Thursday, December 26, 2013

I hate "holiday gifting."

The winter holiday season is difficult for many people who deal with mental illness, addiction, histories of abuse, or grief. For many years, I, too, loathed the holidays. The first Christmas after I returned from England, after having lost everything- my husband, my home, my friends and my country- I was mad with grief and paralyzed with bitterness. I was back at my mother's house, the very last place I wanted to be ever again. My mother simply could not understand why I would not accept her gifts or come out of my room. I remember screaming at her, "Christmas is for people who have families!"

But since Matt has been a part of my life, I feel like I have a family again. Not just his family, but our mutual friends; our chosen family is no less important to me. I have no cause for grief, I have no reason to feel excluded or worried or sad. And so far, this is probably the best holiday season I've had in many years. There were only two gifts under the tree yesterday, but I am living such a rich life. I have a home. I have love. I have everything I need, and more. I'm so grateful.

Yet, gifts are what are causing me anxiety today. On Saturday, we're going to Matt's grandparents' house for the big family Christmas. I love my in-laws, and I can't tell you how happy I am not to have to worry about vicious arguments and tears and people stomping out of the house. That was how Christmas always went when I was a kid. But there is one tradition Matt's family adheres to that makes me very uncomfortable: The Great Present Opening Ceremony. (No, they don't actually call it that.) This ceremony entails everyone sitting around in the living room opening gifts one at a time. Slowly. Agonizingly. Last year, it took three hours. Three hours.

This bothers me for several reasons. First of all, I don't feel that opening gifts should be the central focus of the day. The way it was done, it seemed to me that the presents were the most important thing.

Secondly, it isn't fun. It's done in a very formal fashion, each family member opening one gift at a time, showing it to everyone, thanking the gift-giver, and having pictures taken of them. I don't like being the center of attention for this reason. It makes me really uncomfortable.

Why does everyone have to have a picture taken with every gift they receive? If Matt's mom wants to do that, can't she just wait until everyone has opened all their gifts and take a picture of each person with all the opened presents?

Third, Matt and I haven't had the time or money to get gifts for anyone this year, not even our close friends. Not only that, but Matt's parents and grandparents have given us literally thousands of dollars this year to help us in our time of need. I feel that even if I could have given them something, it would be woefully inadequate. Yes, yes, I know, just my presence and my love and our happiness and safety are gifts enough for them, blah blah blah... but when so much emphasis is put on the opening of actual, material gifts, and gifts from Matt and I become conspicuously absent, well, I think it's going to make me feel like shit.

I'm trying not to dread this, because, as I said, I really do love Matt's family. His grandparents are getting on in years, and, not to be morbid, but I know how important it is to spend these last few Christmases with them. I am going to try to bring some of "me" to the party, with Apples to Apples, a bottle of mead and a drinking horn to pass around. I'm hoping maybe grandpop will let me light a fire in the hearth, and we can sing songs and play games instead of spending hours with the presents. But I don't know how receptive they will be to that.

Anyway, that's it for now. I just needed to get all of that off my chest before we head up there on Saturday.

Monday, December 9, 2013

I'm home!

I'm happy.

Here I am, sitting in a coffee house in Bexley, having taken the bus from my new apartment this afternoon. It was easier to get here than it was to get to my old haunt when I lived downtown. This afternoon, I explored a bit, and got a library card for the Bexley Public Library. The library is gorgeous. I checked out three books of Old Norse poetry- some interesting bedtime reading. This morning, I took a walk around the apartment complex, reveling in the fact that it was quiet and that I didn't see a single police or emergency vehicle the entire time. I walked near the woods and enjoyed the sound of the creek. This morning, I woke in peace. Last night, I slept well.

I'm home.

