Ugh.
So last night I went out with my husband to dual birthday party for a couple ladies we know.
I so did not want to go. I don't feel fit for social gatherings. I'm the size of a house, I hate it, it shows, and I know I get judged for it. I'm shy to begin with, but now, with my size and my long break from anything like a 'normal' life, I don't have fuck all to talk to folks about. Awkward. I am painfully socially awkward.
What do I mean by normal life? I mean a job, employment. Regular social engagements. That sort of thing. I don't have any of that.
I don't work. I can't work. But other than being the size of a house, I don't look sick. I don't look disabled. Hell, even my like 65+ yr old teacher at UofT asked me the first chance she got me in private if I really couldn't work. We had to introduce ourselves in the first class. I mentioned I was disabled and couldn't work due to chronic illness. If she doesn't even believe me, then how can I expect perfectly healthy young people to?
I don't have anything in common with them. They all work, they all lead full lives. I lead the life of a recluse, a social outcast, a hermit. Even my own parents are shocked by the....isolation in my life. I've gotten used to it. It's not so bad. I've always had hermit tendencies. Without...close friends or any reason (like work) to interact with others.. I don't really. I don't even know how I'd do it in my state.
I'm fat, useless, boring, old, awkward, and just plain miserable. I do not have anything to offer.
So I spent most of my night sitting in the corner of the couch, with a fake smile plastered to my face, saying very little. I was incapable of chitchat. I didn't want to be so fucking silent, but I couldn't think of a damn thing to say.
It's not like anything really interesting happens in my life. I just... I didn't know what to say. Half the time I knew some people just never liked talking to me anyway, so I didn't bother to make an effort. Other people I so very much wanted to say something, anything that would be interesting or engaging or something... But I just.. I blanked. When I did say something, It... I should have just kept my fucking mouth shut.
I was so fucking self conscious I wanted to burrow into the couch and just be invisible. I did not want to be seen.
I mean, if my own doctor, who bloody well knows what kind of chronic pain, exhaustion, and social anxiety I live with tells me I'm fat because I'm lazy.... How can I expect perfect strangers to understand?
I just. I hate meeting new people. What's the first thing some asks? So, what do you do? I don't. I can't work due to chronic illness. That sure puts a stop in the conversation! Then they feel guilty, awkward, forced to console me, and ask about it. Then they hurry away as fast as they can. I'm a fucking social leper.
I don't know anything about corporate life. I barely even remember what it was like to work with people. I'm a fucking housewife. With no children. Who does a really shitty job at you know, keeping the place clean. I'm a waste of space, and I know it.
"Are you sure you can't work?" "So you can't work at all?" "There are lots of temp jobs" "Couldn't you do freelance?" Yeah, with what freaking credentials!? I mean, besides my physical limitations, I was a secretary, an office manager, a jack of all trades, but I don't have credentials for any of it. And it was so long ago, I don't know if I could do a lot of it now anyway. I mean, my last full time job was FIVE years ago. Ugh.
I couldn't do 8 hour days. Not even 8 days a week. I'm that fucked up. But I don't look it. So people always ask. They don't realize, that that outing, the bit where I'm being social or am in school, that's my activity for the day, and in all likelihood it will take me 2-3 days to recover from it.
*sigh*
I just.... I want the ground to swallow me up. I want to sleep and never wake up. I want an easy way out of this mess. Perhaps my doctor is right, and I'm a fat useless fuck because I'm just too gods damn weak-willed and plain old lazy. Yup. That's about right.
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rant. Show all posts
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Baby Blanket Progress And Life.
I can't show you the baby blanket, because it's a gift, and I want it to be, mostly a surprise for the mom. But it's coming along! I have actually finished the knitting, after like 10-12 days of straight knitting. We're talking 40+ hours of knitting my fingers off.
Much to my dismay, when I finally got it off my needles... it wasn't square. I did the add two stitches every other row, like the instructions I found for corners told me to.. I'm thinking it might have been better to add two stitches every row... But once I was done, there is no way in hell I was ripping out 40 hours of work!!
So. Acylic..... You can't really block it. Not the traditional way, washing and pinning, it will just jump back to it's pre-washing state. And besides, baby blanket, it's going to get washed, and mom is not about to block the dang thing.
SO! I 'killed' the two bottom boarders. Killing, really isn't as bad as it sounds, you just have to be careful! For instance, leave garter stitch alone as much as you can, as you will flatten it, and it will look...not great. The flat patterned parts stretched really well, overall, and it flattened out the elephants and loins really well, so yay! I did accidentally catch part of a garter stitch ridge in a few places, but I didn't flatten it too too badly.
This entire blanket had been a lesson in imperfection for me. I'm a perfectionist. I can't seem to help myself. But, in making this blanket, I've learned to weigh 'time to fix' vs 'who other than me will notice'. As a result, I've left a few errors that I didn't think were super obvious, left some things alone or did them quickly, when I otherwise would have spent hours upon hours trying to fix.
In the end, the blanket is lovely, and once I get the dang backing on it, will be a lovely edition to a baby's life; imperfections and all. It has character damnit.
On another note, sitting for like 12-16 hours a day knitting, is actually really hard on my body, and I've been crazy stiff and sore for the last two weeks. This week I've also been battling crazy nausea. I've been eating lots of candied ginger, which usually helps, with no avail. I've been fighting with all I have to do what little I've done.
Monday I worked for about five hours straight on the backing and trying to pin it to the knitted blanket. This was before I blocked the blanket. What a mess. And I messed up cutting the backing and ended up making a lot of work for myself. Oh well, that's life.
Made for a very frustrating day. So much work, with so little to show for it. All the while battling enough pain to make me dizzy when I moved too quickly. Fuck it was a hard day.
Yesterday was better. If for no other reason my class distracted me from my pain. But as soon as I left I realised my jaw was in grave pain - I'd been clenching my teeth to combat the pain. I even went to the grocery store. But I didn't have the energy to work on my blanket last night. Every time I moved I was overcome with nausea, and had to sit my fat ass down again.
That's been today. Pain and nausea warring for control over me. Right now the pain is winning and the nausea is more in the background. Which means, I've been able to at least iron down the edges of the backing, which will make it much easier to sew when I get there.
Feeling sorry for myself. Or.. Well... Disappointed in myself is more accurate. I fate being this size. I really do. If I think too hard on it, I get a panic attack. And yet I can't seem to control myself. I have no discipline. I can't resist chocolate, or.... giving in when I'm having a bad day. It's so bloody hard. Food has become my comfort, my balm when I'm in pain. And I don't know how to control it, never mind fix it.
I think about women like Laurell K Hamilton. She's been writing since her early twenties I think. She wanted to be a writer, and by gods, she has worked her ass off to get there, regardless of having a day job, a husband, a failing marriage, a baby, or anything else that's been thrown at her. Still she finds time to write. Still she finds her muse, and fights for what she wants. Even if I'm not the biggest fan of everything she's written her drive is awe inspiring.
I don't have that. I know I don't. I always have an excuse for everything. The only thing I've ever been able to ALWAYS make time for is knitting. I would likely knit in my sleep, if I could figure out a way to do it. I love to knit. It's to the point I just can't sit and watch a movie or tv. I can't. Not without something in my hands, not without some kind of knitting.
But I'm not The Yarn Harlot either. I'm not funny. I can't tell stories about knitting. I so can't write that sort of thing... it's not in my make-up. Besides, my knitting isn't pretty - the process that is. There's a lot of planning, math, calculator and pencil, graph paper, humming and hawing, and through, always the cursing. I curse like a sailor. If I drop a stitch (rare), or mess up a row (not so rare), or if I don't like the pattern I've chosen (often), or if I'm doing the math, and have to figure out increases and decreases, I curse. My husband is used to me muttering and cursing as I work. He worries more when I'm quiet. lol.
And now, I've used all the energy I had. The pain is taking over my brain, and I can't put the words together to say what I wanted to say. Damnit.
Living like this is really lonely. I mean, aside from the reality that I spend most of my days alone, and my nights across the room from my husband, not really conversing.... It's the knowledge that 99% of the people I know, don't have a fucking clue how hard my life is. I know in so many ways I'm lucky. Things really could be a lot worse. At the same time, my life sure as fuck isn't all sunshine and roses.
The pain eats at me. The nausea binds me to the spot. The stiffness makes me feel like I'm 100 years old. I visit my parents, who are really my grandparents both around80-ish, and both of them are more spry than I am. Both of them do more, are more ambitious, than I've been in a long ass time. I wish I was more like them. They can't sit still, they can't do nothing. The push. They do. They have gumption, drive, follow-through.
I've always been naturally lazy. I actually do like, for the most part, sitting and watching a good movie, or reading a good book. I like sleeping in. I like slow, lazy days.
My fibromyalgia forces me to take it slow, to sit around and do fuck all. And I hate it. Yet I rarely push past the pain. Most days, the pain wins. I crumble.
I feel so fucking weak. Touch my shoulders and hips, even lightly in certain spots and I'll scream in pain. I ache, all the way through me, and there isn't a fucking thing wrong with me. It's all in my head. Literally. Fucking FMS.
I.... Ugh. I feel like, if it was my mom who had this, she'd push. Even at 78, she'd push and do and be active, and live her life. She's lived with pain all her life too. But unlike me, she almost never complains, and very rarely ever lets it slow her down. I wish I could be like that. I wish I knew her secret. I just don't have that in me.
I'm disgusted with myself. On so many levels. Disease or not, I'm a disappointment. So many others have what I have, and yet they work full time jobs, they have kids, husbands, houses to clean, and they do it all. Somehow, the do it all. Me, I just.. I don't have that in me.
I wish I had that strength of character. I wish I had discipline and control. I don't. No matter how I try... I'm just... I'm not that kind of person. Ugh.
I don't.. I don't know how to fix this. I try. Gods know I try. But I just don't seem to have it in me. Makes me...disgusted with myself. I'll never be strong enough.
Much to my dismay, when I finally got it off my needles... it wasn't square. I did the add two stitches every other row, like the instructions I found for corners told me to.. I'm thinking it might have been better to add two stitches every row... But once I was done, there is no way in hell I was ripping out 40 hours of work!!
So. Acylic..... You can't really block it. Not the traditional way, washing and pinning, it will just jump back to it's pre-washing state. And besides, baby blanket, it's going to get washed, and mom is not about to block the dang thing.
SO! I 'killed' the two bottom boarders. Killing, really isn't as bad as it sounds, you just have to be careful! For instance, leave garter stitch alone as much as you can, as you will flatten it, and it will look...not great. The flat patterned parts stretched really well, overall, and it flattened out the elephants and loins really well, so yay! I did accidentally catch part of a garter stitch ridge in a few places, but I didn't flatten it too too badly.
This entire blanket had been a lesson in imperfection for me. I'm a perfectionist. I can't seem to help myself. But, in making this blanket, I've learned to weigh 'time to fix' vs 'who other than me will notice'. As a result, I've left a few errors that I didn't think were super obvious, left some things alone or did them quickly, when I otherwise would have spent hours upon hours trying to fix.
In the end, the blanket is lovely, and once I get the dang backing on it, will be a lovely edition to a baby's life; imperfections and all. It has character damnit.
On another note, sitting for like 12-16 hours a day knitting, is actually really hard on my body, and I've been crazy stiff and sore for the last two weeks. This week I've also been battling crazy nausea. I've been eating lots of candied ginger, which usually helps, with no avail. I've been fighting with all I have to do what little I've done.
Monday I worked for about five hours straight on the backing and trying to pin it to the knitted blanket. This was before I blocked the blanket. What a mess. And I messed up cutting the backing and ended up making a lot of work for myself. Oh well, that's life.
Made for a very frustrating day. So much work, with so little to show for it. All the while battling enough pain to make me dizzy when I moved too quickly. Fuck it was a hard day.
