I thought maybe those things could help.
My husband stared at me while I relayed that memory. "WHAT THE HELL? You were actually trying to steal over the counter medications when you were TWELVE? Why didn't your parents take you straight to a doctor?" I shrugged. Who knows? They probably dismissed it as me being weird. I didn't think anything of it, but looking back, I realize that I was always used to the pain being there, so why would I make a big deal out of it?
This was made exceptionally clear to me in the past year when my mother sent me all my old medical records. As I flipped through them, I found one in which she had taken me to the emergency room with a raging urinary tract infection. Basically, I was pissing blood. I had been since the night before, but stayed on the bathroom floor crying as silently as possible in the dark, all night long. When my mom got up and found me, she asked me why in the hell hadn't I woken her UP? I don't know. It didn't occur to me. I thought I should just be quiet and wait. I was sixteen. I have no idea why I didn't think to wake her up, that something wouldn't be seriously wrong with me. So she took me to the hospital, and on the paperwork it says, "Patient is experiencing back pain, but states that it is perfectly normal."
I read that, reread that, and just sat there, shocked. At sixteen years old, I had doctors trying to figure out if the pain I had was the beginning of a kidney infection (which I had later in life), and I told them the pain I was in was NORMAL?! What in the hell? What's wrong with me?
Around the age of twenty three, I developed my first ulcer. I thought it was the stress of suddenly becoming a single mother while trying to get through college, and I'm sure that didn't help, but looking back I realize I had been such a hard core Motrin addict that it ate a freaking hole in my stomach. In the years after, I couldn't shake the ulcer, and still haven't. It comes back, over and over. It does so because I take Motrin, over and over. I try to stick with Tylenol, but sometimes it's just too much. Like when I get migraines.
No, I never have seen a specialist about the migraines. The first one started when I was about twelve, I think. I remember my mom finding me halfway down the stairs, sitting there silently weeping. She asked me what was wrong and I told her my head hurt, really bad. It hurt so bad, in fact, that I only made it halfway down the stairs. I simply stopped there, unable to do anything else. I couldn't even cry because it made my head pound harder.
Small wonder I was stealing medication.
Even before I fell down the stairs, I was occasionally seeing a chiropractor. Occasionally because I had no insurance, and paying out of pocket can put a real damper on trying to get the medical help one needs. Something he said is another clue into my pain mystery. He asked me one day: when had I broken my ankle, what had happened? I just laughed and said, "I never broke my ankle. I've never broken anything. Ever." He then asked me what HAD I done to that ankle, and I said, "Nothing. What are you talking about?" He pointed out that when I laid on my stomach on the table, one ankle laid down flat and the other one was bent, very obviously crooked. He asked me to straighten it, and I couldn't. He asked me again what I had done to it, and I just looked at him mystified. "I have no idea. I don't remember ever hurting my ankle."
A year or two after that was when I fell down the stairs while I was working. A triple somersault on concrete steps, landing head first onto the sidewalk- I was pretty badly hurt. The doctors asked me what happened, and all I could tell them was, "I went to take that first step and it was like my leg just wasn't there." I don't remember feeling it give out on me or anything, I just remember stepping down and my leg didn't respond. I tried to reach for the railing and control my descent, but you'd be amazed at how quickly something like that occurs. I suspect I don't remember much of it because the first somersault had my head crack into one of the steps. I remember seeing it coming towards my face and I tried to curl up and closed my eyes. After that, I remember spinning and flailing and hitting the sidewalk, too stunned to do anything but curl in a fetal position and cry. I heard people running up and asking me if I was ok, but I couldn't open my eyes. I did, after a minute, and managed to sit up, at which point I felt my head and was shocked to realize I had three separate and massive lumps on my head. One of them is still there, years later. One of the helpful people had to point out to me that my arm was gashed up and I was bleeding. I went to an urgent care place. I wish I had gone to the damn hospital. I might have actually gotten some help. The urgent care place took an x-ray of my wrist to make sure it wasn't broken. I told them I wasn't worried about my damn wrist, it was my head and my back that had me concerned. They told me to take some Motrin and go home. Great. Thanks. Very helpful.
Later I realized that the leg that had given out during my fall was the same one that had given out when I was pregnant. I fell over at work, caught myself on a desk and I was fine. I dismissed it because I read that womens hips tend to become loose and disjointed during pregnancy.
I then realized that was also the leg that has the twisted ankle.
And one day in physical therapy, my therapist was working on my neck. She had me scoot to the edge of the table so my neck was hanging over and my head was in her hands. I started crying, just raw instinctual fear, and told her that I do not LIKE to be upside down. It just Freaks Me Out.