There is a lot of unpacking to do yet, but I've already got my room (which is spacious and comfortable, with tons of closet space) pretty much how I want it. A trip to IKEA on Sunday provided new end tables, lamps, and a coffee table, so the living room is actually starting to look like a living room, and not just like a place where we drop our stuff when we come in. Matt worked on the kitchen last night. Though small, it has more storage than our old one, and I'm looking forward to cooking in it. The cats seem to have acclimated just fine, despite the chorus of mournful meowing on the way.

I feel accomplished because I really did as much as I was physically able to do during this move. Last year, I had shut down emotionally, and was pretty much useless. I did still feel like hiding under the bed the whole time, but I pushed through it. I'm actually looking forward to the rest of the unpacking. I've already found things I hadn't seen in over a year because of the hasty nature of our last move and the bedbug insanity. It's like Christmas morning. Seriously.

Radar has his own little shelf on top of a bookcase in my room. Next to his box is a Fenton glass cat my mother gave me for my 18th birthday. I might not be on wonderful terms with my mother, but I always loved that figurine, and I hadn't even seen it since before we moved out of Matt's house last October. On the other side is the selenite crystal ball that has a chip in it from when Radar knocked it over once.

My altar is set up, and I already did a simple ritual to bless the house with prosperity, love and a sense of community. The candle I burned was fully consumed, without a trace of wax or wick left, which I always take to be a good sign. I thanked my gods for their help and guidance throughout the ordeal of moving. It was my second thanks to them. My first was before we had even gotten the apartment for sure. You see, I finally took my therapist's advice, and thanked my gods for boons I had not yet received. I still felt a bit odd about it, but because I knew that Matt and I deserved it, and that we had proven ourselves strong and loving throughout adversity, I didn't think it pretentious. I had the floor plan and the info for the apartment folded up on my altar to signify my intent. I feel grateful, satisfied and accomplished that I was able to manifest my needs and desire in this way. I also felt, as I said goodbye to Radar, that my cat would send an extra-potent message to my gods to help us. I have no doubt that he did.

Matt and I are working towards getting over our bad financial choices. I am now aware, via Google calendar, of every due date of every bill. We are paying more attention to how much we spend on what, and I am asking more questions and being more clear and firm about my wants and needs. I still get a little frustrated sometimes when I say that I want something, and Matt thinks that I want it right now. When he reacts that way, I feel like I am being too demanding, and he feels pressured. I need to figure out how to say "hey, I like this thing" without Matt thinking that it's something I can't wait for or can't live without. Another thing we will have to work on, when the time comes, is a budget that takes into account being paid only once per month. Matt is now salaried, which, on one hand, means no overtime pay; on the other hand, it means our finances are suddenly much more predictable.

All in all, it's been a good week. Matt is dealing with the frustrations of the last few days of his old job while looking forward to starting his new, higher-paying, work-from-home position. Happily, he had some vacation days saved up, and because he's still working for the same company, he's going to have all of Christmas week off. We will really be able to relax and have fun for the holidays, and I'm incredibly thankful for that.

I think we've really turned a corner. I think there will be more good things in the coming year. I'm looking forward to it with an open heart and open arms.

Friday, December 6, 2013

I still haven't cried.

I miss my kitty. I watched him die. I know he's gone. I know I will never scratch him behind the ears again, or hear him mewling piteously in the hallway because he has brought us toys in an effort to get us to play with him when we're asleep. I will never marvel at the thin, silky grace of the tip of his tail, or the wide spread of his large, powerful paws as he kneads on my pillow. There won't be any more funny stories about his antics with the other cats. I know all these things. I dwell on them. Yet, the tears will not come.

I have a few ideas as to why. I think one of the biggest factors is that the move is fast-approaching, and the enormity of that shift has weighed heavily on my subconscious mind. It's a good move, an exciting move, a move that is going to be good for me and Matt for many reasons. That doesn't make the physical act of packing and hauling all of our belongings to a new place any less stressful. I've packed about 3/4 of my worldly goods, which are now sitting in the hallway, and my room feels strange when I lie down to sleep. I feel accomplished for having got this much done so far, but when I look at the rest of the house, I feel overwhelmed. There are boxes and boxes and boxes, and the shoving and the sliding and the hefting and the shifting, and the cleaning after all that is done. Then more of the shoving and sliding and hefting and shifting when we get to the new place, and the cats come last, so they have furniture to hide under until they realise they're safe. I feel like hiding under the bed, myself.