Yesterday was better. If for no other reason my class distracted me from my pain. But as soon as I left I realised my jaw was in grave pain - I'd been clenching my teeth to combat the pain. I even went to the grocery store. But I didn't have the energy to work on my blanket last night. Every time I moved I was overcome with nausea, and had to sit my fat ass down again.
That's been today. Pain and nausea warring for control over me. Right now the pain is winning and the nausea is more in the background. Which means, I've been able to at least iron down the edges of the backing, which will make it much easier to sew when I get there.
Feeling sorry for myself. Or.. Well... Disappointed in myself is more accurate. I fate being this size. I really do. If I think too hard on it, I get a panic attack. And yet I can't seem to control myself. I have no discipline. I can't resist chocolate, or.... giving in when I'm having a bad day. It's so bloody hard. Food has become my comfort, my balm when I'm in pain. And I don't know how to control it, never mind fix it.
I think about women like Laurell K Hamilton. She's been writing since her early twenties I think. She wanted to be a writer, and by gods, she has worked her ass off to get there, regardless of having a day job, a husband, a failing marriage, a baby, or anything else that's been thrown at her. Still she finds time to write. Still she finds her muse, and fights for what she wants. Even if I'm not the biggest fan of everything she's written her drive is awe inspiring.
I don't have that. I know I don't. I always have an excuse for everything. The only thing I've ever been able to ALWAYS make time for is knitting. I would likely knit in my sleep, if I could figure out a way to do it. I love to knit. It's to the point I just can't sit and watch a movie or tv. I can't. Not without something in my hands, not without some kind of knitting.
But I'm not The Yarn Harlot either. I'm not funny. I can't tell stories about knitting. I so can't write that sort of thing... it's not in my make-up. Besides, my knitting isn't pretty - the process that is. There's a lot of planning, math, calculator and pencil, graph paper, humming and hawing, and through, always the cursing. I curse like a sailor. If I drop a stitch (rare), or mess up a row (not so rare), or if I don't like the pattern I've chosen (often), or if I'm doing the math, and have to figure out increases and decreases, I curse. My husband is used to me muttering and cursing as I work. He worries more when I'm quiet. lol.
And now, I've used all the energy I had. The pain is taking over my brain, and I can't put the words together to say what I wanted to say. Damnit.
Living like this is really lonely. I mean, aside from the reality that I spend most of my days alone, and my nights across the room from my husband, not really conversing.... It's the knowledge that 99% of the people I know, don't have a fucking clue how hard my life is. I know in so many ways I'm lucky. Things really could be a lot worse. At the same time, my life sure as fuck isn't all sunshine and roses.
The pain eats at me. The nausea binds me to the spot. The stiffness makes me feel like I'm 100 years old. I visit my parents, who are really my grandparents both around80-ish, and both of them are more spry than I am. Both of them do more, are more ambitious, than I've been in a long ass time. I wish I was more like them. They can't sit still, they can't do nothing. The push. They do. They have gumption, drive, follow-through.
I've always been naturally lazy. I actually do like, for the most part, sitting and watching a good movie, or reading a good book. I like sleeping in. I like slow, lazy days.
My fibromyalgia forces me to take it slow, to sit around and do fuck all. And I hate it. Yet I rarely push past the pain. Most days, the pain wins. I crumble.
I feel so fucking weak. Touch my shoulders and hips, even lightly in certain spots and I'll scream in pain. I ache, all the way through me, and there isn't a fucking thing wrong with me. It's all in my head. Literally. Fucking FMS.
I.... Ugh. I feel like, if it was my mom who had this, she'd push. Even at 78, she'd push and do and be active, and live her life. She's lived with pain all her life too. But unlike me, she almost never complains, and very rarely ever lets it slow her down. I wish I could be like that. I wish I knew her secret. I just don't have that in me.
I'm disgusted with myself. On so many levels. Disease or not, I'm a disappointment. So many others have what I have, and yet they work full time jobs, they have kids, husbands, houses to clean, and they do it all. Somehow, the do it all. Me, I just.. I don't have that in me.
I wish I had that strength of character. I wish I had discipline and control. I don't. No matter how I try... I'm just... I'm not that kind of person. Ugh.
I don't.. I don't know how to fix this. I try. Gods know I try. But I just don't seem to have it in me. Makes me...disgusted with myself. I'll never be strong enough.
Thursday, February 16, 2012
Thank the Gods that I'm Canadian!!!
This: GOP Controlled Virginia Legislature Passes Two Of The Most Restrictive Anti-Abortion Bills In The Nation Just makes me sick. I'm speechless (okay, almost).
Personhood starts at conception, and birth control is banned? WTF Virgina?!
It fills me with fear. Fear for the women of America. This is such a huge step in making women not just second class citizens, but property of the men in their lives. What's next, taking away a woman's right to vote and her status as a person?! It can't be far off.
*sigh*
It's shit like this that makes me infinitely glad I'm a Canadian!
Our federal gov't may be a bunch of idiots trending this way, but they move much slower, and seem to have more real opposition with their heads on straight.
On a side note, I've been writing a novella (okay I started it in November and I've been mulling over how to end it since) about a woman that goes to Virgina to spend some time with a man she's falling for. A Marine Lt. Colonel. I was going to end it with her getting a job in Washington and coming to live with him. But I just can't do that now. I can't.
I know it's a work of fiction, and it's set up as a summer thing, and this is February, but fuck a duck! What's going on in the states right now scares me. No, I don't want my character to stay and fight the system. It's not even her system! No. In good conscience I can't have her move there. It would give me a panic attack to think of doing it myself, so I can't let a woman character do it either.
And how could a good man, which my Marine is, how could a good man, with his head on straight advocate such a loss of rights and liberty to the woman he loves?!
I'm a firm believer that love is always enough.
But I make a caveat to that...
It has to be a deep, true love, on both sides. It has to be love with respect of both (all) parties, where both (all) are equal partners, with a true desire to do and allow what is best for the other party(parties).
It can't be a selflish love, nor an 'I love you, but you make me so angry sometimes, and I just have to beat you' kind of love, nor a love where one partner 'knows best' and the other is powerless/doesn't have a say in what happens to them.
But I can't let her move there for him. I just can't. At the same time, if he really loved her, would he allow her to? With the way things are going? Could he, really let her move to a country that makes her a second class citizen!?
Do I have her stay for six months, from Aug to the middle of Feb, where this shit is now happening. Maybe then they both leave. Come back to Canada where she can be safe from oppression. He's in his early 40s. He's done 20 years for the Marines. Maybe it's time for him to retire... Live the good life, in the great white north, as it were.
I know it may seem so damn... trivial that I think of my story... but in my heart I'm a writer.. When I write, as when I read, the characters become real for me. Sometimes more real that actual people. I fall in love with them, and it breaks my heart when they die. It likewise puts me at great unease when bad things befall them, as they are wont to do. And I route for them, for their happiness and their safety...
And I know it's not likely that my story will ever get out. I know it's not likely anyone would buy it with such anti-American content, but it's NOT about that. It's about doing what feels right. Call a spade a spade, or in this case, a bastard a bastard. I will not back down. I can't; it would kill something inside me to do it. No. Just no.
Personhood starts at conception, and birth control is banned? WTF Virgina?!
It fills me with fear. Fear for the women of America. This is such a huge step in making women not just second class citizens, but property of the men in their lives. What's next, taking away a woman's right to vote and her status as a person?! It can't be far off.
*sigh*
It's shit like this that makes me infinitely glad I'm a Canadian!
Our federal gov't may be a bunch of idiots trending this way, but they move much slower, and seem to have more real opposition with their heads on straight.
On a side note, I've been writing a novella (okay I started it in November and I've been mulling over how to end it since) about a woman that goes to Virgina to spend some time with a man she's falling for. A Marine Lt. Colonel. I was going to end it with her getting a job in Washington and coming to live with him. But I just can't do that now. I can't.
I know it's a work of fiction, and it's set up as a summer thing, and this is February, but fuck a duck! What's going on in the states right now scares me. No, I don't want my character to stay and fight the system. It's not even her system! No. In good conscience I can't have her move there. It would give me a panic attack to think of doing it myself, so I can't let a woman character do it either.
And how could a good man, which my Marine is, how could a good man, with his head on straight advocate such a loss of rights and liberty to the woman he loves?!
I'm a firm believer that love is always enough.
But I make a caveat to that...
It has to be a deep, true love, on both sides. It has to be love with respect of both (all) parties, where both (all) are equal partners, with a true desire to do and allow what is best for the other party(parties).
It can't be a selflish love, nor an 'I love you, but you make me so angry sometimes, and I just have to beat you' kind of love, nor a love where one partner 'knows best' and the other is powerless/doesn't have a say in what happens to them.
But I can't let her move there for him. I just can't. At the same time, if he really loved her, would he allow her to? With the way things are going? Could he, really let her move to a country that makes her a second class citizen!?
Do I have her stay for six months, from Aug to the middle of Feb, where this shit is now happening. Maybe then they both leave. Come back to Canada where she can be safe from oppression. He's in his early 40s. He's done 20 years for the Marines. Maybe it's time for him to retire... Live the good life, in the great white north, as it were.
I know it may seem so damn... trivial that I think of my story... but in my heart I'm a writer.. When I write, as when I read, the characters become real for me. Sometimes more real that actual people. I fall in love with them, and it breaks my heart when they die. It likewise puts me at great unease when bad things befall them, as they are wont to do. And I route for them, for their happiness and their safety...
And I know it's not likely that my story will ever get out. I know it's not likely anyone would buy it with such anti-American content, but it's NOT about that. It's about doing what feels right. Call a spade a spade, or in this case, a bastard a bastard. I will not back down. I can't; it would kill something inside me to do it. No. Just no.
Tuesday, February 14, 2012
Happy Valentines Day!!
So, as a valentines gift, our apartment building posted a notice that the water would be shut off today 9am to5pm. They gave us plenty of notice, but still. o.0
We showered before 9am, I put two buckets of water in the bathroom, a jug of water in the fridge, and I planned to go out for most of the day.
When I got home at 4pm (sweaty & gross) I was thrilled that the signs were down & we appeared to have water. So I took a shower. In mostly cold water, but it wasn't bitterly cold so not too bad.
As I was finished my shower the water got warmer, and I was enjoying it so much I put the stopper in to fill the tub, soaking in hot water sounded like a good idea... Until I noted the colour of the water. It was yellow! I let it run thinking it would get better. Nope. I unstopped the tub, and ran the cold water; it was yellow too.
Greeeeeeeaaaaaat. So now I was covered in whatever the hell was in the water.
Sigh.
So I pulled the last bucket of water into the tub with me. I'd poured out the other bucket (that I was using to wash my hands) since I thought we had our water back.
Using the cold bucket of water I scrubbed, and then rinsed. Rinsing with a bucket of water is....interesting.
At least I'm clean?
We showered before 9am, I put two buckets of water in the bathroom, a jug of water in the fridge, and I planned to go out for most of the day.
When I got home at 4pm (sweaty & gross) I was thrilled that the signs were down & we appeared to have water. So I took a shower. In mostly cold water, but it wasn't bitterly cold so not too bad.
As I was finished my shower the water got warmer, and I was enjoying it so much I put the stopper in to fill the tub, soaking in hot water sounded like a good idea... Until I noted the colour of the water. It was yellow! I let it run thinking it would get better. Nope. I unstopped the tub, and ran the cold water; it was yellow too.
Greeeeeeeaaaaaat. So now I was covered in whatever the hell was in the water.
Sigh.
So I pulled the last bucket of water into the tub with me. I'd poured out the other bucket (that I was using to wash my hands) since I thought we had our water back.
Using the cold bucket of water I scrubbed, and then rinsed. Rinsing with a bucket of water is....interesting.
At least I'm clean?