Having uncovered quite a bit of physical, emotional, and sexual trauma through the course of therapy, she was already wise enough to ask me, "Jill... why don't you like to be upside down?" God, that voice. That tone. When she knew she had hit on something big, she would ask me a question in that voice and it was like a hot knife in butter, just ripping through any emotional defense system I have. I started bawling, head in her hands, and told her my dad used to hold me upside down by one ankle and tickle my foot. He was six foot four, and I was young, maybe five at the most. I couldn't reach the floor, I couldn't reach him, and I hated, HATED being tickled. Of course I laughed at first because I was a kid, a kid who was getting attention from her emotionally vacant father, but once he started tickling my foot I would howl and scream and cry, wildly thrashing to get out of his grip. That I remember very clearly. At that age, I remember using every bit of my strength in trying to whip myself around hard enough to grab onto anything, anything at all.
What happened to my ankle?
Why does my hip pop out?
Why have I always had back pain?
I think I know.
I recently went to the doctor, having put it off for months since I started piecing the bits together. They x rayed my hip and my ankle. I told the doctor some brief history, mentioning my suspicion about how I messed up my hip. The problem is, it still is wrong. Very, very wrong. When I went into physical therapy, it was because of my neck pain. I thought it was left over from my fall down the stairs. Somehow I just forgot that I've been in pain for so long. It's normal to me. But my neck still hurts, my back still hurts, and I suspect it's because my hip is so messed up that it can't help but continually throw my back out. Sometimes I walk fine, sometimes it feels like one hip is moving in a tight circular motion while the other hip is on a much wider and erratic swing, sometimes not even circular. I end up walking with a weird offset gait.
Which reminds me...
When I was in high school there was this weird kid who was, I'm guessing, some kind of autistic savant type. Really strange, in some ways genius and in other ways, pretty retarded. But I found him bizarrely interesting, which unfortunately seemed to cause him to have a crush on me. He would follow me around a lot. One day in particular he was walking along beside me and staring at my legs. I asked him what he was doing and he said, "It's fascinating! Sometimes I walk along next to people and mimic their stride, just to see what I can learn about them. But yours... yours is impossible to mimic! I've tried, and I can't do it. Why do you walk like that?" I just shook my head and said, "Dude, I have no idea," and thought no more about it until recently.
After a while the doctor came back into the room with the x rays and sat down. She looked at me, silent for too long, and I knew something was not going to be good. I finally said, "Look, out with it! God! What is it?" She said, "Well... you're right. Your hip has... too much space in it. It's looks like it's dislocated, although I'm going to refer you to an orthopedist to let them see it. You need to see a specialist." I looked at her, seeing she was trying to decide how much to say. I prodded her. "So, what happens?" She sighed and said, "Well, the injury is very old. Your body grew and just adapted. This sort of injury, being as old as it was, and you still being in your formative growing years..." She paused. "Physical therapy isn't going to do anything for you. They'll probably suggest surgery, perhaps to stitch the tendons closer together, perhaps shave off parts of the bone that are rubbing up against each other." I just shut down. I know she's right, something has to happen. I know I'll seek second and third opinions if they suggest surgery. But I think part of me knows that there may not be another option, and it's either do something drastic or live my life in pain. I'm thirty two. And this has only gotten worse over the years. At this rate, I'll be unable to walk eventually, and live my life on a morphine drip, or try to chew on the explosive end of a firearm.
That leads me thoughts of my own father. The tickler. The recovering alcoholic. The incredibly jaded and with occasional suicidal tendencies person that quite possibly precipitated this whole deal. He too has severe back problems, and years ago the doctors told him that he should have some surgery on his spine. It would require a torso cast for six months. I'm sure physical therapy after that. My dad said to hell with it, he's old and he didn't want to spend any time in a body cast. Instead he just suffers with it. They prescribe painkillers for him, since he can barely move around, and he refuses to take them. Instead, he just lives his miserable life, enjoying it where he can, but he's been in horrendous pain for at least the last ten years, probably more. I look at him and think, "You dumbass. Why not get the surgery? Shit." I have no intentions of following in his feeble footsteps. I see where that path goes, and it's nowhere good.
Sure, there's plenty he COULD do that might ease his pain but I doubt he does it. Where did I get this stoic bullshit attitude from? Look no further.
So, that's where I'm at right now. I have appointments with the orthopedist twice in the coming weeks, and maybe I'll know more then. As far as what caused my condition, well, I'll never really know, I can only speculate that I know the cause, and it makes me sad but it's not like he meant to hurt me. In fact, I don't even intend to let him find out; what good would it do? Life has been an endless punishment for him because he chooses to let it be, I have no desire to add to it. All I can really affect is me. And my life is the one I'm in control of, although it sure doesn't feel like I can control this shell I walk around in very much. *sigh*
I'll see what can be done, decide what to do, and do it.
Sure, I could be a lot worse off and maybe I should even be glad that this is all I have to suffer with, but I'm me and it's a low grade but incessant form of torture. Frankly, I'm sick of feeling like my mornings are filled with a stabbing suffocation and helpless atrophy.