Anyway, I think that, until we are done moving, I won't be able to relax enough to mourn properly, if that makes sense. Radar moved with me at least four times, and it may hit me hard when my head finally wraps around the idea that he really isn't going to be with us in our new home. What helps is that I am aware of this. I know the tears will come, but I'm not fearful of them. I know that I will feel better once I let go. It will probably happen the first time I am alone in the new place, after I have properly appointed my sanctuary and consecrated it as my own.

On a happier note, I have met someone rather amazing. Someone who makes me feel good, and with whom I feel I have much to share. We seem to have so much to say to each other that it's daunting to even know where to begin. I think we might have known each other in another life. No, really, I do. I wasn't expecting this crazy burst of NRE (New Relationship Energy), but it's quite welcome here on the cusp of winter. Significantly for me, she is ... well, a "she." I consider myself pansexual and I am attracted to all sorts of people. Traditionally, though, I have either been so intimidated by females that, if I like them, I turn into a thirteen-year-old heterosexual boy and stumble all over myself, or our personalities just don't mesh at all beyond a few common interests. This is different, and pretty much a first. We'll see where it goes. Matt is happy for me. I will write more about her later.

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

Good night, sweet prince.

Doctor Molly arrived at our apartment amid heavy flurries. She didn't mind letting me finish my cigarette. I didn't want her to stand out in the cold, so I let her in while I puffed and contemplated what was about to take place. All too soon, I was down to the filter, and it was time to face the purpose of her visit.

She talked with us for a while. Got acquainted with Radar and the other kitties. She gave them all treats, and petted and played with them. Radar took to her right away. I knew he would. She seemed like such a good-hearted person in our correspondence, and Radar's always been a great judge of human character.

Even now, barely two hours after the fact, the next moments are hazy. I know I brought Radar upstairs, and sat with him for a while before Matt and the vet came upstairs. I know Radar tried to escape once, not so much because he knew what was coming, but because I think he was afraid he was going to be forced to leave the house. Any time he even thought he might have to endure a ride in a carrier, he would hide under the bed.

Eventually, we got him settled. The doctor first gave him an injection of a sedative. It took a few minutes to kick in, and at one point, he tried to make a break for it, but soon he couldn't fight it anymore. I watched his breathing slow, his eyes dilate and glass over. He wasn't gone yet, but he was visioning, I'm sure. I wonder what he saw? Do cats see their ancestors when they lay at death's door?

I'd spent the day preparing. I didn't feel like eating, but I put a roast in the crock pot just to make sure we'd have something to eat. I tidied my room and set up my altar, pouring a libation of mead to Hela and placing the box that will soon be occupied by Radar's ashes near the candle. I lit incense, played soft music. Radar stayed with me in my room the whole day as postcard-perfect snow fell from a soft, grey sky. It was peaceful, but I was restless.

When the moment came, Dr. Molly shaved a small patch on Radar's leg. She thoughtfully asked if I wanted to keep some of his fur, to which I answered yes, and placed the fluff into his box with a whisker I'd harvested a day before. My cat was gone almost as soon as she inserted the needle. The vet said that the sicker they are, the faster they go, and Radar must have been a lot sicker than he looked. As I'd suspected. It didn't really make it any easier.

I wanted the other cats to have a chance to say goodbye. I placed Radar's now-lifeless body on Matt's bed, and invited Molly to stay for a cup of tea, which she accepted graciously, and we did the rest of the paperwork. She was quite taken with Kyri, unsurprisingly. Then, I gathered Radar's body, shrouded in a black towel, and gave him to the doctor to take with her.

