“Wait by the phone, Late alone, He can’t help you” ~ QotSA

Men always check out the results after they take a shit. I look in the toilet at that suspicious jelly-red spot and think “Well, there goes another egg”.

My killer kitten Magic dragged another squealing rat through the doggie door in the middle of the night. I was running down the hallway, naked, bumping into walls, doped up on Ambien, screaming at her to drop it. It dragged itself into a room. I fumbled to set a no-kill trap and thinking “A real man would come over and take care of this for me”. Almost as if reading my mind, CK messages me and asks “Would you like me to come over?” Actually, I want you to take the initiative and just come over without asking. “Look, I’m too drugged to deal with this right now”. That was a hint and a test. He’s got a key to my house, he doesn’t have to be at work until almost noon the following day…YES! Come over and try to help me out! Every offer he makes to help feels like lip service. And sure enough, I woke up to the message “Oh I probably wouldn’t be able to catch it anyway”. Then he sends me another text this morning asking “Did you catch the rat?” No? Do you want me to come over and try to help you catch it after work? No. I want you to fuck off at this point. I’ll handle it myself like I handle everything myself most of my life. Times like this, I envy married couples with a MAN who does “manly” duties like rodent catching. I’d say this does nothing to stimulate my desire for this man except that I’m already not getting laid from him.

People forget where they Park all the time. Difference with me as I will walk around the parking lot for 10 minutes looking for the car that I got rid of two years ago while walking past my current car three times. I am embarrassingly forgetful. My brain farts have become so pronounced over the last few years that I will stop mid-conversation and struggle like English is my second language.

The doctor called and said my labs are off. Are you sure you’re taking your medication as prescribed? Yes. Okay well then we need to rerun labs and if you would ditional tests and an MRI in 3 weeks. Okay. It’s easy enough for me to say oh that explains it, the uptick in depression, sleeplessness, fatigue and weight gain once again…or does it? I can’t use that as an excuse, or at least I shouldn’t. But I just want to go to bed right after work every night.

I still haven’t told you about my birthday hiking trip to Canada. Plenty of notes in my phone but lack of time is turning into lack of inspiration. Maybe I’ll get around to it. Maybe I’ll die first.

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“My thoughts were so loud, I couldnt hear my mouth…” ~Modest Moust

“I still haven’t gotten anywhere that I want.
Did I want love? Did I need to know?
Why does it always feel like I’m caught in an undertow?

The moths beat themselves to death against the lights.
Adding their breeze to the summer nights.
Outside, water like air was great.
I didn’t know what I had that day.
Walk a little farther to another plan.
You said that you did, but you didn’t understand.

I know that starting over is not what life’s about.
But my thoughts were so loud I couldn’t hear my mouth.
My thoughts were so loud I couldn’t hear my mouth.
My thoughts were so loud…”

Just days after surgery, what did I expect? A miracle, I admit. But even after plucking a rogue, swollen parathyroid gland from my chest where it had migrated, nothing has changed. Nothing. I dont feel better, improved. It could take weeks, they said. It may not even work, is what they didnt say but I had read.

So I wait with a fresh scar across my thickening neck.

I dropped off Facebook for a bit. Needed to. I found myself resentful of the health and happiness of others. Everyone has someone, it seemed. I struggle alone in this house. I finally got a new roommate but he wasnt as advertised. He’s never around and he’s not a friend. He ran off to Atlanta to be with his on-again rebound, a thin, age-innappropriate 20-something bitch in every sense. And this Ive learned from him. But he ‘loves’ her inexplicably and unconditionally. Fool for a young, pretty face. Do I sound jealous? Maybe I am. I want someone to care about me. I may not have been happy but I was at least content before he moved in. He bleeds what little energy I have left and generally, of no conscious doing of his own, makes me feel worse about myself. He is an emotional vampire and I generally suck at shielding because I cant stop caring about those who dont care back. So it’s better that he’s not around. But he didnt even bother to send a message to ask how surgery went. As I said, not a friend.

