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 ouch. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ouch. 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.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Not As Devoted A Daughter As I Thought?
Last night I had a nightmare, and it's left me wondering just how devoted I am to my mom. I love my mom. I'd give my life for hers. I'd walk through hell for her, and have, emotionally speaking. But would I go into glorious debt, really risk my life? According to my dream, maybe not.
I dreamt last night, that I went to China with some friends on a kind of retreat. And my mom surprised me by signing up and coming too. It was sweet and wonderful, and we had a mostly great week.
On the last day everything was rather chaotic. The ladies were getting manicures and pedicures in shifts (I opted out of the manicure). We were collecting and showing off the things we'd made. We were having having smoothies and light snacks - everyone was going to lunch/dinner together before leaving.
So in the hustle and bustle, I lost track of my mom. I wasn't worried initially. I was talking with one of the girls, and picking out the make-up (from the pile we'd tried the day before) that I wanted to keep - we all got the option to keep the ones we'd used ourselves.
But when I couldn't find her in any of the rooms or out in the garden, and no one had seen her for some time. I got anxious. I asked if it were possible she left on her own, but the organizers said no, that we were all getting in the van together to go to the airport, that if she'd said she wanted to leave, she'd have been told to wait. Only she never approached them. When I told them I couldn't find her, they got worried too. Everyone looked. No one found her.
This huge man, that I guess was security - I'd not actually noticed we'd HAD security until then, went next door to this bar, and laid down suppressing flames before entering. He went in rattled the patrons and came back out saying a crew of gangsters were seen taking her.
There were two options: (1) the gang took her to escalate a turf war that was at a truce between the people(gang?) that were our security, and their gang, in which case she was probably dead, and hanging from the rafters somewhere to show off their kill/taunt the people we were with OR (2) the gang was branching out into kidnapping/ransoming and in that case she'd be alive for now.
I had to make a decision, did I leave her for dead/assume she was dead, or did I send the security crew in, guns blazing, and possibly start a turf war that would get many other innocents killed. The answer was easy, I would risk anything, everything to get my mother back.
This one old woman scoffed at me, and said I was selfish, that it was a fool's errand. I got up in her face and told her my mom was everything to me, she was the person I loved most in the world (I felt guilty saying this, knowing I had a husband at home waiting for me that I loved, just... not as much as my mom). I'd walk through hell for her, and she'd done that for me. That I owed her everything. That I wouldn't be there, I wouldn't be the person I am if it wasn't for her. That I would do anything and everything in my power to get her back back. If that meant starting some kind of turf war, then so be it.
The huge guy with the flame thrower, and some others went to their headquarters, and I tagged along. No one gave me a gun, and I was in the middle of a gun fight, it was totally stupid of me to go in unarmed. We got to the building, got in without being captured, but then their numbers overwhelmed us and we were their prisoners.
The leader was an arrogant ass, just as one might suspect. I had more than my mother captive, and at first I didn't see her. Then he lead me by my elbow, to show my mom wrapped in some kind of green tarp, laying helpless on the low table, her glasses and personal effects taken from her. In my dream she still needed her glasses to see (she had cataract surgery last winter and doesn't need glasses to see anymore), so they'd effectively frightened her to near death by not allowing her to know one inkling of what was going on. I thought my heart would break just from seeing her like that. My mom has never been a powerless person, she's always been so capable, and confident.
The horrible man, whose touch made my skin crawl, said he wanted $300,000 CDN, and all the pictures from the weekend retreat. Over the weekend, mostly the younger of us, did a 'love your body' two day thing where we were naked a lot, we did yoga, body painting, took pictures throughout the whole thing - they would be ours to keep, but it was a way to see our bodies as beautiful, they had a pro come in and set up a studio for us. I guess the leader guy was a creepy perv, or perhaps he wanted to sell those too, I don't know. I was too busy worrying about how in the hell I was going to come up with three hundred grand fast enough, and if I could ever pay it back.