The door shut. He was gone.

I don't think the other cats are going to realize it for a while. I know it hasn't sunk in for me, despite watching him die. I expected to "feel him go," but I didn't. I still feel like he's in the house. Maybe he is. If that's the case, I'm going to have to do a little work to let him go, for his sake and for mine. Matt wept as soon as the doctor pushed the first injection, but I have yet to shed a tear. I remember crying once, when I'd been sure of his diagnosis, but I've never been one to greet death with tears. People cope with death in all sorts of ways. I've always felt the need to be strong and stoic in the face of death, only breaking down much later, when the loss really set in. I'm not sure when that's going to be for me. Tomorrow? Next week? After we move? It's like waiting for a storm, and I hate it. I wish I could just cry and get it over with.

I have received an enormous outpouring of support and love from friends, and for that, I am deeply grateful. Just moments before the doctor arrived, I opened an envelope to find a hand-drawn card made by a friend I have not seen since I lived in Portland, Oregon, five years ago. I've received phone calls all day from people who knew me and had never even met Radar. It's an incredible feeling to know that so many people care about me, and empathise with what it is like to lose a beloved pet.

The sorrow of the day is eased, somewhat, by the news I got from Matt just before he came home from work. We got the apartment. We're moving out of this gods-forsaken ghetto hellmouth (no offense, Hela) in just ten days. I think having packing and planning to do will be good for us, but I worry that, after the move, I'm just going to collapse. Well, if that happens, I'll allow myself to. I'll have earned it.

Good night, Radar. Dance on the Bifrost. Purr in the arms of goddesses. Nuzzle Thor's beard. Chase ethereal mice. Be reborn to another in Midgard who needs your love. You will be missed.

Friday, November 22, 2013

Farewell, my companion.

My cat is dying.

Despite the fact that Radar has shown few signs of discomfort, the reality of his condition set in two nights ago, when I noticed a vile black fluid trickling fron his mouth. It smelt of death. The tumor that has been growing beneath his jaw has taken over his cheek and the inside of his mouth, and has ruptured. He must be in so much pain. I feel as though he has continued to be strong for me. Last night, though, as I was petting him, he crawled up onto me and looked at me. He seemed to be saying, "Don't let me die. Help me across the veil."

I have been corresponding with a veterinarian in the area who does house calls and in-home euthanasia. She seems to truly be a good soul, and someone who "gets it." Today, I called her to schedule Radar's final appointment. This coming Tuesday, Doctor Molly will come to our home, ease Radar's passing, and leave with his remains. We will get his ashes back, and I'm planning to make some pendants containing some of his ashes to keep and give to Matt and my mother. My mother took care of him while I was unable to have pets where I lived, and regardless of the issues between her and I, she deserves to have the ashes. She kindly agreed to pay for the euthanasia and cremation. She's distraught. Radar and her cat, Buster, bonded when Radar stayed there, and Buster hasn't been the same since Radar left. My mother says that Buster has been acting out especially badly the last few days, as if he knows Radar is about to die. Buster acted in a similar way just before my grandfather's death several years ago.

I've explained this before, but I'll tell the story again, because it bears repeating. Last year, around this time, doctors found suspicious masses in Matt's parotid gland. Radar's first tumor appeared at around the same time. I prayed, "If there must be cancer in this household, let it be the cat and not my husband." My prayers were answered, and so, I cannot be bitter. Matt has a scar and a clean bill of health, but Radar will be leaving us. I scheduled the appointment so that Matt can be with me when Radar passes. He loves my kitty, too. I always said I knew the relationship would last when Matt let me move my cat into the house.