And I never did like the band, either.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
explaining other humans to a child
Yesterday my son and I got into a rather in depth conversation about Saddam Hussein, dictators, Hitler, the Holocaust, racism and who knows what all. Sometimes we start talking, he asks questions, and I've always held to the belief that all questions should be answered within reason. Trying to explain Nazi's and what they did to a ten year old is no piece of cake, I assure you. Trying to find that delicate balance between the honoring the horrific reality and not giving your kids nightmares... it's like walking a tightrope while juggling knives or something.
One part in particular became rather poignant this morning. He and I had been discussing how all Germans were not evil, how a lot of people had no idea what was really going on, and I told him that propaganda can be a powerful way to sway public opinion. He couldn't grasp how people would not know what was really going on, which made me realize what an incredible age of information we truly live in nowadays. I had to explain that back then there wasn't the internet and when you've got a dictator in control, they control the news, they control ALL the information that people receive, other than word of mouth. And word of mouth can be very dangerous, because if you live under the regime of a violent dictator, and you happen to mention that maybe things aren't the way they should be, you could end up quite dead.
With the conversation filed away into memory this morning, I dropped him off at school and was listening to the radio on the way home. The song "Waiting On The World To Change" by John Mayer came on and I heard the line:
"...and when you trust your television
what you get is what you got
'cause when they own the information, oh
they can bend it all they want."
I teared up, thinking about the world that my son lives in, the world we all live in, and the malice that exists in some of our fellow humans.
"...now we see everything that's going wrong
with the world and those who lead it,
we just feel like we don't have the means
to rise above and beat it.
So we keep waiting,
waiting on the world to change.
We keep on waiting,
waiting on the world to change."
I've never been into politics. My personal way of dealing with the various walking nightmares that exist in the world is to be as honest and real as I possibly can. I suppose it's a bit like that old Michael Jackson song about the man in the mirror, and how change begins with me. Although, I must note, I think Michael took that song a little too literally, but that's another matter entirely.
One part in particular became rather poignant this morning. He and I had been discussing how all Germans were not evil, how a lot of people had no idea what was really going on, and I told him that propaganda can be a powerful way to sway public opinion. He couldn't grasp how people would not know what was really going on, which made me realize what an incredible age of information we truly live in nowadays. I had to explain that back then there wasn't the internet and when you've got a dictator in control, they control the news, they control ALL the information that people receive, other than word of mouth. And word of mouth can be very dangerous, because if you live under the regime of a violent dictator, and you happen to mention that maybe things aren't the way they should be, you could end up quite dead.
With the conversation filed away into memory this morning, I dropped him off at school and was listening to the radio on the way home. The song "Waiting On The World To Change" by John Mayer came on and I heard the line:
"...and when you trust your television
what you get is what you got
'cause when they own the information, oh
they can bend it all they want."
I teared up, thinking about the world that my son lives in, the world we all live in, and the malice that exists in some of our fellow humans.
"...now we see everything that's going wrong
with the world and those who lead it,
we just feel like we don't have the means
to rise above and beat it.
So we keep waiting,
waiting on the world to change.
We keep on waiting,
waiting on the world to change."
I've never been into politics. My personal way of dealing with the various walking nightmares that exist in the world is to be as honest and real as I possibly can. I suppose it's a bit like that old Michael Jackson song about the man in the mirror, and how change begins with me. Although, I must note, I think Michael took that song a little too literally, but that's another matter entirely.
red panda love
I watched a show about red pandas the other night. I did not previously know there WAS such a thing as a red panda, but it turns out that they might very well be one of the cutest darn things I've seen in a long time. Even my husband, upon googling the little critters, asked me if they were endangered (they are) because he wants one. Who wouldn't?
Monday, June 11, 2007
beware of flying poop storm
I would write stuff. And I will. I've been busy with strep throat and root canals and the pulling of wisdom teeth and the dry socket of wisdom teeth and then the horrible ups and downs of narcotic withdrawal, which I had so successfully weaned myself of from physical therapy (thank you wisdom teeth).
It's been a barrel full of monkeys over here. Some really ornery shit flinging monkeys.
It's been a barrel full of monkeys over here. Some really ornery shit flinging monkeys.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
fashion backward
I've been working on My Wardrobe. I've been doing a lot of shopping, and really busting my ass just trying to find some basic but very nice clothes. I should think it would be fairly simple, but after spending many days walking the mall and coming home empty handed more days than not, I've come to a realization:
I really hate the current fashion trends.
Everywhere I look it's babydoll this and empire waisted that. Blech. All the shirts are sheer, apparently stores aren't satisfied with simply selling you a shirt anymore; now you have to buy two shirts- the one you want and another one to wear under it. It's all about layers. Everywhere I look there are layers, layers, layers. There are also piles of stupid sweater/shirts. It's a sweater with what looks like a button down shirt under it, but instead of it being an ACTUAL shirt under it, it's just the parts that would show sewn onto the sweater.