The big guy that was with us, said they'd get the money, told the leader it was not a problem and started making a call - when the gang goons let him - to some lawyer or banker of some kind? The call made is seem like they were pretty familiar with the whole kidnapping ransom thing, and were good about getting the money fast. At the time I was too busy freaking out about the money - only Chris works, I have no money of my own, how in the hell were we ever going to pay off such a large sum?? We'd never own a home, we'd never be out of debt. My stomach was roiling with worry/anxiety/fear/doubt. It occurred to me that some of my aunts and uncles might chip in to help pay the debt, as they'd be just as willing to get mom back, but it wasn't any kind of a guarantee. Most of my family weren't... in a position to help, and those that were... well, I didn't trust they would. Which would mean I'd be ruining my husband's life. I'd be ruining our chances of every having the life we wanted. Could I really do that?
Then I started wondering if they would ever actually let any of us go. We'd seen their faces, we knew who they were. This wasn't some anonymous deal. Perhaps they would make me sign over the money, make sure they get it, and then kill us all.
Apparently my brain did not like where this was going, and decided it wanted to start over.
I went back to the point where I decided to go in after my mom, and this time, I went on my own, loaded for bear with as much ammo and guns as I could carry.
I got in easily, confused the bad guys and shot them down while they were still confused about how I got in. I killed maybe half or more that way. Then they caught on and went after me. There was about 4 or 5 of them, laying down impressive suppressing fire.I managed to hide behind this huge marble stand - they had a museum in the front room of their warehouse - real professional-like, with meaty marble pedestals, great recessed lighting, and glass cases for everything). So I hid, and managed to shoot 3 of the 5 in the legs and one in the hip - their hiding spot initially was no where good as mine. I even managed to get the leader in the knee. Boy was he pissed off. I'd destroyed his knee! But once they got cover they started shooting at metal plates I hadn't noticed before in the ceiling, sending bullets at me from the side not protected by the marble. I hunkered down, and used some kind of wall divider that had been near me as cover, putting it over my head, so at least they couldn't see where I was under it.
Somehow this skinny blond bitch, pretending she was an angel (her look was too innocent, it made my teeth hurt), snuck up on me while I was trying not to die from ricocheted shots. Maybe she was hypnotic, because suddenly my gun was out of ammo, and I was surrounded. I played it cool. I knew showing fear, or panicking would get me no where and just make me look weak.
They captured me, but didn't frisk me. Stupid. I still had my gun. And I had ammo at my back, under my jacket, I just needed to loose my empty clip and refill without them noticing. I set them at ease, perhaps cause I'm such a sweet looking white girl? And managed to dump my empty clip in a closet and put in a full clip without them seeing. Only, they saw me do something, and checked finding the empty clip. Everyone suddenly pointed their guns at me, looking worried. I had after all killed over half of them without getting even a scratch.
They wanted to know where my gun was. I showed them my hands. They asked about my pockets. Very slowly I started showing them my empty pockets on my left side, knowing full well my loaded gun was in my right main pocket. My brain was working fast, trying to figure out how I was going to shoot all four of them, that surrounded me in a half circle without getting dread myself.
And this is when I woke up. I gasped, like I was coming out water from some depth. Immediately I felt shame for doubting, for not being sure I'd take on the debt to save my mom. After the adamant, heartfelt speech I'd made to that woman, when it came down to it, I.. I wasn't sure I'd actually do what I said. I just.. I don't know. The dream is making me doubt. But I don't get my whole brain in dreams, I miss things that become obvious once I'm awake, I don't have the same... decision making capabilities. But if I was alone, without Chris to back me up, and was asked to come up with $300,000... I just.. I don't have that kind of money. I don't know if I could even get a loan! and if I could.. how on earth would I ever pay it back? *Sigh*
But on the flip side, could I watch her die? Could I stand back and see the tears flow, as she didn't know what was going on at all. Could I watch her suffer? No. No, that I could not do.
I dreamt last night, that I went to China with some friends on a kind of retreat. And my mom surprised me by signing up and coming too. It was sweet and wonderful, and we had a mostly great week.
On the last day everything was rather chaotic. The ladies were getting manicures and pedicures in shifts (I opted out of the manicure). We were collecting and showing off the things we'd made. We were having having smoothies and light snacks - everyone was going to lunch/dinner together before leaving.
So in the hustle and bustle, I lost track of my mom. I wasn't worried initially. I was talking with one of the girls, and picking out the make-up (from the pile we'd tried the day before) that I wanted to keep - we all got the option to keep the ones we'd used ourselves.