Radar has been with me for six years, lived in at least four different places with me and in three different states. He flew all the way across the country with me when I left Portland to go back to Ohio. I've told all of these stories before, but repeating them helps me to comfort myself, and to remind myself that Radar's life, though short, has been full and happy. Ever since I took him home from Forgotten Felines, a shelter in Seattle (donations suggested), he's been a source of joy for me and for all who've met him. I've never had a cat quite like Radar. His antics in our household will be sorely missed. I will no longer wake up in the morning to find cat toys, socks, blankets, and anything else Radar could carry lined up in front of my bedroom door. I will not hear his soft, mournful, muffled meows as he carries his toys around the house in his mouth, looking for his human parents. (He did this especially often when Matt was out-of-town for work.) We will not be greeted with his rumbling purr and squeaky meow when I come home. His physical presence will be sorely missed, but I know that he will always be with us.


(This is the first photo I ever took of Radar, in the apartment where I lived in Seattle. He was scared and hid in the tub.)

I'm grateful for the fact that I've found Doctor Molly from City Paws Home Health to make his transition as dignified, peaceful and comfortable as possible. Radar hates leaving our home, let alone going to the vet. I'm grateful for a healthy, cancer-free Matt, because he loves Radar and he loves me, and he understands how hard this is. He has been nothing but supportive every step of the way. I'm grateful that we did not end up moving out when we were meant to. If that apartment we were looking at hadn't fallen through, we would have been moving this weekend. I'm grateful for the timing, because I don't think I would be able to handle moving and watching Radar decline on the cusp of the holiday season. I'm grateful that my mother is making this possible now instead of having to wait and save up. I'm grateful that I have had good years with my kitty, and that he has only recently begun to show signs of decline. I'm grateful for my friends who empathise with me, and understand that, to me, this is like losing a child.

I will deal with Radar's death as I do any death. I will allow myself to mourn my own loss, the absence of his physical presence in my life, but I will not mourn for Radar, because I know he will be fine. I know I will see him again someday if I want to.

I know that I am doing the right thing, but I still feel as if I need reassurance. He's still not acting sick. What if I'm doing it too soon? What if I'm cheating him out of a few more weeks because I can't deal with him getting sicker? I answer this question by asking another one: if it were me, and I had the choice, would I want to be spared undue suffering from a terminal illness? Would I want to put my loved ones through seeing me decline? I would not. Radar may not be human, but my feeling on the matter is no different.

As terrible as this sounds, part of me still hopes he will pass quietly in his sleep, and we will find him curled up in eternal slumber before the euthanasia can take place. I guess part of me still does not want the responsibility of taking his life. But then I remember something taught to me by my spirit guides before I even knew thier names. In cases like this, life is like a flower in bloom that falls from the tree. It has not died, it has been given back to life. And that is what I will be doing on Tuesday. I will be giving Radar back, with deep thanks, and memories to keep forever.

Tuesday, November 19, 2013

Home economics.

Yesterday sucked. I got up, went to get the mail, and discovered another notice to leave the premises. Apparently, Matt's rent check bounced again, and unless we could come up with $850 by Wednesday (two days before Matt gets paid), we'd be up shit creek. Now, honestly, it takes a lot to get me really angry at my husband, but I don't mind saying that this time, I was fucking livid. Hadn't we started credit counseling, leaving us with (theoretically) three or four hundred in wiggle-room we didn't have before? Hadn't I asked him, over and over, "Can we afford this?" every time we'd gone out or bought anything beyond the bare essentials? Hadn't we already had this discussion? I haven't been checking the account balance, because I was trusting that Matt was keeping a better eye on it. I guess I should have been.

"I really thought I had enough!" he said.

"You always think you have enough!" I screamed into the phone. "I have to know that I can trust you!"

I knew that would sting. It hurt for me to say it. I had become one of "those wives" who calls her husband at work to yell at him, something I never wanted to do. But something had to give. I was shocked and angry and terrified, and so tired. I told him that we should think about getting out and moving in with his parents for a while until we can truly get on our feet, because I could not handle the constant stress of wondering whether we're going to get kicked out of our apartment every month.