Call me old fashioned, but I couldn't possibly wear that without feeling like an asshat. "Hi! I'm wearing a sweater and a pretend shirt!" I tried. I did. I bought one last year, but the sleeves were too tight for my non-anorexic self. The cuffs were just below the elbow and cut off all the circulation to my arms if I dared to bend them past Barbie-pose angles. It hung in my closet and I think I wore it twice, finally giving it to the great land of Goodwill. It was no loss, as I had to hand wash it and then just iron the fake wanna-be-a-real-shirt parts. Whatever.
The other big trend seems to be towards bizarrely short dresses/long shirts. I think they're trying to bring back that 80's trend of wearing a shirt over tights or pants, but that only works if you're willing to wear spandex and/or you have no hips. With my generous booty, throwing a long shirt over a pair of pants would make me look like someone knitted a sweater for a five foot ten pear, mistaking it for a tiny dog, perhaps. No thank you. And for the love of all that is holy, people, PLEASE remember a vital problem with spandex: when it stretches it becomes see through. For a few horrible moments I followed behind a girl today who had on spandex tights and one of those stupid Is It A Shirt Or Is It A Dress combos, and even her skinny ass was stretching the spandex to the point that I could VERY clearly see that she had on nothing but those spandex pants under her hopelessly confused upper garment. Perhaps you men might think that she was trying to do you a favor but I can sadly inform you: she wasn't. I couldn't decide if it was my duty as a fellow female to inform her of her pants of invisibility, but I decided to let it be. If it's something you can see in your own mirror, you're on your own. Toilet paper on your shoe or your skirt tucked into your pantyhose, I'm your girl. But wearing see through pants of your own accord? I'm just going to avert my eyes from the train wreck and keep on going...
All in all, I had a lovely bit of exercise walking around the mall for hours without a thing to show for it all. Macy's even had some big crazy sale, but again, the styles suck. I saw some gorgeous Calvin Klein shirts I would love to see my husband in, but that was about it.
Summer style of 2007, go away. You'll get no love from me.
I really hate the current fashion trends.
Everywhere I look it's babydoll this and empire waisted that. Blech. All the shirts are sheer, apparently stores aren't satisfied with simply selling you a shirt anymore; now you have to buy two shirts- the one you want and another one to wear under it. It's all about layers. Everywhere I look there are layers, layers, layers. There are also piles of stupid sweater/shirts. It's a sweater with what looks like a button down shirt under it, but instead of it being an ACTUAL shirt under it, it's just the parts that would show sewn onto the sweater.
Call me old fashioned, but I couldn't possibly wear that without feeling like an asshat. "Hi! I'm wearing a sweater and a pretend shirt!" I tried. I did. I bought one last year, but the sleeves were too tight for my non-anorexic self. The cuffs were just below the elbow and cut off all the circulation to my arms if I dared to bend them past Barbie-pose angles. It hung in my closet and I think I wore it twice, finally giving it to the great land of Goodwill. It was no loss, as I had to hand wash it and then just iron the fake wanna-be-a-real-shirt parts. Whatever.
The other big trend seems to be towards bizarrely short dresses/long shirts. I think they're trying to bring back that 80's trend of wearing a shirt over tights or pants, but that only works if you're willing to wear spandex and/or you have no hips. With my generous booty, throwing a long shirt over a pair of pants would make me look like someone knitted a sweater for a five foot ten pear, mistaking it for a tiny dog, perhaps. No thank you. And for the love of all that is holy, people, PLEASE remember a vital problem with spandex: when it stretches it becomes see through. For a few horrible moments I followed behind a girl today who had on spandex tights and one of those stupid Is It A Shirt Or Is It A Dress combos, and even her skinny ass was stretching the spandex to the point that I could VERY clearly see that she had on nothing but those spandex pants under her hopelessly confused upper garment. Perhaps you men might think that she was trying to do you a favor but I can sadly inform you: she wasn't. I couldn't decide if it was my duty as a fellow female to inform her of her pants of invisibility, but I decided to let it be. If it's something you can see in your own mirror, you're on your own. Toilet paper on your shoe or your skirt tucked into your pantyhose, I'm your girl. But wearing see through pants of your own accord? I'm just going to avert my eyes from the train wreck and keep on going...
All in all, I had a lovely bit of exercise walking around the mall for hours without a thing to show for it all. Macy's even had some big crazy sale, but again, the styles suck. I saw some gorgeous Calvin Klein shirts I would love to see my husband in, but that was about it.
Summer style of 2007, go away. You'll get no love from me.
naughty, naughty tooth fairy!
I had my wisdom teeth pulled out the other day. It went hideously ok. That is to say, it went ok, and I freaked out anyway.
So now I have some gory holes in my jaw and suddenly weigh ten pounds more. Yep. Even though it's just little old wisdom teeth, my body still responded as if I had major surgery done. I'm nearly as bloated as I was when I had a C-section.