But when I couldn't find her in any of the rooms or out in the garden, and no one had seen her for some time. I got anxious. I asked if it were possible she left on her own, but the organizers said no, that we were all getting in the van together to go to the airport, that if she'd said she wanted to leave, she'd have been told to wait. Only she never approached them. When I told them I couldn't find her, they got worried too. Everyone looked. No one found her.
This huge man, that I guess was security - I'd not actually noticed we'd HAD security until then, went next door to this bar, and laid down suppressing flames before entering. He went in rattled the patrons and came back out saying a crew of gangsters were seen taking her.
There were two options: (1) the gang took her to escalate a turf war that was at a truce between the people(gang?) that were our security, and their gang, in which case she was probably dead, and hanging from the rafters somewhere to show off their kill/taunt the people we were with OR (2) the gang was branching out into kidnapping/ransoming and in that case she'd be alive for now.
I had to make a decision, did I leave her for dead/assume she was dead, or did I send the security crew in, guns blazing, and possibly start a turf war that would get many other innocents killed. The answer was easy, I would risk anything, everything to get my mother back.
This one old woman scoffed at me, and said I was selfish, that it was a fool's errand. I got up in her face and told her my mom was everything to me, she was the person I loved most in the world (I felt guilty saying this, knowing I had a husband at home waiting for me that I loved, just... not as much as my mom). I'd walk through hell for her, and she'd done that for me. That I owed her everything. That I wouldn't be there, I wouldn't be the person I am if it wasn't for her. That I would do anything and everything in my power to get her back back. If that meant starting some kind of turf war, then so be it.
The huge guy with the flame thrower, and some others went to their headquarters, and I tagged along. No one gave me a gun, and I was in the middle of a gun fight, it was totally stupid of me to go in unarmed. We got to the building, got in without being captured, but then their numbers overwhelmed us and we were their prisoners.
The leader was an arrogant ass, just as one might suspect. I had more than my mother captive, and at first I didn't see her. Then he lead me by my elbow, to show my mom wrapped in some kind of green tarp, laying helpless on the low table, her glasses and personal effects taken from her. In my dream she still needed her glasses to see (she had cataract surgery last winter and doesn't need glasses to see anymore), so they'd effectively frightened her to near death by not allowing her to know one inkling of what was going on. I thought my heart would break just from seeing her like that. My mom has never been a powerless person, she's always been so capable, and confident.
The horrible man, whose touch made my skin crawl, said he wanted $300,000 CDN, and all the pictures from the weekend retreat. Over the weekend, mostly the younger of us, did a 'love your body' two day thing where we were naked a lot, we did yoga, body painting, took pictures throughout the whole thing - they would be ours to keep, but it was a way to see our bodies as beautiful, they had a pro come in and set up a studio for us. I guess the leader guy was a creepy perv, or perhaps he wanted to sell those too, I don't know. I was too busy worrying about how in the hell I was going to come up with three hundred grand fast enough, and if I could ever pay it back.
The big guy that was with us, said they'd get the money, told the leader it was not a problem and started making a call - when the gang goons let him - to some lawyer or banker of some kind? The call made is seem like they were pretty familiar with the whole kidnapping ransom thing, and were good about getting the money fast. At the time I was too busy freaking out about the money - only Chris works, I have no money of my own, how in the hell were we ever going to pay off such a large sum?? We'd never own a home, we'd never be out of debt. My stomach was roiling with worry/anxiety/fear/doubt. It occurred to me that some of my aunts and uncles might chip in to help pay the debt, as they'd be just as willing to get mom back, but it wasn't any kind of a guarantee. Most of my family weren't... in a position to help, and those that were... well, I didn't trust they would. Which would mean I'd be ruining my husband's life. I'd be ruining our chances of every having the life we wanted. Could I really do that?
Then I started wondering if they would ever actually let any of us go. We'd seen their faces, we knew who they were. This wasn't some anonymous deal. Perhaps they would make me sign over the money, make sure they get it, and then kill us all.
Apparently my brain did not like where this was going, and decided it wanted to start over.
I went back to the point where I decided to go in after my mom, and this time, I went on my own, loaded for bear with as much ammo and guns as I could carry.