Sunday, February 12, 2012
Beauty Ideals, aka She's fat
So my hubby sent me a link to a...interesting/disturbing link from the Toronto.com: Anna Utopia Giordano gives Venus a new lean, mean figure
So Anna, is the Italian "artist", who photoshopped Renaissance masterpieces of beautiful women of the day. The ideal then was, as far as I can see, about size 12-14 in today's sizes, with small perky breasts. To me, they look like real women. Healthy, "sturdy" women (i.e. you won't break them when you fuck them). I look at these women and think: fuck, I'd love to be that skinny!
The article calls these healthy, women, with not a fat roll or bulge among them, BBW (Big Beautiful Women), and plus-sized. When did having a little meat on your bones become plus sized?!
The photoshopped versions are much leaner (to the point of impossibility in some spots), but of course still have the boobs. The boobs that looked smallish on the originals, end up looking large/fake on the skinny versions. I mean, you just don't see many size -1 women with D cup boobs that are real, 9 times out of ten, they had a boob job.
The interesting part for me, is that I find the photoshopped versions look sickly. The original women look enticing, in my eye. The photoshopped women look too skinny, and frighteningly frail. They put me in the mind of starved, dead, Plague victims.
The other thing is, I've had skinny friends, so I know for a fact, when women are that skinny, you can count their ribs, since they show up in high relief in many of the poses. Of course the artist didn't photoshop them in. Making the photoshopped versions, basically impossible to replicate in real life, that is, without having the model surgically remove ribs. Ick.
For me, the bigger picture, or perhaps, more resounding worry/message is:
If the (delightful -IMHO) Renaissance women are fat, Big Beautiful Women, and plus-sized, then what the hell am I ?!?!?!?
I mean, I'm actually plus sized. My honest to god, goal in weight loss right now, is just to get back to the size I was when I met my husband, when I was still morbidly obese, but was about 4 sizes smaller. I'll never be a size 12 or 14. I'd be ecstatic to maintain size 18-20, for fucks sake.
Perhaps this explains some of my other issues lately (like doctors ignoring me or telling me outright they can't help me) -- I'm so fat, so far beyond the "norm" that people don't know what 'box/category' I belong in, and like most things our brain doesn't understand, they just ignore the data, and therefore me.
I'm the hulking invisible fat woman!
Sigh.
So Anna, is the Italian "artist", who photoshopped Renaissance masterpieces of beautiful women of the day. The ideal then was, as far as I can see, about size 12-14 in today's sizes, with small perky breasts. To me, they look like real women. Healthy, "sturdy" women (i.e. you won't break them when you fuck them). I look at these women and think: fuck, I'd love to be that skinny!
The article calls these healthy, women, with not a fat roll or bulge among them, BBW (Big Beautiful Women), and plus-sized. When did having a little meat on your bones become plus sized?!
The photoshopped versions are much leaner (to the point of impossibility in some spots), but of course still have the boobs. The boobs that looked smallish on the originals, end up looking large/fake on the skinny versions. I mean, you just don't see many size -1 women with D cup boobs that are real, 9 times out of ten, they had a boob job.
The interesting part for me, is that I find the photoshopped versions look sickly. The original women look enticing, in my eye. The photoshopped women look too skinny, and frighteningly frail. They put me in the mind of starved, dead, Plague victims.
The other thing is, I've had skinny friends, so I know for a fact, when women are that skinny, you can count their ribs, since they show up in high relief in many of the poses. Of course the artist didn't photoshop them in. Making the photoshopped versions, basically impossible to replicate in real life, that is, without having the model surgically remove ribs. Ick.
For me, the bigger picture, or perhaps, more resounding worry/message is:
If the (delightful -IMHO) Renaissance women are fat, Big Beautiful Women, and plus-sized, then what the hell am I ?!?!?!?
I mean, I'm actually plus sized. My honest to god, goal in weight loss right now, is just to get back to the size I was when I met my husband, when I was still morbidly obese, but was about 4 sizes smaller. I'll never be a size 12 or 14. I'd be ecstatic to maintain size 18-20, for fucks sake.
Perhaps this explains some of my other issues lately (like doctors ignoring me or telling me outright they can't help me) -- I'm so fat, so far beyond the "norm" that people don't know what 'box/category' I belong in, and like most things our brain doesn't understand, they just ignore the data, and therefore me.
I'm the hulking invisible fat woman!
Sigh.
Tuesday, February 7, 2012
I hate my body. HATE.
Last week, the word for the week was Push.
This week, the word of the week (I'm projecting) is Flare.
As in, Fibro flare.
Sigh.
I bought a bathing suit online, and it arrived last week. It fit. As well as I could expect, and I really like it. I bought it so I could mix going out walking with swimming. As I'm trying to be more active in the hopes I'll lose some mass.
Well, that's not going to happen now. I waited too long.
I could cry.
I'm covered in yeast. AGAIN.
It happened this summer too. You see, I'm beyond just fat, or even morbidly obese. I think there needs to be another category. I'm uber morbidly obese.
When I do just about anything I sweat. This isn't just because I'm fat, I've been that way my whole life. Part of it is FMS suffers do just sweat more. Part of it is, I'm well hydrated, so there's lots of moisture in me. And yeah, part of it is that I'm just that out of shape.
Anyway, I sweat. I have...creases. If I'm out in the world I can't exactly wipe them off. My t-shirt soaks up some of it, but it can't help the creases that stay wet until I get home. As soon as I get home, I dry off, and either shower or eat then shower. So I get myself dry and clean as fast as I can, but apparently it wasn't/isn't good enough. Now I have yeast raging all over my torso, well in the creases. Fuck does it hurt!
The only way to get the yeast to really go away, is to apply a cream 3x a day, and do nothing. I mean, really do nothing. Not even dishes or making dinner. Nothing. For three weeks while the yeast slowly dies. Once it's really gone, I can do a bit more, but, as I learned last week, one week of being moderately active will bring it back.
I could cry. Or maybe scream. Screaming sounds better at the moment.
So, no swimming for me! Maybe EVER. Fuck. I wasted $100 on a lovely bathing suit I'll never be able to wear! Yeast is catching you see. I can't go swimming in any kind of pool. An open body of water would likely be okay, just because of the size, my yeast would be so much less likely to meet another human.
So fucking frustrating.
I very much regret not going swimming at least once last week. But there were/are so many other things I really wanted to get done! I haven't been active in well, forever, and there are all kinds of little errands that pile up, and weekly things, like groceries. I haven't felt up to groceries in forever! And I did last week! I even got heavy stuff.
I was so damn proud of myself. I pushed. Every day I pushed, if even just a little. Some days I was more sore/tired, and I'd just go on one little errand, and let myself do it as slowly as I needed. Other days I felt great and I'd be out for two hours or more walking and doing.
I don't think I can do that this week. Or at least I couldn't yesterday. I kept my active streak up until Sunday. Sunday I had to push really hard, I was so tried. By the time we got home Sunday night, I was beyond tired. I was feverish and my skin hurt. Always a bad sign. I had horrible nightmares, so I couldn't even sleep in! I ended up sleeping all Monday afternoon. At least my skin hurts less now... But it still hurts, which means I'm not done flaring.
Today, today I have a crazy nasty headache that's so bad it's making me nauseous. It doesn't help that the yeast is depressing. So very depressing. And I'm almost out of the very expensive yeast cream (there's really only the name brand tiny tube my Dr told me to get available). $25 for like 10-15g. I'm a large person. I use about a tube a week. And if I keep being active, I'll need a tube a week until I either loose 50lbs or give up.
I could cry. Crying seems the better option right now.
Fuck, I hate my body. I hate it so very very much.
This week, the word of the week (I'm projecting) is Flare.
As in, Fibro flare.
Sigh.
I bought a bathing suit online, and it arrived last week. It fit. As well as I could expect, and I really like it. I bought it so I could mix going out walking with swimming. As I'm trying to be more active in the hopes I'll lose some mass.
Well, that's not going to happen now. I waited too long.
I could cry.
I'm covered in yeast. AGAIN.
It happened this summer too. You see, I'm beyond just fat, or even morbidly obese. I think there needs to be another category. I'm uber morbidly obese.
When I do just about anything I sweat. This isn't just because I'm fat, I've been that way my whole life. Part of it is FMS suffers do just sweat more. Part of it is, I'm well hydrated, so there's lots of moisture in me. And yeah, part of it is that I'm just that out of shape.
Anyway, I sweat. I have...creases. If I'm out in the world I can't exactly wipe them off. My t-shirt soaks up some of it, but it can't help the creases that stay wet until I get home. As soon as I get home, I dry off, and either shower or eat then shower. So I get myself dry and clean as fast as I can, but apparently it wasn't/isn't good enough. Now I have yeast raging all over my torso, well in the creases. Fuck does it hurt!
The only way to get the yeast to really go away, is to apply a cream 3x a day, and do nothing. I mean, really do nothing. Not even dishes or making dinner. Nothing. For three weeks while the yeast slowly dies. Once it's really gone, I can do a bit more, but, as I learned last week, one week of being moderately active will bring it back.
I could cry. Or maybe scream. Screaming sounds better at the moment.
So, no swimming for me! Maybe EVER. Fuck. I wasted $100 on a lovely bathing suit I'll never be able to wear! Yeast is catching you see. I can't go swimming in any kind of pool. An open body of water would likely be okay, just because of the size, my yeast would be so much less likely to meet another human.
So fucking frustrating.
I very much regret not going swimming at least once last week. But there were/are so many other things I really wanted to get done! I haven't been active in well, forever, and there are all kinds of little errands that pile up, and weekly things, like groceries. I haven't felt up to groceries in forever! And I did last week! I even got heavy stuff.
I was so damn proud of myself. I pushed. Every day I pushed, if even just a little. Some days I was more sore/tired, and I'd just go on one little errand, and let myself do it as slowly as I needed. Other days I felt great and I'd be out for two hours or more walking and doing.
I don't think I can do that this week. Or at least I couldn't yesterday. I kept my active streak up until Sunday. Sunday I had to push really hard, I was so tried. By the time we got home Sunday night, I was beyond tired. I was feverish and my skin hurt. Always a bad sign. I had horrible nightmares, so I couldn't even sleep in! I ended up sleeping all Monday afternoon. At least my skin hurts less now... But it still hurts, which means I'm not done flaring.
Today, today I have a crazy nasty headache that's so bad it's making me nauseous. It doesn't help that the yeast is depressing. So very depressing. And I'm almost out of the very expensive yeast cream (there's really only the name brand tiny tube my Dr told me to get available). $25 for like 10-15g. I'm a large person. I use about a tube a week. And if I keep being active, I'll need a tube a week until I either loose 50lbs or give up.
I could cry. Crying seems the better option right now.
Fuck, I hate my body. I hate it so very very much.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
Magic Pill
I know I'm depressed. I feel I have every right to be. But I also know it's not helping.
I just don't know how to fix it.
Do I talk to my GP? He'll only refer me to someone in Hamilton, that is if that kinda referral can even be made. I have no idea.
So do I look for a therapist in Toronto? Do I need a therapist, or a psychiatrist or what??
I really don't want to talk about my feelings. I just want a magic pill that will make me feel less overwhelmed and more motivated.
Have you ever had drugs that are supposed to induce euphoria? I mean as a side effect. I have. More than once. They never made me feel anything. Which makes me think any kind of 'magic pill' wouldn't make me happier.
I'm already on a very low dose of an antidepressant, for my pain, but it doesn't seem to affect my depression at all. I can't take more because it makes my eyes swell. No really. ugh.
But I need something. I'm sooo tired and sore all the time. Fuck, what I wouldn't give to feel like my old self for a day!! I hate this. I hate this so much.