Now... I didn't put the teeth under my pillow. So I have to wonder: is the tooth fairy just pissed off and is making me fat until I give up the teeth? Because, really, I think I'm doing her a favor- I don't think she's got enough to pay for those damn teeth. It's a simple weight of cash versus tiny wing span ratio I'm working on, here. I really don't see how she could carry enough.
Maybe I should put them under there one at a time. Still, I think she and I would disagree on tooth value. I find sheer terror causes inflation, but I wasn't referring to my bloated self.
So now I have some gory holes in my jaw and suddenly weigh ten pounds more. Yep. Even though it's just little old wisdom teeth, my body still responded as if I had major surgery done. I'm nearly as bloated as I was when I had a C-section.
Now... I didn't put the teeth under my pillow. So I have to wonder: is the tooth fairy just pissed off and is making me fat until I give up the teeth? Because, really, I think I'm doing her a favor- I don't think she's got enough to pay for those damn teeth. It's a simple weight of cash versus tiny wing span ratio I'm working on, here. I really don't see how she could carry enough.
Maybe I should put them under there one at a time. Still, I think she and I would disagree on tooth value. I find sheer terror causes inflation, but I wasn't referring to my bloated self.
Friday, June 01, 2007
cats: never cease to amuse
For some well spent moments of pure amusement, you should visit the Airborne Cats set of Flickr member Jun Kumagai.
Good stuff.
Good stuff.
coming out of the closet
I've been a very busy girl. When I'm too busy to blog, you know it's serious. Blogging is my anchor in the crazy world of Shit That Occurs In My Head.
Ever since getting out of physical therapy, I've been in a lot of pain still. Part of that is due to weaning myself off of the muscle relaxers, pain killers and other crazy pills they had me on during it all. The other part is that I wasn't really "fixed" when my insurance decided all by their lonesome selves that I indeed required no more help, thank you very much. So I've been continuing my exercises, trying to do more activities, stretching a lot and generally working on becoming a functioning member of society. The days of staggering through the grocery store while trying to hide my expression of agony seem to be mostly over. I still have some bad days, and today is one of them.
Hubby and I decided to go through the closet and get rid of the clothes that weren't working anymore. We both do this at the same time, usually once or twice a year. And then begins The Shopping.
I used to adore shopping. I think that was because I used to just go out and buy random things all willy nilly: eccentric, gorgeous pieces that went with absolutely nothing else in my closet. But at least that was fun- now when I shop I try to keep in mind the various Rules of my beloved Stacy and Clinton and shop for things like "wardrobe basics" and other boring but totally useful phrases. Yesterday I stood in front of the crop pants in The Limited and blinked for a long time. The saleslady was trying to help me but I couldn't actually remember what I still owned. My husband happened to call while I was standing there and came up with this brilliant plan:
"Just try a pair on. If they fit, buy them in ALL the colors, what the hell... bring them home, decide what works, then take the rest back."
I told the saleslady what he said, and from that point out they swarmed all over me, trying to bring me every freaking bit of clothes in the store. It was pretty funny.
It's not like we're crazy spenders and I'm buying a lot of clothes. I'm buying some very basic pieces that need to go with a whole lot of everything else, so it's hard to find them. And even when I do find them, they have to actually FIT. Ha. Hence me taking days of shopping to find the few things that I did. If I wanted to just buy whatever I liked, oh sure, I could go crazy. But I am a frugal bitch at heart, and that just doesn't appeal to me. It's hard enough to get me to shop in a store like The Limited and not just go to Goodwill.
I ended up buying two different kinds of crop pants, each in two different colors. I really wanted the white ones, but despite the saleslady's adamant insistence that they were NOT see through, I could VERY clearly see the stripes on my (newly acquired) underwear. Pssht. Even the pockets were clearly visible. The only way those pants could not be construed as see through was if my skin was a blinding chalky white, and therefore would match the pants exactly.
(rolls eyes)
She was not forthcoming with the pity when I told her I was sick of shopping. I told her, "Seriously, I've been shopping for DAYS!" She looked at me with an expression of amusement. I think perhaps she envisioned some magnificent shopping spree of infinite proportions, but the reality was more along the lines of me shopping for hours a day and coming home with a shirt or two. Like I said, there are Rules. I'm not shopping all willy nilly. I have specific things I'm looking for, and trying to find clothes that fit into the children's section in tops and only booty pants on the bottom, then add a five foot ten frame to the picture, and you see how that could be a little difficult to fit. Finding a dress that fits is nearly a miracle. That's why I own very few of them (sniffle).
Every once in a while I luck out:
Ahhh.
The hardest part of all this clothing acquiring wasn't the shopping itself. It was the moment of truth: going through the closet. Deciding what would stay and what would go.