I got in easily, confused the bad guys and shot them down while they were still confused about how I got in. I killed maybe half or more that way. Then they caught on and went after me. There was about 4 or 5 of them, laying down impressive suppressing fire.I managed to hide behind this huge marble stand - they had a museum in the front room of their warehouse - real professional-like, with meaty marble pedestals, great recessed lighting, and glass cases for everything). So I hid, and managed to shoot 3 of the 5 in the legs and one in the hip - their hiding spot initially was no where good as mine. I even managed to get the leader in the knee. Boy was he pissed off. I'd destroyed his knee! But once they got cover they started shooting at metal plates I hadn't noticed before in the ceiling, sending bullets at me from the side not protected by the marble. I hunkered down, and used some kind of wall divider that had been near me as cover, putting it over my head, so at least they couldn't see where I was under it.
Somehow this skinny blond bitch, pretending she was an angel (her look was too innocent, it made my teeth hurt), snuck up on me while I was trying not to die from ricocheted shots. Maybe she was hypnotic, because suddenly my gun was out of ammo, and I was surrounded. I played it cool. I knew showing fear, or panicking would get me no where and just make me look weak.
They captured me, but didn't frisk me. Stupid. I still had my gun. And I had ammo at my back, under my jacket, I just needed to loose my empty clip and refill without them noticing. I set them at ease, perhaps cause I'm such a sweet looking white girl? And managed to dump my empty clip in a closet and put in a full clip without them seeing. Only, they saw me do something, and checked finding the empty clip. Everyone suddenly pointed their guns at me, looking worried. I had after all killed over half of them without getting even a scratch.
They wanted to know where my gun was. I showed them my hands. They asked about my pockets. Very slowly I started showing them my empty pockets on my left side, knowing full well my loaded gun was in my right main pocket. My brain was working fast, trying to figure out how I was going to shoot all four of them, that surrounded me in a half circle without getting dread myself.
And this is when I woke up. I gasped, like I was coming out water from some depth. Immediately I felt shame for doubting, for not being sure I'd take on the debt to save my mom. After the adamant, heartfelt speech I'd made to that woman, when it came down to it, I.. I wasn't sure I'd actually do what I said. I just.. I don't know. The dream is making me doubt. But I don't get my whole brain in dreams, I miss things that become obvious once I'm awake, I don't have the same... decision making capabilities. But if I was alone, without Chris to back me up, and was asked to come up with $300,000... I just.. I don't have that kind of money. I don't know if I could even get a loan! and if I could.. how on earth would I ever pay it back? *Sigh*
But on the flip side, could I watch her die? Could I stand back and see the tears flow, as she didn't know what was going on at all. Could I watch her suffer? No. No, that I could not do.
Sunday, February 26, 2012
Tattoo Ponderings
So I've been thinking about getting another tattoo. For over a year now I've wanted to get the word fight tattooed on my left inner forearm. But I wanted something...more to go with it. Some kind of imagery.
Lately I've been thinking Tigers. Something like this:
Only, I'd want the tigers to, well, for their stripes to actually look like tigers. This would also be too much detail for such a small space, but gives the general idea of black and white cats in a cartoony/simple form.
Very recently however, when trying to... flush out a persona for my writing. Writing I really need to get on doing (Why do I always feel like I don't have enough time?) Anyway! Point is, I said, I spent every day fighting the good fight. Which I think is a very positive way to speak of my battle with pain from FMS, and a whole host of other things. I'm trying not to let the pain win. I'm learning half an hour of sweaty exercise a day actually makes me feel better - as long as I'm not you know, curled up in a ball of pain. So I've been pushing, to get myself more active, and overall, I feel like it's helped.
So, do I get Fight or Fighting the Good Fight?!
I can't.. I'm not sure what I want now. I'm leaning towards Fighting the Good Fight. It.. I think it would have more impact, and would have the added benefit of making more sense to everyone.
Having other visible tattoos, I know I'm going to get asked, buy friends and strangers alike, what my tattoo means. Fighting the Good Fight seems a heck of a lot more self-explanatory.
Thing is, fighting the good fight, is a fairly long phase. It will likely fill up my inner forearm quite nicely.
But, I've been looking at Lemur's (from Exotix Studios) work, and I'm.. well, I'm smitten. I really love his use of splurges of colour in an otherwise black and white piece, and I want him to do that for me. I'm just... I'm not sure if the tiger will work, or if it's even really me (the tiger not the phrase).
I'm almost wondering if having the tiger wrap around my forearm, under/around the words would work (artistically) and suit me. I'm.. I'm not sure...