And the depression just makes everything worse. It makes me not what to try, it makes the urge to curl up in a ball and play dead until it's over so very strong. I have a very hard time fighting it. I think it also makes me more tired. My body's natural reaction, when it can't handle the pain, or whathaveyou, is to shut down. How the hell do I stop that?!
I just feel so bloody hopeless.
I just don't know how to fix it.
Do I talk to my GP? He'll only refer me to someone in Hamilton, that is if that kinda referral can even be made. I have no idea.
So do I look for a therapist in Toronto? Do I need a therapist, or a psychiatrist or what??
I really don't want to talk about my feelings. I just want a magic pill that will make me feel less overwhelmed and more motivated.
Have you ever had drugs that are supposed to induce euphoria? I mean as a side effect. I have. More than once. They never made me feel anything. Which makes me think any kind of 'magic pill' wouldn't make me happier.
I'm already on a very low dose of an antidepressant, for my pain, but it doesn't seem to affect my depression at all. I can't take more because it makes my eyes swell. No really. ugh.
But I need something. I'm sooo tired and sore all the time. Fuck, what I wouldn't give to feel like my old self for a day!! I hate this. I hate this so much.
And the depression just makes everything worse. It makes me not what to try, it makes the urge to curl up in a ball and play dead until it's over so very strong. I have a very hard time fighting it. I think it also makes me more tired. My body's natural reaction, when it can't handle the pain, or whathaveyou, is to shut down. How the hell do I stop that?!
I just feel so bloody hopeless.
Saturday, January 21, 2012
How Lyrica Stole my Libido
Last winter I was hurting. A lot. Winter is worse for me. Even inside out of the cold, I still hurt more. Maybe I don't get enough sunshine? I don't really know.
Anyway. Point. I started taking more lyrica to combat the pain. I tried 225mg in the morning and at night; it was too much. After a few days my brain was just constantly fuzzy, and I felt kinda high. Like time wasn't moving right, and my brain didn't work. So I backed down to 225mg in the morning and 150mg at night, that seemed to work better. I was only fuzzy the first night, then my body got used to it.
I thought it was helping, and maybe for the winter it did. Ever so subtly though, it stole away my libido. There were other things going on though. I was in a lot of pain. I was stressed out, mostly because of the pain. I was battling depression, all of these things make me want sexy times less.
This November, for NANO, I tried to write a romance. I think I actually got more of a light weight mystery. I had a lot of trouble writing simple attraction, never mind sex scenes. I'll admit the sexy parts have always been the easiest for me, and this November it was like pulling teeth. I barely managed one short one! So not like me. It forced me to realise something was truly wrong.
Around mid summer I'd noticed something was wrong. My brain knew I needed sexy times, that I should want them, but I couldn't get my body interested, hell, I couldn't even get my mind on board. But November was the breaking point. I couldn't deny something was fucking me. Or rather not fucking. There was just way too little fucking going on in my life.
See, my emotional state, depends so very much on my sexual release. If I don't get enough orgasms I get depressed, I hurt more, I'm down on myself, life just sucks. When my libido took a holiday it totally messed with my ability to be happy, to have any kind of energy. My sexual health totally affects my energy levels(oddly more sex=more energy & more ambition), my emotional state of mind, my state of mind period, and my self-image.
I decreased my doses of lyrica in December, to 150mg every 12-ish hours. It took a couple weeks to get the excess out of my body, but I finally got my libido back! I feel like myself again!! I'm less tired more often, and I actually have some motivation - not a lot mind you, but way better than the nothing I had for the past, oh year maybe? Not really sure, it feels like forever though.
I just can't get over what a huge difference it makes in my life, in all aspects of my life. I feel a bit... silly, for how long it took to realise something was well and truly wrong, and then more time to figure out the actual cause.
My body feels one step closer to being my own again. I can't put into words, how... good that feels, what a relief it is to feel more like myself!
Damn Lyrica. It helps sure, but fuck a duck. I'm sure it had a lot to do with the extra weight I've put on, and it store my libido. That's just not cool. I know I'm going to be very careful going forward, that no other medications screw with me again. Only my husband gets to screw me, damnit.
Anyway. Point. I started taking more lyrica to combat the pain. I tried 225mg in the morning and at night; it was too much. After a few days my brain was just constantly fuzzy, and I felt kinda high. Like time wasn't moving right, and my brain didn't work. So I backed down to 225mg in the morning and 150mg at night, that seemed to work better. I was only fuzzy the first night, then my body got used to it.
I thought it was helping, and maybe for the winter it did. Ever so subtly though, it stole away my libido. There were other things going on though. I was in a lot of pain. I was stressed out, mostly because of the pain. I was battling depression, all of these things make me want sexy times less.
This November, for NANO, I tried to write a romance. I think I actually got more of a light weight mystery. I had a lot of trouble writing simple attraction, never mind sex scenes. I'll admit the sexy parts have always been the easiest for me, and this November it was like pulling teeth. I barely managed one short one! So not like me. It forced me to realise something was truly wrong.
Around mid summer I'd noticed something was wrong. My brain knew I needed sexy times, that I should want them, but I couldn't get my body interested, hell, I couldn't even get my mind on board. But November was the breaking point. I couldn't deny something was fucking me. Or rather not fucking. There was just way too little fucking going on in my life.
See, my emotional state, depends so very much on my sexual release. If I don't get enough orgasms I get depressed, I hurt more, I'm down on myself, life just sucks. When my libido took a holiday it totally messed with my ability to be happy, to have any kind of energy. My sexual health totally affects my energy levels(oddly more sex=more energy & more ambition), my emotional state of mind, my state of mind period, and my self-image.
I decreased my doses of lyrica in December, to 150mg every 12-ish hours. It took a couple weeks to get the excess out of my body, but I finally got my libido back! I feel like myself again!! I'm less tired more often, and I actually have some motivation - not a lot mind you, but way better than the nothing I had for the past, oh year maybe? Not really sure, it feels like forever though.
I just can't get over what a huge difference it makes in my life, in all aspects of my life. I feel a bit... silly, for how long it took to realise something was well and truly wrong, and then more time to figure out the actual cause.
My body feels one step closer to being my own again. I can't put into words, how... good that feels, what a relief it is to feel more like myself!
Damn Lyrica. It helps sure, but fuck a duck. I'm sure it had a lot to do with the extra weight I've put on, and it store my libido. That's just not cool. I know I'm going to be very careful going forward, that no other medications screw with me again. Only my husband gets to screw me, damnit.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Reading, Writing and Feminism.
My husband sent me a link to this article -- The reading iceberg: promoting ‘serious’ male narratives over ‘trivial’ female narratives starts at school
The jist, if you don't want to read it, is that for women educated in the 70s, 80s, and I'll even go so far as to say the 90s (cause I had the same experience then), and frankly men got the same conditioning, that we were taught that great literature, that 'serious' writing was written by men. That anything that had to do with "women's issues", you know, things like relationships, home life, 'feelings', was trivial, sentimental, and a waste of space.
Reading the article made me feel slightly vindicated.
When I was 14, I knew what I wanted to be. I'd known since I was 8. I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to tell stories.
In grade nine we were forced to do some more of that gov't 'standardized testing'. You know, I think teachers HATE standardized testing, I know all my teachers seemed annoyed by it, many gave off the impression they felt like they were doing their students a disservice.
Anyway, grade nine English, we were forced to do a test. Among other questions for the 70 minute class, was to write a story. I've never ever been good at on the spot writing, or anything else - I'm not great with the kind of pressure to perform while being watched, even as a baby, I didn't want to be watched.
The point is, I wrote a story, it wasn't great, but I liked it. And, like the article said, it was about woman's issues, about a girl coming home, only to a home she'd never known, to meet a father that was a stranger. It was her journey both physical and emotional, but I focused on her feelings, her worry, her fears, and eventually her bravery, her stubborn will to face what would come with her head held high.
I got exactly the response the article talks about. the exact words even. "trivial, ephemeral, sloppy and sentimental." I also got shallow. I know I shouldn't have taken it to heart, but it was so hard not to. Though, to this day I'm still angry and bitter about it. I mean, wth, I was 14! I had 30 minutes. It's hard to come up with a masterpiece on the spot damnit.
I'm rambling again, eh? Anyway, that article makes me think that I was right to think the man that graded my story was biased. Cause he was. I wrote about something he'd likely never cared about, a young girl leaving the only home she'd known to meet a man and responsibilities she'd never expected to have.
This is likely also why there is such a big surge right now (I think?) in women's books, or rather books targeted at women. Not just romance, but horror, fantasy, comedy, heck, even erotica. About women, with marketing meant to get a woman's attention. Too many women of my generation grew up with feminists telling us we were equal to men, we should get equal pay, equal responsibilities, that we could do anything they could. We believed them, but when we went looking for our stories, stories about strong women, brave girls, there just weren't many stories for us. Jane Austen, and Nancy Drew is not a long list. So the women of my generation grew up, and wrote them.
What I really want to know, is why are relationships, feelings, emotional journeys, domesticity seen as solely women's issues? Who got to make that call??
I mean, okay sure, most women want to talk about their feelings, and most of the men I know have a hard time talking about theirs... I'm guessing though, that's a lot to do with how we've been raised. But in any case, I can see that being a chick thing, but, emotional journeys, they are what make or break so many stories, they are what make us who we are! How is that a chick thing?! And relationships take at least two.
I really get pissed off when I hear the dwems (Dead White English Men) of the world saying emotionally charged stories are shallow, sentimental, and trivial. There is nothing trivial about an emotional journey, it's tears, screams, heart-wrenching pain, and soul-stealing joy. It's meaty, gritty, raw truth. Damnit.
The jist, if you don't want to read it, is that for women educated in the 70s, 80s, and I'll even go so far as to say the 90s (cause I had the same experience then), and frankly men got the same conditioning, that we were taught that great literature, that 'serious' writing was written by men. That anything that had to do with "women's issues", you know, things like relationships, home life, 'feelings', was trivial, sentimental, and a waste of space.
Reading the article made me feel slightly vindicated.
When I was 14, I knew what I wanted to be. I'd known since I was 8. I wanted to be a writer. I wanted to tell stories.
In grade nine we were forced to do some more of that gov't 'standardized testing'. You know, I think teachers HATE standardized testing, I know all my teachers seemed annoyed by it, many gave off the impression they felt like they were doing their students a disservice.
Anyway, grade nine English, we were forced to do a test. Among other questions for the 70 minute class, was to write a story. I've never ever been good at on the spot writing, or anything else - I'm not great with the kind of pressure to perform while being watched, even as a baby, I didn't want to be watched.
The point is, I wrote a story, it wasn't great, but I liked it. And, like the article said, it was about woman's issues, about a girl coming home, only to a home she'd never known, to meet a father that was a stranger. It was her journey both physical and emotional, but I focused on her feelings, her worry, her fears, and eventually her bravery, her stubborn will to face what would come with her head held high.
I got exactly the response the article talks about. the exact words even. "trivial, ephemeral, sloppy and sentimental." I also got shallow. I know I shouldn't have taken it to heart, but it was so hard not to. Though, to this day I'm still angry and bitter about it. I mean, wth, I was 14! I had 30 minutes. It's hard to come up with a masterpiece on the spot damnit.
I'm rambling again, eh? Anyway, that article makes me think that I was right to think the man that graded my story was biased. Cause he was. I wrote about something he'd likely never cared about, a young girl leaving the only home she'd known to meet a man and responsibilities she'd never expected to have.
This is likely also why there is such a big surge right now (I think?) in women's books, or rather books targeted at women. Not just romance, but horror, fantasy, comedy, heck, even erotica. About women, with marketing meant to get a woman's attention. Too many women of my generation grew up with feminists telling us we were equal to men, we should get equal pay, equal responsibilities, that we could do anything they could. We believed them, but when we went looking for our stories, stories about strong women, brave girls, there just weren't many stories for us. Jane Austen, and Nancy Drew is not a long list. So the women of my generation grew up, and wrote them.