Our current rental company could technically terminate our lease at any time, now, since our 12-month lease is up and we're month-to-month. It doesn't help that our rental agent has had it in for us ever since the bedbug incident. (For the record, I know I could have pushed to have the rental company pay for the extermination, because Ohio law would have been on my side.) This jackwagon actually accused Matt of bouncing the check on purpose. I could have throttled him, had I known what he'd said. Yet, we are clearly in the wrong. At this point, seven of our twelve rental payments have been late, and despite the fact that we have paid all the late fees, that is not a good track record. In fact, it kept us from getting into the apartment complex we wanted. We would have been moving out this weekend if it weren't for that. It took them a month to deny us, after they actually gave us a move-in date. So that's a month we could have had to be looking for another place.

After I calmed down a bit, I talked to Matt again. I told him that what we needed to do was to sit down every single time he gets paid and make a workable budget for that pay period, not a theoretical pay period, and we need to account for every last cent. I accepted my own responsibility for letting bank fees in my account pile up, which accounted for $150 this past month (who knew it would cost $6 just to check my balance on a "foreign" ATM? But I digress.) Chances are, that $150 would have made the difference, but my point remained. When I ask, "Can we afford this?" I need Matt to be honest with me and himself. He needs to tell me "no." If I ask for money, and there is none, he needs to tell me so. If we can't have a date night, then we can't. If I can't buy cigarettes, then I can't. I almost feel as if he thinks I wouldn't believe him, or would blame him, or believe that he's being cruel if he says "no." I told him that I would much rather go without a new shirt, or a cup of coffee, or a pack of cigarettes, than risk losing our home!

The timing certainly doesn't help. It's incredibly frustrating to know that Matt will be starting his new position at a higher pay grade in just two weeks. It's also frustrating that I still have not been paid for the work I did at the haunted house, and it looks like I'm not going to because the owner claims I was "never on the pay sheet." I could have taken care of the bank fees, myself. Actually, there probably wouldn't have been any, because, you know, I'd have had money in my account.

We are incredibly blessed to have Matt's grandparents, whom, last night, drove to meet us in Mansfield to give us cash to cover the rent and late fee to buy us some more time. Regardless, we clearly need to get out as soon as inhumanly possible, preferably last week. Today I'm calling some more places. I don't want to move in with Matt's parents if we don't have to, but I also don't want to stay where we are for another month, at least, certainly not past the first of the year. I feel like the universe is forcibly trying to extract us from this situation, and I'm glad of it.

Today, I am done being angry a Matt. I said my piece, and it's done, and all we can do to move forward is admit our mistakes and work together to make sure this pattern does not repeat at the next place we rent. I need to be more involved, clearly, checking Matt's account balance daily, if need be. And Matt needs to stop writing checks. Who uses checks anymore? Cash, debit card, even a money order, they're predictable, but checks are like this nebulous area of "who knows when it's actually going to clear?" and it all depends on when they deposit it.

And maybe we need to make even more sacrifices. We've given up cable. We can't shut off the Internet because Matt needs it for work, and I need it for my sanity. At this point, I would be willing to give up my iPhone, even though Matt insists it wouldn't save us that much money. I'm willing to stop smoking in favor of an electronic hookah, which would cost about $40 initially but would end up being much cheaper in the long-run. But really, what I'm willing to do, even if I gave up every red cent Matt gives me, is only a drop in the bucket in terms of household expense. Yeah, we like good food, but maybe we need to shop at Aldi instead of Lucky's. Maybe we need to take a hard look at how much traveling we do on the weekends. Maybe we need to limit eating out to once a month. Maybe we need to take one of those remedial classes in personal finance they offer to people on public assistance. I am wracking my brains trying to figure out what will help.