I don't see myself as a tiger person, per say. I'm more of a kitty cat person. Or a big dog person. I'm not fierce. But fierce is exactly what I want the tattoo to convey.
I've been wanting to book a consult for the better part of the month, but.... I'm not totally sure what I want, which I don't think will be helpful. Also, this month has been just one thing after another, either health, or shit that needs to get done. *Sigh*
I just. Flip. I don't know what to think. I miss Neda. I miss having her to bounce ideas off of. I know this is going to sound strange, but she's helped me decide on more than one of my tattoo ideas. And I.. I don't have anyone in my life now that I can do that with. She and I aren't close anymore. Heck, I don't even know what country she's in.
Do I just get Fighting the Good Fight, and leave it plain and simple? Do I get Fight with tigers? Do I go see Lemur and ask advice? I mean, flip, I really feel like I should have more of an idea before going to him.
Also, I'm worried how well I'll take a bigger project. I don't have any pain meds per say. I have meds that help the fibro pain, but I have nothing for migraines, or other headaches, or to help with the tattoo pain. Since developing FMS my sensitivity to pain, of any kind has skyrocketed. It's fucking annoying as hell, let me tell you.
So I don't think getting anything too big is a good idea... but how do I convey the fierceness I want to visually?? How do I put into visuals the grim determination I have to keep fighting? How do I make the tattoo motivational??
I just... I'm not too damn sure.
*sigh*
Lately I've been thinking Tigers. Something like this:
Very recently however, when trying to... flush out a persona for my writing. Writing I really need to get on doing (Why do I always feel like I don't have enough time?) Anyway! Point is, I said, I spent every day fighting the good fight. Which I think is a very positive way to speak of my battle with pain from FMS, and a whole host of other things. I'm trying not to let the pain win. I'm learning half an hour of sweaty exercise a day actually makes me feel better - as long as I'm not you know, curled up in a ball of pain. So I've been pushing, to get myself more active, and overall, I feel like it's helped.
So, do I get Fight or Fighting the Good Fight?!
I can't.. I'm not sure what I want now. I'm leaning towards Fighting the Good Fight. It.. I think it would have more impact, and would have the added benefit of making more sense to everyone.
Having other visible tattoos, I know I'm going to get asked, buy friends and strangers alike, what my tattoo means. Fighting the Good Fight seems a heck of a lot more self-explanatory.
Thing is, fighting the good fight, is a fairly long phase. It will likely fill up my inner forearm quite nicely.
But, I've been looking at Lemur's (from Exotix Studios) work, and I'm.. well, I'm smitten. I really love his use of splurges of colour in an otherwise black and white piece, and I want him to do that for me. I'm just... I'm not sure if the tiger will work, or if it's even really me (the tiger not the phrase).
I'm almost wondering if having the tiger wrap around my forearm, under/around the words would work (artistically) and suit me. I'm.. I'm not sure...
I don't see myself as a tiger person, per say. I'm more of a kitty cat person. Or a big dog person. I'm not fierce. But fierce is exactly what I want the tattoo to convey.
I've been wanting to book a consult for the better part of the month, but.... I'm not totally sure what I want, which I don't think will be helpful. Also, this month has been just one thing after another, either health, or shit that needs to get done. *Sigh*
I just. Flip. I don't know what to think. I miss Neda. I miss having her to bounce ideas off of. I know this is going to sound strange, but she's helped me decide on more than one of my tattoo ideas. And I.. I don't have anyone in my life now that I can do that with. She and I aren't close anymore. Heck, I don't even know what country she's in.
Do I just get Fighting the Good Fight, and leave it plain and simple? Do I get Fight with tigers? Do I go see Lemur and ask advice? I mean, flip, I really feel like I should have more of an idea before going to him.
Also, I'm worried how well I'll take a bigger project. I don't have any pain meds per say. I have meds that help the fibro pain, but I have nothing for migraines, or other headaches, or to help with the tattoo pain. Since developing FMS my sensitivity to pain, of any kind has skyrocketed. It's fucking annoying as hell, let me tell you.
So I don't think getting anything too big is a good idea... but how do I convey the fierceness I want to visually?? How do I put into visuals the grim determination I have to keep fighting? How do I make the tattoo motivational??
I just... I'm not too damn sure.
*sigh*
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.
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.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Today is a Better Day
Its been a long time coming, but today is a better day.