What I really want to know, is why are relationships, feelings, emotional journeys, domesticity seen as solely women's issues? Who got to make that call??
I mean, okay sure, most women want to talk about their feelings, and most of the men I know have a hard time talking about theirs... I'm guessing though, that's a lot to do with how we've been raised. But in any case, I can see that being a chick thing, but, emotional journeys, they are what make or break so many stories, they are what make us who we are! How is that a chick thing?! And relationships take at least two.
I really get pissed off when I hear the dwems (Dead White English Men) of the world saying emotionally charged stories are shallow, sentimental, and trivial. There is nothing trivial about an emotional journey, it's tears, screams, heart-wrenching pain, and soul-stealing joy. It's meaty, gritty, raw truth. Damnit.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
No Sympathy from Me, You selfish, inconsiderate, mother-fucking asshole, fuckwit Subway Jumper
So some fucking asshole decided to make mine, and everyone else's 6pm subway commute an hour longer, and a whole lot less pleasant.
I get on the subway train, only to learn that the driver is "distressed", a few minutes of listening to passengers, to learn that some selfish fuckwit thought it would be a great idea to jump in front of a new subway train at union station. Fucking asshole! And he didn't die! Right now I'm so fucking pissed off I would like to finish the job for him.
No really. Fucker. Like how fucking selfish do you have to be to jump in front of a subway train? You have just fucked up some innocent driver, possibly for life. It doesn't matter if the driver sees you, there is a ton of steel at his back, and it takes time to stop it, no matter how fast he may want to stop it. And you've just made him or her, the driver a murderer just because you don't have the fucking balls to do the job yourself. Selfish.
In comparison my inconvenince is just that. Inconvenince. I'm chronically ill. I was forced by this mother fucking, asshole fuckwit to walk an extra hour today, which means, because I had to push, that I'm doing fuck all for the next few days, not to mention the blisters. Fucker. It took me 2.5 hours to get home thanks to your selfish basket case self. Ya know, I'm sorry you're not dead. Fucker.
And, And. I'm soooo pissed off, in all the commotion, I left my hat on the fucking train!!!!!!!!!!!!!
My hat. That I spent about a solid week, week and a half knitting. My hat that I'd worn only a handful of times. Is now in the hands of some non-knitter, I'm sure.
I am SO pissed off. I knew I'd left it as soon as I left the paid zone. Of course. But they were clearing the subway platform, they weren't going to let me go back down.
*sigh*
SO pissed off!!!! This is only the second time EVER I have lost a hat. Of course the other hat was, at the time, my favourite. At least I didn't love this one as much, but it was my first faire Ilse project! It only had one visible (to me) mistake! It was beautiful!!! It was warm! It was a week or more of hard core knitting!!!!!
FUCK.
Selfish, inconsiderate, mother fucking asshole fuckwit shit for brains, good for less than nothing!
Fuck.
I get on the subway train, only to learn that the driver is "distressed", a few minutes of listening to passengers, to learn that some selfish fuckwit thought it would be a great idea to jump in front of a new subway train at union station. Fucking asshole! And he didn't die! Right now I'm so fucking pissed off I would like to finish the job for him.
No really. Fucker. Like how fucking selfish do you have to be to jump in front of a subway train? You have just fucked up some innocent driver, possibly for life. It doesn't matter if the driver sees you, there is a ton of steel at his back, and it takes time to stop it, no matter how fast he may want to stop it. And you've just made him or her, the driver a murderer just because you don't have the fucking balls to do the job yourself. Selfish.
In comparison my inconvenince is just that. Inconvenince. I'm chronically ill. I was forced by this mother fucking, asshole fuckwit to walk an extra hour today, which means, because I had to push, that I'm doing fuck all for the next few days, not to mention the blisters. Fucker. It took me 2.5 hours to get home thanks to your selfish basket case self. Ya know, I'm sorry you're not dead. Fucker.
And, And. I'm soooo pissed off, in all the commotion, I left my hat on the fucking train!!!!!!!!!!!!!
My hat. That I spent about a solid week, week and a half knitting. My hat that I'd worn only a handful of times. Is now in the hands of some non-knitter, I'm sure.
I am SO pissed off. I knew I'd left it as soon as I left the paid zone. Of course. But they were clearing the subway platform, they weren't going to let me go back down.
*sigh*
SO pissed off!!!! This is only the second time EVER I have lost a hat. Of course the other hat was, at the time, my favourite. At least I didn't love this one as much, but it was my first faire Ilse project! It only had one visible (to me) mistake! It was beautiful!!! It was warm! It was a week or more of hard core knitting!!!!!
FUCK.
Selfish, inconsiderate, mother fucking asshole fuckwit shit for brains, good for less than nothing!
Fuck.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
I am overwhelmed.
This is the point in my day where the pain really wins. I feel the pain wins 99% of the time, and steals my life away, but when I get to this point I realize, nothing I felt today was anything, this, this is the real shit.
Everything hurts. Hurts to the point I can't think. All of me. Right down to my teeth. Even my skin hurts. My brain feels like it's going to bust out of my skull. My eyes burn when I close my eyelids. Every muscle, tendon, and fibre of my being ache, heck, most scream with pain.
I'm not sure there is anything that could distract me enough. Usually when I'm in pain I distract myself by clenching my teeth, by reading a good book, or watching fun TV, but this is too much. This is the level of pain where all I can do is sit here and try to continue breathing.
All I want to do is curl up in a ball and sleep until it's over. Right now I'm not so sure which "it" I mean. Because the pain, the pain will never stop, never relent, never recede.
I don't want to live this way. I really really don't.
Everything hurts. Hurts to the point I can't think. All of me. Right down to my teeth. Even my skin hurts. My brain feels like it's going to bust out of my skull. My eyes burn when I close my eyelids. Every muscle, tendon, and fibre of my being ache, heck, most scream with pain.
I'm not sure there is anything that could distract me enough. Usually when I'm in pain I distract myself by clenching my teeth, by reading a good book, or watching fun TV, but this is too much. This is the level of pain where all I can do is sit here and try to continue breathing.
All I want to do is curl up in a ball and sleep until it's over. Right now I'm not so sure which "it" I mean. Because the pain, the pain will never stop, never relent, never recede.
I don't want to live this way. I really really don't.
Friday, December 2, 2011
All this Yarn and I Can't Knit Myself a HAT?!
I have two under the bed boxes, one full-size coleman cooler, and another 12x18 inch box full of yarn, and I don't have yarn to make myself a soft, snuggly, super-warm hat.
No really.
The trouble is, a lot of the yarn is already ear-marked for things.
All the yarn in the cooler, other than the tiny discarded bits, is for the baby blanket I'm making. It's also acylic, and I'm so not making a hat for me out of it. I'm a yarn snob. But, I also sweat a lot, thanks to the drugs I'm on and the FMS, so if it's not wool, my hat will get damp and cold and miserable, and won't fulfill it's duty of keeping me warm.
The yarn in the box is for a sweater for me. I haven't started knitting it because I'm now as big as a house, and I don't think I actually have enough to make one to fit me now. Yarn keeps, so I'm waiting.
The one under the bed box has lots of matching balls, but it's either earmarked for other projects or unsuitable. The other box, has lots of wool, but most of it is bits and pieces, there is no one colour that I would have enough of, and none of it is the right weight to get me a super-warm hat anyway. I can't use it double, because, again, not enough in any one or even two matching colours. I refuse to knit myself a hat I can't wear with my winter jacket (because it doesn't match), that just doesn't make any sense, because believe me, if it doesn't match, I won't end up wearing it.
*sigh*
Maybe I'll just steal Chris' hat. His old one, not the new one, that would cruel, it was his xmas gift last year. lol.
Also, speaking of my husband, he's learning what it means to live with a knitter.
*giggles*
Last night I was staring at my bin of yarn, that's all different colours, and bemoaning that I couldn't believe that I couldn't find enough of something to make myself a hat. I mean, it is kinda ridiculous, but I know other knitters will understand! Chris knew better than to agree with me. He knew it might send me into a tirade about how all the yarn I have is unsuitable!
But it really is!!! Damnit.
I want a snuggly soft hat like the one I made for Chris last winter. But I don't have enough of the yarn I used to make another, and yarn brand went out of business!! There is no more of it to buy, anywhere. I've looked. *sigh* And I have yet to find a replacement brand. In all the yarn Romni sells, I have yet to find a brand in the same weight that's as soft and snuggly. There is one cascade yarn that's as soft, but it's twice as expensive! The yarn that was discontinued was already at the limits of what I was willing to spend. So that's no good. BAH!
I just want a soft, snuggly, super-warm hat! How is this such a tall freaking order?!
I'm giving up, for now. Maybe I'll think of something as January creeps closer.
No really.
The trouble is, a lot of the yarn is already ear-marked for things.
All the yarn in the cooler, other than the tiny discarded bits, is for the baby blanket I'm making. It's also acylic, and I'm so not making a hat for me out of it. I'm a yarn snob. But, I also sweat a lot, thanks to the drugs I'm on and the FMS, so if it's not wool, my hat will get damp and cold and miserable, and won't fulfill it's duty of keeping me warm.
The yarn in the box is for a sweater for me. I haven't started knitting it because I'm now as big as a house, and I don't think I actually have enough to make one to fit me now. Yarn keeps, so I'm waiting.
The one under the bed box has lots of matching balls, but it's either earmarked for other projects or unsuitable. The other box, has lots of wool, but most of it is bits and pieces, there is no one colour that I would have enough of, and none of it is the right weight to get me a super-warm hat anyway. I can't use it double, because, again, not enough in any one or even two matching colours. I refuse to knit myself a hat I can't wear with my winter jacket (because it doesn't match), that just doesn't make any sense, because believe me, if it doesn't match, I won't end up wearing it.
*sigh*
Maybe I'll just steal Chris' hat. His old one, not the new one, that would cruel, it was his xmas gift last year. lol.
Also, speaking of my husband, he's learning what it means to live with a knitter.
*giggles*
Last night I was staring at my bin of yarn, that's all different colours, and bemoaning that I couldn't believe that I couldn't find enough of something to make myself a hat. I mean, it is kinda ridiculous, but I know other knitters will understand! Chris knew better than to agree with me. He knew it might send me into a tirade about how all the yarn I have is unsuitable!
But it really is!!! Damnit.
I want a snuggly soft hat like the one I made for Chris last winter. But I don't have enough of the yarn I used to make another, and yarn brand went out of business!! There is no more of it to buy, anywhere. I've looked. *sigh* And I have yet to find a replacement brand. In all the yarn Romni sells, I have yet to find a brand in the same weight that's as soft and snuggly. There is one cascade yarn that's as soft, but it's twice as expensive! The yarn that was discontinued was already at the limits of what I was willing to spend. So that's no good. BAH!
I just want a soft, snuggly, super-warm hat! How is this such a tall freaking order?!
I'm giving up, for now. Maybe I'll think of something as January creeps closer.
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Thinking Too Much. Again.
I just got the 'you should be making money, not living your dreams, you need income' lecture.
*sigh*
Ironic really since, just this morning I was thinking, that maybe, just maybe I could do what I've always wanted instead of what I was schooled for. I thought it was amusing that I went to school, to secure a career with a steady pay, but since I'm now chronically ill and totally incapable of working full time, I might actually be able peruse what I wanted to.
I've always wanted to write, but I've never liked the insecurity, the knowledge that I may never get paid enough to live one, the knowledge that creative writing won't feed you, and you'll have to have a 'day job' to fall back on, or learn how to be a commercial writer.
My husband just suggested I seek out freelance work to write crappy websites.
I'm ethically against ad farm websites with dubious and badly written content, just on principle; they're sneaky and sleazy. Besides that, I'm not actually sure I could write that sort of content. What I mean is, I'm not sure I have any writing skills outside of the creative writing field.