After months of lurching around in pain, I got used to wearing the default cotton shirts and jeans, Converse and that's about it. Different varieties of this combination have persisted on my personage for months. As my husband so astutely pointed out, "If you just get rid of those clothes and buy nicer ones, you won't be tempted to just keep putting on the same thing. You'll feel better, you know. I know you're bored with your clothes, just like I am." And he's right. It's not just that I'm bored with them. I'm also tired of resewing the hems and buttons on everything, too.
The hard part is that a lot of the clothes I hang on to could really only be described as kiddie clothes. And those are the hardest ones to part with. Some are too small, but I've been doing the age old, "Some day I will fit into them again!" thing and holding on to them, and there they are, endlessly hanging in my closet and tormenting me with their presence. Not only do they remind me that I'm not the size I was, but I look at a very full closet and can't figure out why I have nothing to wear.
Huh?
Oh. Right.
So out went the mini-skirts. Where on earth would I wear them, really? When was the last time I DID wear one? Out went the Either I Shrunk Them In The Dryer Or My Ass Grew, Perhaps Both pairs of shorts. The gorgeous brown heels that have always been a size too small but I squeeze into them anyway, wicked step-sister style, because I'm a retard who wants to look like she has cute not-size-ten feet. (cough) And into the pile went the goofy shirts, the banged up shoes, the silly hats, the...
Oh. (holds sides in agony) The pain!
At the end, I was standing over the heap of clothes, holding my beloved pink suede Converse and crying. Actually crying. My husband looked at me and said, "Baby, what is it? What's wrong? Aren't you glad to get rid of all that junk? You can go shopping..."
"It's not that," I sniffled, clutching my shoes like a security blankie, "I look at that pile and you know what I see? I see YOUNG clothes and SKINNY clothes, and that tells me I must be OLD and FAT!" I started really crying. He hugged me and realized that I was having yet another I-don't-wanna-grow-up crisis moment. This has hardly been the first.
Over the years that we've been together I've had quite a few of these moments. The first was when he begged me to get rid of all of my big, clunky shoes. I told him that I was attached. I can run in them. I can kick someone's ass in them. I have no desire to wear footwear that renders me helpless and says "potential victim" on them, thank you very much. He had to explain that I am NOT a helpless passive doormat anymore and perhaps, perhaps if I buy shoes to match this fact, I might actually believe in it, too.
What the hell. I bought my first pair of little kitten heeled sandals.
Don't get me wrong, I've had plenty of heeled shoes before, I LOVE high heels. But they all had secure straps about them, and if I had to balance on one mighty leg while stabbing someone with my shoe, I damn well could without it flinging off in mid-kick. These kitten heels were the first pair of shoes I had that didn't have a strap on the back or around the ankle. You just slide your foot in. And out. Yeesh.
It's hard for other people to understand it sometimes. Some girls totally get it. Others think it's bizarre.
The first real friend I made after moving to the beach was a die hard flip flop wearing beach loving girl. As soon as it gets warm, she switches to flip flops and curses every moment she is forced to wear any other shoe until it gets cold, damn cold. She couldn't understand my total paranoia about flip flops. She did eventually. But there was a period of time where I would point out girls wearing flip flops and say, "Look! See? She looks like a tasty little morsel of unprotected vulnerability! Imagine her trying to run away from an attacker! She's gonna get five feet away and her shoes are gonna come flying off or jam her toes into the concrete, or, hell, I don't know!"
But eventually the sheer ridiculousness of wearing shoes to the beach became apparent. We spent a lot of our first summer living here going to the beach on the weekend, body boarding and having a good time. I was the only one not wearing flip flops. Well, me and my son. The sand burned his feet.
I eventually bought a pair. Then another pair. My husband and friend both congratulated me, as silly as it sounds. They both knew it was, literally, a big step for me.
Sadly, that was also the summer I realized I turn a weird splotchy brown in the sun because of my stupid birth control pills, and I am also apparently allergic to every stinking kind of sunblock. It took awhile to figure out it was the sunblock that was causing the reaction. I thought I just kept getting smacked in the face with unseen jellyfish.
Yes. When you think you're being hit with jellyfish and it turns out to be your sunblock, that's a pretty strong motivator to stop wearing it. It would last for WEEKS. I finally figured it out when my son and I went to a pool one day and the same thing happened. I came home and said, "Dammit! I know there's no stinkin' jellyfish in the POOL!" Now I am stuck with hats. And a search for a new kind of birth control, thank you very much.
And now I have mostly new clothes. Besides it being a boost to my self esteem, I dare say it may also be a boost to my relationship/sex life. I have noticed my husband being rather complimentary about seeing me in my new duds, although he does seem to be most impressed with the gym pants I bought as pajamas. As he said, "I mean, yah, those ARE pants made for working out in. But you better be careful wear you work out. You might cause some serious accidents." I believe his original response to viewing my new "jammies" was a long drawn out and rather wolfy, "Da-aa-aa-aa-aaaaaam!" Score points for all that shopping, thank you very much.