Thank G-d I have one or two close friends who check in on me daily, ask how I’m feeling, just remind me that I am in their thoughts. Still, I could use some physical help. An extra set of strong hands. Someone to tackle the back yard with the lawnmower. Or just to take those strong hands, place them on my cramped, pained shoulders and PUSH DOWN HARD. Like an anti-shrug. Not a massage. Nerve damage means massages feel like a hornets nest that has been kicked under my skin. But firm pressure to break up the tightly woven fascia or a bear hug to crack the part of my back that I cant reach would be nice. Really, just a hug in general might be nice. Shit, I’d probabaly start sobbing like a baby if anyone touched me.

I was always a caretaker. Working the pressure points in the FOot, scalp, hand, back. I miss having someone to take care of but these days, I wish I had someone to take care of me. Someone who doesnt ask but just “does”. Because I dont ask for help.

There are several dance events this weekend and I was hopeful but I know now that was overly ambitious. I still hurt. I’m still weak, exhausted and in a fog. Coherence is still a challenge. I get frustrated and depressed in my failure to communicate effectively so I shut down, too tired to continue trying. I could die here and it would be days before anyone realized it. Here she lies: uninspired, she just gave up. Because she didnt care enough about herself to push her way out of bed. And then what? Go where? Do what? What doesnt HURT?

Dont tell me to stop feeling sorry for myself. It’s already on the menu. Self pity is the gravy over the self-loathing that I feel. Or is it the other way around?

I didnt want to live to be old enough not to wipe my own ass but neither did I think I would fizzle out like this. I couldnt watch “Seven POunds” the other night. I read the synopsis though. Then I asked my mother how long a body had postmortem before it’s parts were cooked and unusable. Not long at all. In fact, unless you die in the hospital (or a bathtub full of ice while on the line with 911), there isnt much that can be recycled. And for a moment I had this comforting thought that I would leave nothing wasted but my fingernails.

G-d, and the boredom…I catch myself staring at the floor wondering if I can knock out just 2 push ups without the sutures tearing out of my neck. I don’t take kindly to limitations.

Low-grade pain is a constant current that never disappears completely. Like water dripping on your forehead ceaselessly, it’s maddening. It saps your desire to do anything but go back to sleep.

Sleep. Or company. I havent got the latter so I’ll choose the former.

“Big, big booty, what you gotta big booty” – J. Lo & Iggy

A little Brain tumor humor. Battling for 13 years now. Pituitary first, now the parathyroid also. Id never even heard of the parathyroid. Over the years, i rarely bring it up except for the rare joke about how it just sounds so dramatic to say i have a brain tumor. And also because it’s hard to explain to someone not in the medical profession. The weight gain, the chronic exhaustion, the depression, infertility, fibromyalgia  (which some doctors still don’t believe is “real”. Yeah, and the world is flat).

Sometimes I wish I could just tell everyone what is going on so that they arent left wondering “What happened to her?” Like I assume the dancers in my ballet class do. But there I
go, assuming. Don’t assume, and try not to judge. That’s why there are MRIs, right? Because you can’t tell something is wrong just by looking at someone.  Being in this position makes me more sympathetic; I err on the side of compassion.

But I can’t “just work out harder” and diet or eat pills and be “fixed”. Like the time some guy got mad at my brother and when i explained that he was autistic, his ignorant response was “Then you should get him some help”. Sure, and once that’s done, maybe you can tell an amputee to just regrow his limb. Jackass.  Doctors say strenuous exercise  can actually make it worse! But that feels like surrender. So maybe Im making it worse by exercising harder. And I won’t give up dancing. I am refusing to let my body take that joy from me.
But when symptoms resurge, my body is like a breaker panel that just got fried. So much is malfunctioning thats its a list worthy of a hypochondriac. And for two And for two years prior to my diagnosis, some doctors had me thinking that I was. 
The worst part is not being in control of my own body. That and the thought that I may never have children.

I know I’m not alone.
I know you’re out there too.