There is of course, pay by the story options. Maybe? Someday?
Right now I'm just beginning to learn how to write. I feel like I'm a toddler, trying to pick out a career. I.... I don't feel ready for that?
All I really want right now is to finish my nano story, let it rest a bit, and then attempt editing it. I've never edited anything half so large. I think it will be a huge undertaking and learning experience.
I also really want to read more on the art, the science of writing and editing. Maybe take a course on mystery/suspense writing, and the one on writing for women and selling it - that one is sounding more and more like something I need to learn.
I want to sell my work. I really do. But I'm not even sure right now what kind of stories I'm capable of writing. I don't want to be some literary genius, I just want to write things I'm mostly proud of, things that others will read and enjoy. I'm perfectly happy being the cotton candy of the writing world. I love cotton candy!
It's been almost a year since I took the creative writing course. I haven't accomplished much since then. I haven't done any of the reading I'd hope to. Life has intruded. Also, a deep love affair with the cotton candy of the writing world. I have read so many romance novels! And most of them were yummy. I'm not entirely sure what I learned, except that I really love simple, cheesy, cotton candy romance stories.
My tummy hates me tonight. I'm not at all sure why it's angry like it is. I haven't eaten anything to set it off. But I know how I'm feeling isn't helping. Right now I'm feeling very guilty and worried.
Guilty for being a penniless burden. Guilty for wanting to live my dream instead of trudging to make some amount of money. I want to believe that living my dream, that writing what my soul wants to, would lead to money, but I know it wouldn't do it as fast as if I just sought out freelance work and wrote, gods knows what. Hell, I feel guilty for wanting to write instead of doing other useful things like getting groceries, doing dishes, cleaning our apartment, doing laundry. I can't do both, at least, I can't write mostly full time AND do errands or anything else. Nano has taught me that getting 100 pages in a month means ignoring everything else in my life. I can't keep that up long term, I'd burn our or contract some filth-related disease.
I'm worried my husband is finally starting to understand the burden he's placed on himself (me). Worried that he's worried about money. Worried that he feels the pinch of having a useless wife, and is, understandably blaming me for not helping out. I'm worried that I'm being totally selfish even considering trying to become an author. Being married to an author sucks, authors don't make a lot, but work a lot, and me, I work best at night - he might as well be single. As mentioned above, if I were to take a more serious attempt at being an writer, I'd have to devote time otherwise spent taking care of us. *sigh*
I feel utter selfish for wanting to live a dream. Just because I live with chronic illness, and my life is pain, doesn't mean I'm entitled to anything. As my husband pointed out, he wouldn't be doing what he does if it wasn't for the paycheck. I have no right to expect to like my job, never mind love it. I have no right to peruse something that won't help us financially.
I'm beginning to wonder if I should just give up this silly idea, and look for part time work a chronically ill person might be capable of. Clearly, I need to be making money, not living some foolish childhood dream. I'm an adult now. I didn't pick a field I loved in the first place, I picked one I thought would get me a steady pay check. I need to put that goal first again. Just because I'm chronically ill doesn't relieve me of the duty and need to actually support myself. Dreams are for bedtime. Work is for waking hours.
*sigh*
Ironic really since, just this morning I was thinking, that maybe, just maybe I could do what I've always wanted instead of what I was schooled for. I thought it was amusing that I went to school, to secure a career with a steady pay, but since I'm now chronically ill and totally incapable of working full time, I might actually be able peruse what I wanted to.
I've always wanted to write, but I've never liked the insecurity, the knowledge that I may never get paid enough to live one, the knowledge that creative writing won't feed you, and you'll have to have a 'day job' to fall back on, or learn how to be a commercial writer.
My husband just suggested I seek out freelance work to write crappy websites.
I'm ethically against ad farm websites with dubious and badly written content, just on principle; they're sneaky and sleazy. Besides that, I'm not actually sure I could write that sort of content. What I mean is, I'm not sure I have any writing skills outside of the creative writing field.
There is of course, pay by the story options. Maybe? Someday?
Right now I'm just beginning to learn how to write. I feel like I'm a toddler, trying to pick out a career. I.... I don't feel ready for that?
All I really want right now is to finish my nano story, let it rest a bit, and then attempt editing it. I've never edited anything half so large. I think it will be a huge undertaking and learning experience.
I also really want to read more on the art, the science of writing and editing. Maybe take a course on mystery/suspense writing, and the one on writing for women and selling it - that one is sounding more and more like something I need to learn.
I want to sell my work. I really do. But I'm not even sure right now what kind of stories I'm capable of writing. I don't want to be some literary genius, I just want to write things I'm mostly proud of, things that others will read and enjoy. I'm perfectly happy being the cotton candy of the writing world. I love cotton candy!
It's been almost a year since I took the creative writing course. I haven't accomplished much since then. I haven't done any of the reading I'd hope to. Life has intruded. Also, a deep love affair with the cotton candy of the writing world. I have read so many romance novels! And most of them were yummy. I'm not entirely sure what I learned, except that I really love simple, cheesy, cotton candy romance stories.
My tummy hates me tonight. I'm not at all sure why it's angry like it is. I haven't eaten anything to set it off. But I know how I'm feeling isn't helping. Right now I'm feeling very guilty and worried.
Guilty for being a penniless burden. Guilty for wanting to live my dream instead of trudging to make some amount of money. I want to believe that living my dream, that writing what my soul wants to, would lead to money, but I know it wouldn't do it as fast as if I just sought out freelance work and wrote, gods knows what. Hell, I feel guilty for wanting to write instead of doing other useful things like getting groceries, doing dishes, cleaning our apartment, doing laundry. I can't do both, at least, I can't write mostly full time AND do errands or anything else. Nano has taught me that getting 100 pages in a month means ignoring everything else in my life. I can't keep that up long term, I'd burn our or contract some filth-related disease.
I'm worried my husband is finally starting to understand the burden he's placed on himself (me). Worried that he's worried about money. Worried that he feels the pinch of having a useless wife, and is, understandably blaming me for not helping out. I'm worried that I'm being totally selfish even considering trying to become an author. Being married to an author sucks, authors don't make a lot, but work a lot, and me, I work best at night - he might as well be single. As mentioned above, if I were to take a more serious attempt at being an writer, I'd have to devote time otherwise spent taking care of us. *sigh*
I feel utter selfish for wanting to live a dream. Just because I live with chronic illness, and my life is pain, doesn't mean I'm entitled to anything. As my husband pointed out, he wouldn't be doing what he does if it wasn't for the paycheck. I have no right to expect to like my job, never mind love it. I have no right to peruse something that won't help us financially.
I'm beginning to wonder if I should just give up this silly idea, and look for part time work a chronically ill person might be capable of. Clearly, I need to be making money, not living some foolish childhood dream. I'm an adult now. I didn't pick a field I loved in the first place, I picked one I thought would get me a steady pay check. I need to put that goal first again. Just because I'm chronically ill doesn't relieve me of the duty and need to actually support myself. Dreams are for bedtime. Work is for waking hours.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Pushing Through the Pain
Sometimes, if I don't push through the pain, I don't get anything done. And by anything I mean basic things like showering, getting dressed, making myself solid food--not just scrounging for whatever will have me standing the shortest time to collect it.
Yesterday I pushed through the pain and complete exhaustion because I really needed to get out, to take a walk, get fresh air, have a sky above my head, not a roof. And I did it. I went on a walk, almost to Bathurst along Bloor, because I really wanted to go to David's Tea. Let me tell you, when your every movement brings so much pain you are clenching your teeth to keep from crying, walking one km feels like walking 10.
But I got there. I bought some lovely teas, then went to the metro for milk so I could have cereal in the morning. I also picked up some half price cheese and a bottle of gatorade as I was seriously dehydrated.
I limped all the way home. I know why old and crippled people walk like they do. It's not for lack of trying to walk like they used to. I was in so much pain every step brought the idea that I should stop, that I should sit, even if it meant sitting on the sidewalk, that I just couldn't take another step, that my body was too heavy, that I didn't have it in me to walk one step further, and yet, I did. I made it home. But the cost!! The cost was great.
I spent the rest of yesterday in sick feverish exhaustion. But it was too close to dinner time to sleep. When I did try to sleep I ended up crying myself to sleep. What I really wanted to to was get out of bed, and go into the living room where my 'old' bed from my parent's house lives. The mattress is far softer, and when I hurt like I did last night, every bit helps. Mostly though, I just wanted to get away from my husband so he could get a good night's sleep. But I did my best to be quiet, to suffer in utter silence. Eventually I fell into a very unrestful sleep. When he got up at 6am, it felt like 3am to me. I slept, tossing and turning, sobbing with pain, until 10am. That's when my headache told me I better get up or I was just going to hurt worse.
Today I've done almost nothing. I made myself cereal for breakfast, so at least I ate well. I had a snack of a couple tiny apples. And I've been knitting. It's about all my good for -- watching tv and knitting. My whole body aches, I hurt so badly I can't even cry, it would shake my shoulders and ribs, and they already hurt more than I can handle.
Now I've just spilled burning hot tea on my thigh. Cause today needed to get worse. Fuck. I hate burns, they just keep on burning, even when the heat source is gone!
I had to push through the pain today. I've been sitting here for four hours now, watching tv and knitting. I really need to work on my novel, but the pain, I really don't think I could work through it.
My right shoulder, for reasons I can't understand, actually starts aching when I type to much. That burning, numbing kind of pain. I had it yesterday too, but I didn't type much, so it's kinda odd. I wasn't able to work on my novel yesterday either. Too exhausted, too much pain, too overwhelmed by the combo.
I needed to eat something though. And I'm all alone. I can't ask someone to make me food or go get something cold and soft for my inflamed/scratched palate. If I want it I have to go myself. I don't know if I can do that. But I managed dishes, and I'm now, likely, burning my pasta. So at least I'll have something solid to eat.
I really fucking hate this though. I really need to write today, and, my brain, even as I type this, it's shutting down and my right, NO, it's my left! Fucking dyslexic mess that I am! My left shoulder is already burning with pain, and it's only going to get worse.
Yesterday I pushed through the pain and complete exhaustion because I really needed to get out, to take a walk, get fresh air, have a sky above my head, not a roof. And I did it. I went on a walk, almost to Bathurst along Bloor, because I really wanted to go to David's Tea. Let me tell you, when your every movement brings so much pain you are clenching your teeth to keep from crying, walking one km feels like walking 10.
But I got there. I bought some lovely teas, then went to the metro for milk so I could have cereal in the morning. I also picked up some half price cheese and a bottle of gatorade as I was seriously dehydrated.
I limped all the way home. I know why old and crippled people walk like they do. It's not for lack of trying to walk like they used to. I was in so much pain every step brought the idea that I should stop, that I should sit, even if it meant sitting on the sidewalk, that I just couldn't take another step, that my body was too heavy, that I didn't have it in me to walk one step further, and yet, I did. I made it home. But the cost!! The cost was great.
I spent the rest of yesterday in sick feverish exhaustion. But it was too close to dinner time to sleep. When I did try to sleep I ended up crying myself to sleep. What I really wanted to to was get out of bed, and go into the living room where my 'old' bed from my parent's house lives. The mattress is far softer, and when I hurt like I did last night, every bit helps. Mostly though, I just wanted to get away from my husband so he could get a good night's sleep. But I did my best to be quiet, to suffer in utter silence. Eventually I fell into a very unrestful sleep. When he got up at 6am, it felt like 3am to me. I slept, tossing and turning, sobbing with pain, until 10am. That's when my headache told me I better get up or I was just going to hurt worse.
Today I've done almost nothing. I made myself cereal for breakfast, so at least I ate well. I had a snack of a couple tiny apples. And I've been knitting. It's about all my good for -- watching tv and knitting. My whole body aches, I hurt so badly I can't even cry, it would shake my shoulders and ribs, and they already hurt more than I can handle.