I have noticed that I like my own boobs more. (laughs) I think it's because the bras I am wearing are the new fab-o-luss Hanes varieties that I bought at little old Target. They look a hell of a lot better than that oh so pretty one I got at Victoria's Secret. That may be due in part to my having worn it for years now and washed it until it was a bizarre gray color. Whoops. Not sexy, but boy was it comfortable. The problem was, in the end, it didn't even do what it was supposed to do. Now, all of a sudden my little A cups look MIGHTY perky, and if a fourteen dollar bra can do that, well I am quite officially On Board. Indeed.
I still don't have a complete closet. There is more shopping to do, still. I can't say I'm looking forward to it. I'm looking forward to it being done, though. And I DO like getting up in the morning and not dragging out the same boring thing day after day.
Even my hair looks cuter.
Go figure.
Ever since getting out of physical therapy, I've been in a lot of pain still. Part of that is due to weaning myself off of the muscle relaxers, pain killers and other crazy pills they had me on during it all. The other part is that I wasn't really "fixed" when my insurance decided all by their lonesome selves that I indeed required no more help, thank you very much. So I've been continuing my exercises, trying to do more activities, stretching a lot and generally working on becoming a functioning member of society. The days of staggering through the grocery store while trying to hide my expression of agony seem to be mostly over. I still have some bad days, and today is one of them.
Hubby and I decided to go through the closet and get rid of the clothes that weren't working anymore. We both do this at the same time, usually once or twice a year. And then begins The Shopping.
I used to adore shopping. I think that was because I used to just go out and buy random things all willy nilly: eccentric, gorgeous pieces that went with absolutely nothing else in my closet. But at least that was fun- now when I shop I try to keep in mind the various Rules of my beloved Stacy and Clinton and shop for things like "wardrobe basics" and other boring but totally useful phrases. Yesterday I stood in front of the crop pants in The Limited and blinked for a long time. The saleslady was trying to help me but I couldn't actually remember what I still owned. My husband happened to call while I was standing there and came up with this brilliant plan:
"Just try a pair on. If they fit, buy them in ALL the colors, what the hell... bring them home, decide what works, then take the rest back."
I told the saleslady what he said, and from that point out they swarmed all over me, trying to bring me every freaking bit of clothes in the store. It was pretty funny.
It's not like we're crazy spenders and I'm buying a lot of clothes. I'm buying some very basic pieces that need to go with a whole lot of everything else, so it's hard to find them. And even when I do find them, they have to actually FIT. Ha. Hence me taking days of shopping to find the few things that I did. If I wanted to just buy whatever I liked, oh sure, I could go crazy. But I am a frugal bitch at heart, and that just doesn't appeal to me. It's hard enough to get me to shop in a store like The Limited and not just go to Goodwill.
I ended up buying two different kinds of crop pants, each in two different colors. I really wanted the white ones, but despite the saleslady's adamant insistence that they were NOT see through, I could VERY clearly see the stripes on my (newly acquired) underwear. Pssht. Even the pockets were clearly visible. The only way those pants could not be construed as see through was if my skin was a blinding chalky white, and therefore would match the pants exactly.
(rolls eyes)
She was not forthcoming with the pity when I told her I was sick of shopping. I told her, "Seriously, I've been shopping for DAYS!" She looked at me with an expression of amusement. I think perhaps she envisioned some magnificent shopping spree of infinite proportions, but the reality was more along the lines of me shopping for hours a day and coming home with a shirt or two. Like I said, there are Rules. I'm not shopping all willy nilly. I have specific things I'm looking for, and trying to find clothes that fit into the children's section in tops and only booty pants on the bottom, then add a five foot ten frame to the picture, and you see how that could be a little difficult to fit. Finding a dress that fits is nearly a miracle. That's why I own very few of them (sniffle).
Every once in a while I luck out:
Ahhh.
The hardest part of all this clothing acquiring wasn't the shopping itself. It was the moment of truth: going through the closet. Deciding what would stay and what would go.
After months of lurching around in pain, I got used to wearing the default cotton shirts and jeans, Converse and that's about it. Different varieties of this combination have persisted on my personage for months. As my husband so astutely pointed out, "If you just get rid of those clothes and buy nicer ones, you won't be tempted to just keep putting on the same thing. You'll feel better, you know. I know you're bored with your clothes, just like I am." And he's right. It's not just that I'm bored with them. I'm also tired of resewing the hems and buttons on everything, too.
The hard part is that a lot of the clothes I hang on to could really only be described as kiddie clothes. And those are the hardest ones to part with. Some are too small, but I've been doing the age old, "Some day I will fit into them again!" thing and holding on to them, and there they are, endlessly hanging in my closet and tormenting me with their presence. Not only do they remind me that I'm not the size I was, but I look at a very full closet and can't figure out why I have nothing to wear.
Huh?
Oh. Right.