I slept in, 'cause I needed it. I had rice krispies and bananas for brunch. I talked to my mom for a long time. She let me vent, bless her. And we talked about how she's doing too! It was a good talk. I felt a lot better about things when I got off the phone with her.
I made carrot muffins and curry lentil soup. This took more effort and time than I thought, but so worth it. And I did oh, three sink/racks of dishes. Baking takes a lot of dishes! And cleaning up directly after makes the clean up so much easier. Batter dried to a bowl is a bitch!
I even showered! No really, this is a victory. I thought I'd be too spent, but I managed easily. I just took breaks. And didn't push. Well, I mean, making the muffins and soup was a push on it's own. I felt exhausted when I started. But I needed to do something useful. I feel better when I'm useful.
I always remember when I'm out of the hole, that there is an out, that the darkness isn't all consuming. That I will find hope again. It's just so damn hard to believe that when depression has you in it's claws. I feel like I need to leave my future self a note, to remind me, that no matter how dark it gets, it will get better, it will be light again, and I will see that I am lucky, I'm loved and supported by the ones I love; it could be so much worse. I'm not alone.
Depression is a battle. Living, surviving chronic pain is a battle. Fibromyalgia is a battle. I get overwhelmed, who wouldn't? But I'm fighting. And I'll continue to fight. Even when I don't want to fight anymore, when I'm done, I can't stop fighting, cause it's not just me in this. I've always said I'd walk through hell for my mom, and now, for my husband, for them, I walk through hell. It's for them that I keep fighting, even when I think I'm not. I'm here, and some days, that's enough, that is a victory. Because tomorrow, gods help me, tomorrow is a new day.
The sun will come out tomorrow!
Sorry, couldn't help myself. But you know, it's true. You just have to survive the night, because Ra, Ra will always come.
I'm sore. I ache, but it's not all over. I won back bits of myself. I'm tired, but somehow less tired than I felt on getting up. But best of all, I accomplished something. I beat this bout of depression, and I made yummy foods. Today, I win.
I slept in, 'cause I needed it. I had rice krispies and bananas for brunch. I talked to my mom for a long time. She let me vent, bless her. And we talked about how she's doing too! It was a good talk. I felt a lot better about things when I got off the phone with her.
I made carrot muffins and curry lentil soup. This took more effort and time than I thought, but so worth it. And I did oh, three sink/racks of dishes. Baking takes a lot of dishes! And cleaning up directly after makes the clean up so much easier. Batter dried to a bowl is a bitch!
I even showered! No really, this is a victory. I thought I'd be too spent, but I managed easily. I just took breaks. And didn't push. Well, I mean, making the muffins and soup was a push on it's own. I felt exhausted when I started. But I needed to do something useful. I feel better when I'm useful.
I always remember when I'm out of the hole, that there is an out, that the darkness isn't all consuming. That I will find hope again. It's just so damn hard to believe that when depression has you in it's claws. I feel like I need to leave my future self a note, to remind me, that no matter how dark it gets, it will get better, it will be light again, and I will see that I am lucky, I'm loved and supported by the ones I love; it could be so much worse. I'm not alone.
Depression is a battle. Living, surviving chronic pain is a battle. Fibromyalgia is a battle. I get overwhelmed, who wouldn't? But I'm fighting. And I'll continue to fight. Even when I don't want to fight anymore, when I'm done, I can't stop fighting, cause it's not just me in this. I've always said I'd walk through hell for my mom, and now, for my husband, for them, I walk through hell. It's for them that I keep fighting, even when I think I'm not. I'm here, and some days, that's enough, that is a victory. Because tomorrow, gods help me, tomorrow is a new day.
The sun will come out tomorrow!
Sorry, couldn't help myself. But you know, it's true. You just have to survive the night, because Ra, Ra will always come.
I'm sore. I ache, but it's not all over. I won back bits of myself. I'm tired, but somehow less tired than I felt on getting up. But best of all, I accomplished something. I beat this bout of depression, and I made yummy foods. Today, I win.
Friday, December 2, 2011
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.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Remembrance Day - 11.11.11
The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, in 1918 the 'war to end all wars', aka world war one, ended. And almost one hundred years later, we're still fighting. It's been a bloody century.
But on the eleventh day of the eleventh month we remember.