Now I've just spilled burning hot tea on my thigh. Cause today needed to get worse. Fuck. I hate burns, they just keep on burning, even when the heat source is gone!
I had to push through the pain today. I've been sitting here for four hours now, watching tv and knitting. I really need to work on my novel, but the pain, I really don't think I could work through it.
My right shoulder, for reasons I can't understand, actually starts aching when I type to much. That burning, numbing kind of pain. I had it yesterday too, but I didn't type much, so it's kinda odd. I wasn't able to work on my novel yesterday either. Too exhausted, too much pain, too overwhelmed by the combo.
I needed to eat something though. And I'm all alone. I can't ask someone to make me food or go get something cold and soft for my inflamed/scratched palate. If I want it I have to go myself. I don't know if I can do that. But I managed dishes, and I'm now, likely, burning my pasta. So at least I'll have something solid to eat.
I really fucking hate this though. I really need to write today, and, my brain, even as I type this, it's shutting down and my right, NO, it's my left! Fucking dyslexic mess that I am! My left shoulder is already burning with pain, and it's only going to get worse.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Chronic Pain
I feel like I live on the edge of overwhelming pain. Meaning, it takes the addition of very little pain (added to my 'average daily pain') to take me over that edge, or tip the scales, or however you think of it. Once past that point, all pain becomes amplified, I am exhausted by doing nothing, and my brain refuses to think, surviving is all I'm capable of.
I hate it. I hate that having a shower exhausts me. That I have to sit for an hour afterwards just so I don't shake when I stand up. Just so I don't bloody well faint if I try to, say, do the dishes. I hate this so much. I hate being a fucking invalid.
But I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to fight it. I don't have the energy to push though. It just isn't there anymore. Where it was, fear now lives. I know what happens if I push too hard. I end up bed ridden for days, for a week even if I'm not careful.
How the fuck am I supposed to get healthier like this?!
I just... I feel so.. Beaten. So frustrated. So fucking useless and weak - the two things I have always dreaded being. And that's what I am now.
I wish I was stronger. I wish I had the discipline, the strength, the hope to fight this. But it's gone. The pain has eaten through whatever strength I might have had.
It really doesn't matter to me that if I lost weight I'd hurt less. Sure that makes me want to loose weight, but when faced with the pain of hunger, when faced with the chronic, devastating pain I live with every day, it means nothing. I just don't have it in me to suffer further, to 'push' to exercise - because I would have to push, most days I don't have the energy to take care of myself in the most basic terms, never mind enough to go out and do things. I don't have extra energy. When I have any energy at all, I use it for useful things like, showering, doing dishes, cleaning, getting groceries, making soup, making dinner.
I hate what I've become. I disgust myself. I'm so fat my body is falling apart. I'm in so much pain, I really couldn't care less about, well, most things really. It's amazing what chronic pain will do to a person, how it will change their priorities, their personalities, their desires and goals.
I just want to curl up in a ball and cry. I want to hide from the world and wait till it's over. I have no hope this will ever get better. I know it's only going to get worse. I want to hope, but, experience tells me, no matter what happens, I'm always going to be in pain. Life is pain. That's all I know. That's how my life has been for as long as I can remember. I don't know any other life. I don't want to live like this, fuck, who would? but I don't have the faintest clue how to fix it, how to fix me.
I hate it. I hate that having a shower exhausts me. That I have to sit for an hour afterwards just so I don't shake when I stand up. Just so I don't bloody well faint if I try to, say, do the dishes. I hate this so much. I hate being a fucking invalid.
But I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to fight it. I don't have the energy to push though. It just isn't there anymore. Where it was, fear now lives. I know what happens if I push too hard. I end up bed ridden for days, for a week even if I'm not careful.
How the fuck am I supposed to get healthier like this?!
I just... I feel so.. Beaten. So frustrated. So fucking useless and weak - the two things I have always dreaded being. And that's what I am now.
I wish I was stronger. I wish I had the discipline, the strength, the hope to fight this. But it's gone. The pain has eaten through whatever strength I might have had.
It really doesn't matter to me that if I lost weight I'd hurt less. Sure that makes me want to loose weight, but when faced with the pain of hunger, when faced with the chronic, devastating pain I live with every day, it means nothing. I just don't have it in me to suffer further, to 'push' to exercise - because I would have to push, most days I don't have the energy to take care of myself in the most basic terms, never mind enough to go out and do things. I don't have extra energy. When I have any energy at all, I use it for useful things like, showering, doing dishes, cleaning, getting groceries, making soup, making dinner.
I hate what I've become. I disgust myself. I'm so fat my body is falling apart. I'm in so much pain, I really couldn't care less about, well, most things really. It's amazing what chronic pain will do to a person, how it will change their priorities, their personalities, their desires and goals.
I just want to curl up in a ball and cry. I want to hide from the world and wait till it's over. I have no hope this will ever get better. I know it's only going to get worse. I want to hope, but, experience tells me, no matter what happens, I'm always going to be in pain. Life is pain. That's all I know. That's how my life has been for as long as I can remember. I don't know any other life. I don't want to live like this, fuck, who would? but I don't have the faintest clue how to fix it, how to fix me.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
sometimes I'm an angry bitter woman.
My letter to the Red Cross:
Hi.
I've donated blood over the years, from 15 to 31 years old, I'm 32 now,but I haven't given in a year, so I don't count it. The last time was my 20th, so I guess don't go very often.
I thought it might be helpful for you to know *why* I don't donate more often, and why I haven't gone in the past year. I'm morbidly obese, and chronically ill, but I don't have any blood issues. I'm not diabetic, and thus far the drugs I'm on haven't excluded my donating.
For the past five years or so, the biggest reason I haven't donated, is the attitude I get from the nursing staff. EVERY time I've donated in Toronto I've been lectured, I've had nurses treat me like I'm personally offending them with my presence. I get the lecture that I shouldn't have tattoos because they are dangerous. I get the lecture that I should loose weight because I'm morbidly obese, like somehow I missed that fact. I live with me, of course I know what I look like. I don't like it either, but I at least most strangers are civlil, your staff has no idea what situation is, how dare they judge me! The nursing staff always makes me want to cry.
THEN I get the lecture about how my blood pressure is too high and I should really see to that. You know WHY my blood pressure is so high?? Because I know every time I go in there I'm going to get torn down for something. I know I'm going to get the lecture about how my weight is affecting my health, like somehow I missed that, you know, living in my own skin. You know what? When I go see my GP, which I do regularly, seeing as I'm chronically ill, I get my blood pressure checked and it's perfectly fine. Your staff causes my blood pressure to spike.
You know, when I donated in Hamilton, where I used to live, I never had that problem, but then I usually ended up at one of the McMaster Clinics and they tend to move people pretty fast through there. No time for lectures or passing judgement.
I just thought it might help you to know why I don't want to donate. I can't be the only fat person with social anxieties that doesn't want to put themselves in a bad situation.
sincerely,
Melissa Wood.
Hi.
I've donated blood over the years, from 15 to 31 years old, I'm 32 now,but I haven't given in a year, so I don't count it. The last time was my 20th, so I guess don't go very often.
I thought it might be helpful for you to know *why* I don't donate more often, and why I haven't gone in the past year. I'm morbidly obese, and chronically ill, but I don't have any blood issues. I'm not diabetic, and thus far the drugs I'm on haven't excluded my donating.
For the past five years or so, the biggest reason I haven't donated, is the attitude I get from the nursing staff. EVERY time I've donated in Toronto I've been lectured, I've had nurses treat me like I'm personally offending them with my presence. I get the lecture that I shouldn't have tattoos because they are dangerous. I get the lecture that I should loose weight because I'm morbidly obese, like somehow I missed that fact. I live with me, of course I know what I look like. I don't like it either, but I at least most strangers are civlil, your staff has no idea what situation is, how dare they judge me! The nursing staff always makes me want to cry.
THEN I get the lecture about how my blood pressure is too high and I should really see to that. You know WHY my blood pressure is so high?? Because I know every time I go in there I'm going to get torn down for something. I know I'm going to get the lecture about how my weight is affecting my health, like somehow I missed that, you know, living in my own skin. You know what? When I go see my GP, which I do regularly, seeing as I'm chronically ill, I get my blood pressure checked and it's perfectly fine. Your staff causes my blood pressure to spike.
You know, when I donated in Hamilton, where I used to live, I never had that problem, but then I usually ended up at one of the McMaster Clinics and they tend to move people pretty fast through there. No time for lectures or passing judgement.
I just thought it might help you to know why I don't want to donate. I can't be the only fat person with social anxieties that doesn't want to put themselves in a bad situation.
sincerely,
Melissa Wood.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Depressed, Distraught, Disheartened, & Frustrated, Damnit!
In the past year I've gained almost 40 pounds. Since 2007, I've gained 90 pounds. o.0
It's a chicken and egg situation, in terms of what came first/what caused what.
Either way, my health has seriously deteriorated in the last 4 years. And yet, I don't know if I'd exchange my health situation from then to now. I had debilitating headaches, stress, sinus, migraine, TMJ, all at once, to the point I couldn't distinguish one pain from the other. BUT I also had energy, I had fight. I do not have either now.
I feel so freaking hopeless!
I have no energy. None. I wake up exhausted. Today I'm so tired I don't even have the energy to make myself something to eat! Though, part of that is likely depression. Still, I'm so bloody tired all the fucking time.
I don't have the energy to do normal things, like showering, doing dishes, making myself something to eat, never mind energy for going out into the world!
I hate this. I just hate hate hate hate hate it!
I know part of why I don't sleep well is because I hurt. It's hard to get actual rest when you're sore. I wake up often feeling like I've been hit by a mack truck.
My body is falling apart. My arches ache, even when I'm not using them. My Achilles tendons are swollen, with lumps no less! And there's not a gods damn fucking thing I can do for them. Loose weight. That's what they need. How the fuck am I supposed to do that when I can't walk with them to do it? Eat less. That's what my doctor told me when I asked what to do about my weight. You know, because that's just so bloody easy.
I have no discipline. I know that's a huge part of my problem. I spent over a year eating miserable 'heathly' food to loose 60 lbs. But what really helped was walking. Something that's hard for me to do now that I'm even heavier, and my feet are broken.
I also have FMS full on now, and it makes everything harder. I used to be able to push myself when I was tired, and had a massive headache. I could go for a long walk, or go to the gym, and still be done all that feeling almost refreshed. If I tried that now, I would injure myself, and I would get home feverish and shaking. I would spend the next few days to a week, in bed, sleeping, or trying to sleep and being unable to because I was in too much pain. That's the reality I live with now. I never know how much I can push, or if I should at all. If I push when my body can't take it, I pay for it for days.
I feel like no one understands. I mean, I wouldn't believe this if I didn't live it. It's fucking ridiculous. I have no reserve energy. I have no ability to tell when moving more will help, or when it will sideline me for a week.
Right now I'm feverish and sore. I'm likely exhausted. Why? Because I stayed up late on Saturday. Nevermind I slept until noon yesterday. Nevermind I did fuck all yesterday. Nevermind I got up late today. Nevermind I had a bleeding nap. Nope. I'm feverish with exhaustion. Yet I have a headache from sleeping too much. WHAT THE FUCK BODY?!?!?!
How do I fix this?? How? Just how? I don't know what to do.
I hate this. I hate my body. I hate being chronically ill. I hate being fucking useless. I hate not knowing what I'm capable of one day to the next. I hate being this fucking fat. Jesus. It's disgusting. Just utterly disgusting.
I swear, if I didn't have Chris, I'd be suicidal right now.
It's a chicken and egg situation, in terms of what came first/what caused what.