So out went the mini-skirts. Where on earth would I wear them, really? When was the last time I DID wear one? Out went the Either I Shrunk Them In The Dryer Or My Ass Grew, Perhaps Both pairs of shorts. The gorgeous brown heels that have always been a size too small but I squeeze into them anyway, wicked step-sister style, because I'm a retard who wants to look like she has cute not-size-ten feet. (cough) And into the pile went the goofy shirts, the banged up shoes, the silly hats, the...
Oh. (holds sides in agony) The pain!
At the end, I was standing over the heap of clothes, holding my beloved pink suede Converse and crying. Actually crying. My husband looked at me and said, "Baby, what is it? What's wrong? Aren't you glad to get rid of all that junk? You can go shopping..."
"It's not that," I sniffled, clutching my shoes like a security blankie, "I look at that pile and you know what I see? I see YOUNG clothes and SKINNY clothes, and that tells me I must be OLD and FAT!" I started really crying. He hugged me and realized that I was having yet another I-don't-wanna-grow-up crisis moment. This has hardly been the first.
Over the years that we've been together I've had quite a few of these moments. The first was when he begged me to get rid of all of my big, clunky shoes. I told him that I was attached. I can run in them. I can kick someone's ass in them. I have no desire to wear footwear that renders me helpless and says "potential victim" on them, thank you very much. He had to explain that I am NOT a helpless passive doormat anymore and perhaps, perhaps if I buy shoes to match this fact, I might actually believe in it, too.
What the hell. I bought my first pair of little kitten heeled sandals.
Don't get me wrong, I've had plenty of heeled shoes before, I LOVE high heels. But they all had secure straps about them, and if I had to balance on one mighty leg while stabbing someone with my shoe, I damn well could without it flinging off in mid-kick. These kitten heels were the first pair of shoes I had that didn't have a strap on the back or around the ankle. You just slide your foot in. And out. Yeesh.
It's hard for other people to understand it sometimes. Some girls totally get it. Others think it's bizarre.
The first real friend I made after moving to the beach was a die hard flip flop wearing beach loving girl. As soon as it gets warm, she switches to flip flops and curses every moment she is forced to wear any other shoe until it gets cold, damn cold. She couldn't understand my total paranoia about flip flops. She did eventually. But there was a period of time where I would point out girls wearing flip flops and say, "Look! See? She looks like a tasty little morsel of unprotected vulnerability! Imagine her trying to run away from an attacker! She's gonna get five feet away and her shoes are gonna come flying off or jam her toes into the concrete, or, hell, I don't know!"
But eventually the sheer ridiculousness of wearing shoes to the beach became apparent. We spent a lot of our first summer living here going to the beach on the weekend, body boarding and having a good time. I was the only one not wearing flip flops. Well, me and my son. The sand burned his feet.
I eventually bought a pair. Then another pair. My husband and friend both congratulated me, as silly as it sounds. They both knew it was, literally, a big step for me.
Sadly, that was also the summer I realized I turn a weird splotchy brown in the sun because of my stupid birth control pills, and I am also apparently allergic to every stinking kind of sunblock. It took awhile to figure out it was the sunblock that was causing the reaction. I thought I just kept getting smacked in the face with unseen jellyfish.
Yes. When you think you're being hit with jellyfish and it turns out to be your sunblock, that's a pretty strong motivator to stop wearing it. It would last for WEEKS. I finally figured it out when my son and I went to a pool one day and the same thing happened. I came home and said, "Dammit! I know there's no stinkin' jellyfish in the POOL!" Now I am stuck with hats. And a search for a new kind of birth control, thank you very much.
And now I have mostly new clothes. Besides it being a boost to my self esteem, I dare say it may also be a boost to my relationship/sex life. I have noticed my husband being rather complimentary about seeing me in my new duds, although he does seem to be most impressed with the gym pants I bought as pajamas. As he said, "I mean, yah, those ARE pants made for working out in. But you better be careful wear you work out. You might cause some serious accidents." I believe his original response to viewing my new "jammies" was a long drawn out and rather wolfy, "Da-aa-aa-aa-aaaaaam!" Score points for all that shopping, thank you very much.
I have noticed that I like my own boobs more. (laughs) I think it's because the bras I am wearing are the new fab-o-luss Hanes varieties that I bought at little old Target. They look a hell of a lot better than that oh so pretty one I got at Victoria's Secret. That may be due in part to my having worn it for years now and washed it until it was a bizarre gray color. Whoops. Not sexy, but boy was it comfortable. The problem was, in the end, it didn't even do what it was supposed to do. Now, all of a sudden my little A cups look MIGHTY perky, and if a fourteen dollar bra can do that, well I am quite officially On Board. Indeed.
I still don't have a complete closet. There is more shopping to do, still. I can't say I'm looking forward to it. I'm looking forward to it being done, though. And I DO like getting up in the morning and not dragging out the same boring thing day after day.
Even my hair looks cuter.
Go figure.
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