I'm a sentimental fool. Thinking about Remembrance Day always makes me teary eyed. The unimaginable sacrifice of fighting and dying, and even of living, that our armed forces make and have made, for all us civilians, gets me every time.
We owe our soldiers a debt we can never pay.
They've put our lives in front of their own. Whether they see action or not. Whether you agree with their deployment or not. By the very act of becoming a soldier, they have put our lives, our way of life, before their own.
Thank you seems so pale, so inadequate. But I say thank you, nonetheless.
I pray to Fria that our younger generations are taught about the horrors of war, that they are taught what we all have to be thankful for. That they, that we, never forget.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
But on the eleventh day of the eleventh month we remember.
I'm a sentimental fool. Thinking about Remembrance Day always makes me teary eyed. The unimaginable sacrifice of fighting and dying, and even of living, that our armed forces make and have made, for all us civilians, gets me every time.
We owe our soldiers a debt we can never pay.
They've put our lives in front of their own. Whether they see action or not. Whether you agree with their deployment or not. By the very act of becoming a soldier, they have put our lives, our way of life, before their own.
Thank you seems so pale, so inadequate. But I say thank you, nonetheless.
I pray to Fria that our younger generations are taught about the horrors of war, that they are taught what we all have to be thankful for. That they, that we, never forget.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie,
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.
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, October 25, 2011
Brioche Stitch is my Nemisis
Seriously.
In terms of pattern, it's super easy. It's 3 rows, with a two stitch pattern per row.
You'd think it would be easy peasy, but noooo!
I mean, try it. Count one, two, one, two, for about 200 stitches. You can see how easy it would be to get a "one, two, two," in there.
My rows are about 500 stitches at this point I estimate, and I've tried starting the Brioche stitch twice now, and screwed it up both times! The first time it was such a mess I had to rip back four rows!! Four!! This time I've just left it. I'm not sure what to do. Hopefully I'll only have to go back two rows. Still. It's bloody painful!
*sigh*
And it really doesn't help that it's very hard to see where you've screwed up. It's the nature of the stitch, it looks fine until you get to knitting it the second time around, then you realise it's not right at all, and you've messed up the "one, two, one, two" pattern.
I think I'm going to leave the damn shawl for a bit and come back to it. I just can't bring myself to rip out the two-four rows again. Gods help me! It looks like such a simple stitch.....
In terms of pattern, it's super easy. It's 3 rows, with a two stitch pattern per row.
You'd think it would be easy peasy, but noooo!
I mean, try it. Count one, two, one, two, for about 200 stitches. You can see how easy it would be to get a "one, two, two," in there.
My rows are about 500 stitches at this point I estimate, and I've tried starting the Brioche stitch twice now, and screwed it up both times! The first time it was such a mess I had to rip back four rows!! Four!! This time I've just left it. I'm not sure what to do. Hopefully I'll only have to go back two rows. Still. It's bloody painful!
*sigh*
And it really doesn't help that it's very hard to see where you've screwed up. It's the nature of the stitch, it looks fine until you get to knitting it the second time around, then you realise it's not right at all, and you've messed up the "one, two, one, two" pattern.
I think I'm going to leave the damn shawl for a bit and come back to it. I just can't bring myself to rip out the two-four rows again. Gods help me! It looks like such a simple stitch.....
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Rippit, Rippit, Sigh, Rippit, Rippit, Sob
So I got about 1/3 of the way through the cowl neck tank, and tried it on. I had to get to that point just to be able to try it on -- 1/3 is 1 inch below the armpits where the back and front are reattached. It fit perfectly.
But
*sigh*
The cowl was very stiff, stood up all on it's own, and was way too low -- it went below my boobs! Like, the middle hung below my bra. Not good. Not good at all. I couldn't wear it like that! And I want to be able to wear the damn thing after putting all the work into it I have.
So. Rippit. Rippit. Rippit. I frogged all my hard work, and am now swatching with different needles.
The band on the ball of yarn suggested 4.5mm needles. And I do all my dish clothes at that needle size, to keep them tight. The last thing I wanted with the tank top was for it to be see through! I wouldn't be able to wear it then either. But, 4.5mm needles was just way too tight. So I'm trying 5mm, 5.5mm and 6mm needles to see which will give me a better gauge, softer material, and better drape.
I hate that I've had to start all over again, but really. I would have been just heartbroken to get all the way done and not have it fit right.
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