Either way, my health has seriously deteriorated in the last 4 years. And yet, I don't know if I'd exchange my health situation from then to now. I had debilitating headaches, stress, sinus, migraine, TMJ, all at once, to the point I couldn't distinguish one pain from the other. BUT I also had energy, I had fight. I do not have either now.
I feel so freaking hopeless!
I have no energy. None. I wake up exhausted. Today I'm so tired I don't even have the energy to make myself something to eat! Though, part of that is likely depression. Still, I'm so bloody tired all the fucking time.
I don't have the energy to do normal things, like showering, doing dishes, making myself something to eat, never mind energy for going out into the world!
I hate this. I just hate hate hate hate hate it!
I know part of why I don't sleep well is because I hurt. It's hard to get actual rest when you're sore. I wake up often feeling like I've been hit by a mack truck.
My body is falling apart. My arches ache, even when I'm not using them. My Achilles tendons are swollen, with lumps no less! And there's not a gods damn fucking thing I can do for them. Loose weight. That's what they need. How the fuck am I supposed to do that when I can't walk with them to do it? Eat less. That's what my doctor told me when I asked what to do about my weight. You know, because that's just so bloody easy.
I have no discipline. I know that's a huge part of my problem. I spent over a year eating miserable 'heathly' food to loose 60 lbs. But what really helped was walking. Something that's hard for me to do now that I'm even heavier, and my feet are broken.
I also have FMS full on now, and it makes everything harder. I used to be able to push myself when I was tired, and had a massive headache. I could go for a long walk, or go to the gym, and still be done all that feeling almost refreshed. If I tried that now, I would injure myself, and I would get home feverish and shaking. I would spend the next few days to a week, in bed, sleeping, or trying to sleep and being unable to because I was in too much pain. That's the reality I live with now. I never know how much I can push, or if I should at all. If I push when my body can't take it, I pay for it for days.
I feel like no one understands. I mean, I wouldn't believe this if I didn't live it. It's fucking ridiculous. I have no reserve energy. I have no ability to tell when moving more will help, or when it will sideline me for a week.
Right now I'm feverish and sore. I'm likely exhausted. Why? Because I stayed up late on Saturday. Nevermind I slept until noon yesterday. Nevermind I did fuck all yesterday. Nevermind I got up late today. Nevermind I had a bleeding nap. Nope. I'm feverish with exhaustion. Yet I have a headache from sleeping too much. WHAT THE FUCK BODY?!?!?!
How do I fix this?? How? Just how? I don't know what to do.
I hate this. I hate my body. I hate being chronically ill. I hate being fucking useless. I hate not knowing what I'm capable of one day to the next. I hate being this fucking fat. Jesus. It's disgusting. Just utterly disgusting.
I swear, if I didn't have Chris, I'd be suicidal right now.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
My Third Assignment
So today was class, again. We got our 4th assignment, which is 300 words, open topic. I sure hope I get some middle-class, middle-aged, married, white woman friendly inspiration sooner rather than later!
Trouble is, I feel like writing for that group totally puts me at a disadvantage for what I'm good at, but I guess in a way that's a good thing, as it challenges me. But it does also make me wonder... Like if writing within my favourite topic, if I'm better or worse at it. Maybe I'll see if they have a course in paranormal.....I'm not sure if science fiction/fantasy is close enough, but likely as close as I'm going to get..... And they do have a course in that. So perhaps that will be next. Not entirely sure.
Anyway! I wanted to share my last assignment, #3. The goal was to show, not tell, a character's desire. Though, I've realised she wants more than just that, and tried to hint at possible obstacles to him getting what he wanted. Apparently I should have had more interaction, and shared what those obstacles was. *Sigh* How the hell was I supposed to do ALL that in 250 words, I ask you?!
I feel like my teacher is just never happy. I was happy with this piece until I got her feedback. And damnit, I still like it. I made a conscious decision not to have there be a conversation. I made a conscious decision to only hint at the obstacles, and in doing so, from comments made by my classmates, they all took it in different directions/ways than I meant it, they made it more romantic than I thought it was, more meaningful. And damnit, that's a good thing. *sigh* And for the record, yes, cuddled is the right word.
Without further ado, my piece:
Nate stared at the woman in his bed. A wistful smile stole across his lips. Even in the dark, he could see the pale outline of her arm and shoulder against his red sheets. She was curled up on her side, a teddy bear clutched in her arms, pressed against her cleavage. He remembered how incredibly shy and embarrassed Lizzy was when she asked to leave the teddy bear at his apartment. He would’ve said yes to almost anything in that moment, so adorable she was then.
She was still adorable, and so very inviting. He undressed quickly and crawled into bed beside her. He cuddled his tall muscular body around her soft shapely one; they fit perfectly. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in tight.
“Oh yeah, that’s the stuff,” Nate sighed happily. He’d been waiting all week for this moment.
Half asleep, Lizzy wiggled her butt, snuggling in against him. She wrapped her arm around his, her long fingers playing over his hand.
"Please God, let me keep her, just a little while more." he prayed, his lips caressing her back.
His world was too complicated by half: one life for his mother, one for his company, and a third for himself. Silently, he prayed for guidance, and the courage to follow through. He tucked himself in closer to her warmth, pressing every inch of himself he could against her soft, smooth skin. Nate closed his eyes and breathed in her scent. Oh yeah, that’s the stuff.
Trouble is, I feel like writing for that group totally puts me at a disadvantage for what I'm good at, but I guess in a way that's a good thing, as it challenges me. But it does also make me wonder... Like if writing within my favourite topic, if I'm better or worse at it. Maybe I'll see if they have a course in paranormal.....I'm not sure if science fiction/fantasy is close enough, but likely as close as I'm going to get..... And they do have a course in that. So perhaps that will be next. Not entirely sure.
Anyway! I wanted to share my last assignment, #3. The goal was to show, not tell, a character's desire. Though, I've realised she wants more than just that, and tried to hint at possible obstacles to him getting what he wanted. Apparently I should have had more interaction, and shared what those obstacles was. *Sigh* How the hell was I supposed to do ALL that in 250 words, I ask you?!
I feel like my teacher is just never happy. I was happy with this piece until I got her feedback. And damnit, I still like it. I made a conscious decision not to have there be a conversation. I made a conscious decision to only hint at the obstacles, and in doing so, from comments made by my classmates, they all took it in different directions/ways than I meant it, they made it more romantic than I thought it was, more meaningful. And damnit, that's a good thing. *sigh* And for the record, yes, cuddled is the right word.
Without further ado, my piece:
Nate stared at the woman in his bed. A wistful smile stole across his lips. Even in the dark, he could see the pale outline of her arm and shoulder against his red sheets. She was curled up on her side, a teddy bear clutched in her arms, pressed against her cleavage. He remembered how incredibly shy and embarrassed Lizzy was when she asked to leave the teddy bear at his apartment. He would’ve said yes to almost anything in that moment, so adorable she was then.
She was still adorable, and so very inviting. He undressed quickly and crawled into bed beside her. He cuddled his tall muscular body around her soft shapely one; they fit perfectly. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her in tight.
“Oh yeah, that’s the stuff,” Nate sighed happily. He’d been waiting all week for this moment.
Half asleep, Lizzy wiggled her butt, snuggling in against him. She wrapped her arm around his, her long fingers playing over his hand.
"Please God, let me keep her, just a little while more." he prayed, his lips caressing her back.
His world was too complicated by half: one life for his mother, one for his company, and a third for himself. Silently, he prayed for guidance, and the courage to follow through. He tucked himself in closer to her warmth, pressing every inch of himself he could against her soft, smooth skin. Nate closed his eyes and breathed in her scent. Oh yeah, that’s the stuff.
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Sadness, and a Fridge full of food.
So we tried to have a housewarming/bday party for my husband today. It was a fantastic failure. We gave everyone two months notice. Invited just about everyone we knew in Toronto, many people that before today I would have called friends, but they aren't really, they're just acquaintances for the most part.
So can you guess how many showed up? Yup. That's right. Zero. At least a couple of them had understandable excuses. But when no one shows up.... Yeah, that's no coincidence. This is me, never throwing another party again.
On the bright side, at least 90% of the perishable food in our fridge is healthy! Lots of veggies, and fresh salsa, and cheese. Mmm, cheese.
The day wasn't wasted though. I vacuumed and washed the floors, and made raisin bread. All before 1pm! I even go to finish the dirty book I was reading.
I wish I could ease this sadness though. I also feel like such an ass. I made sure we had chairs for guests - though Chris was the one that carried them home from half way across the city, I made my poor husband go on a fourth trip to the grocery store today to get pop for guests that never showed. I nearly killed myself cutting veggies, making a double batch of cookies, burning myself on raisin bread, and for what? *Sigh* the Cookies and bread can be frozen. In honesty, I made the bread with the thought that at least I'd have something sure to look forward to today. I think though, this is why, once I got past 13, I never threw another party. I just couldn't take the thought that no one would show up. So when I did invite people over it was only people I knew wouldn't not show, like my family and best friends. But my best friends live in different cities now, I'm not even sure if they would show up if I invited them. I'll have to try, but I'm not going to hold my breath.
Still. It wasn't a bad day. I got to snuggle my husband, and something actually made me keep the floors clean. lol. *Sigh* Just not what I'd hoped for. Oh well. Maybe we'll try again when one of us turns 40; preferably me.
But what really pisses me off, is this was supposed to be a birthday party for my husband. And no one showed up. Not a single one of the people I thought were our friends! And now there is no one here to eat the damn cake. The cake that is fucking perfect, and no one but us to eat it! Bah! Bah I say! Well, at least my husband is a fairly solitary creature, I don't think he's half as put out as I am. And he still wants to eat the cake I made. I'm very glad of this. I had some bread, and somehow I'm very full, but make no mistake, we will be eating that cake, and by gods we will enjoy it because it is magnificent.
Update:
To those of you who made my husband morose - *shakes my fist at you*
So can you guess how many showed up? Yup. That's right. Zero. At least a couple of them had understandable excuses. But when no one shows up.... Yeah, that's no coincidence. This is me, never throwing another party again.
On the bright side, at least 90% of the perishable food in our fridge is healthy! Lots of veggies, and fresh salsa, and cheese. Mmm, cheese.
The day wasn't wasted though. I vacuumed and washed the floors, and made raisin bread. All before 1pm! I even go to finish the dirty book I was reading.
I wish I could ease this sadness though. I also feel like such an ass. I made sure we had chairs for guests - though Chris was the one that carried them home from half way across the city, I made my poor husband go on a fourth trip to the grocery store today to get pop for guests that never showed. I nearly killed myself cutting veggies, making a double batch of cookies, burning myself on raisin bread, and for what? *Sigh* the Cookies and bread can be frozen. In honesty, I made the bread with the thought that at least I'd have something sure to look forward to today. I think though, this is why, once I got past 13, I never threw another party. I just couldn't take the thought that no one would show up. So when I did invite people over it was only people I knew wouldn't not show, like my family and best friends. But my best friends live in different cities now, I'm not even sure if they would show up if I invited them. I'll have to try, but I'm not going to hold my breath.
Still. It wasn't a bad day. I got to snuggle my husband, and something actually made me keep the floors clean. lol. *Sigh* Just not what I'd hoped for. Oh well. Maybe we'll try again when one of us turns 40; preferably me.
But what really pisses me off, is this was supposed to be a birthday party for my husband. And no one showed up. Not a single one of the people I thought were our friends! And now there is no one here to eat the damn cake. The cake that is fucking perfect, and no one but us to eat it! Bah! Bah I say! Well, at least my husband is a fairly solitary creature, I don't think he's half as put out as I am. And he still wants to eat the cake I made. I'm very glad of this. I had some bread, and somehow I'm very full, but make no mistake, we will be eating that cake, and by gods we will enjoy it because it is magnificent.
Update:
To those of you who made my husband morose - *shakes my fist at you*
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