What I find frustrating is that Matt works his ass off and he makes enough money that we should not have to live like I did when I was on food stamps. I feel like every time we make changes to save money, we hemorrhage cash from some other source. I feel like nothing I can do will really make an impact until I can have a job again, and I'm still not quite in a position to be able to do that, especially since we again aren't sure where we'll be living in a few months. I have accepted, now, that we will not be able to live the way we want to unless I start generating an income, so I'm already looking at re-writing my resume, and I'm looking into what few resources I'm not "too rich" to qualify for. It's coming down to "beggars can't be choosers," and my pain be damned, I've got to find work even if it's just retail.

Immediately after my argument with Matt, I called my therapist to schedule an emergency couples session for today. We aren't arguing anymore. It's not about that. It's about looking at what we can do as a couple in terms of communication to prevent this kind of stress from driving us apart. Most marriages that fail, fail because of financial issues. I refuse to become a statistic. Unfortunately, love isn't all you need.

Sunday, November 17, 2013

Whatever doesn't kill me ...

So much to write about. I knew what I was going to write yesterday, but now that I sit down to do it, I can't think. I guess I'll start with my cat.

Radar is a very special kitty. I'm convinced he's the reincarnation of Mr. Bones, a cat I had when I was growing up. We were both 17 when he died of lymphoma. He's only six, but he's lived with me in at least four different places in three states, and traveled with me from the West Coast back to Ohio. I had gone to the shelter in Seattle with the intention of adopting a completely different cat, but when I saw him peeking out from a cubbyhole, with his ridiculously large ears and big, round eyes, I fell in love.

Now, Radar is dying of the same, relatively-rare cancer that Mr. Bones did, but it's progressing much faster. He still shows no behavioral signs of illness, but the tumnors are large, and every time I pet him I'm painfully aware that there isn't much more time. I won't let him suffer, but I have been worried, because Radar hates the vet. He hates leaving the house at all. I was dreading taking him in to have him euthanized, because his last moments would be terrifying for him. Luckily, I have found a local vet who does house calls. When the time comes, Radar will be in his own home, surrounded by his human and feline family. We'll do it in my room, so that I can say goodbye from there. Then, they will take his body away to be cremated, and I will get the ashes back. Knowing how it will happen has brought me comfort. It will be hard to say goodbye, but this way, he will know love until the very end.

On to another subject. I was sick for three weeks with a combination of a viral upper respiratory infection and a bacterial sinus infection. During that time, Matt took care of me without any hesitation, and I felt very loved. He did everything from running out to get my prescriptions to cooking to snuggling with me and watching movies on my computer when I couldn't leave my bed. So when he got sick with the same thing (minus the sinus infection, thank the gods), I was worried I wouldn't be able to take care of him as well as he had taken care of me. Because of my disability, I often feel a deficit in terms of how much Matt does for me around the house versus how much I do for him, and just because he got sick and I got better didn't negate the chronic pain I deal with.

But, once again, I proved to myself that, when properly motivated, I can do what needs to be done. I cooked dinner three nights in a row and did all the dishes. I did Matt's laundry for him (we normally each do our own.) I made him tea and made sure he didn't overextend himself. He's feeling better now, but I seem to still have access to that reserve of energy that allowed me to step up and be Superwife for a few days. Hail, Frigga! Hail, Sigyn! I credit Them for helping me find my strength. It's never about gods "giving" you strength, really. It's about Them helping you to access the strength you already have within you. I feel accomplished, even if I know that, eventually, I'll be the one needing taken care of again. The crash already started, with a fibro flare-up that began on Friday. It's not so bad today, but I did sleep until almost 2 pm. I think that, other than putting the pork roast in the crock pot, I'm going to take it easy tomorrow.

On the subject of my pain, yesterday, I woke up feeling totally disgusting, and I got frustrated and posted a rant on my Facebook page. I'm going to expand on that here. Whst I wrote:

"**If you don't want to read a whiny rant about my pain, just scroll on down.**
I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia at 14. I started developing arthritis in my late teens/early 20s. I have collapsed disks in both my lumbar and cervical spine. I have issues with the joints in my jaw, bad knees, bad toes and bad wrists. I am in pain every day from some combination of muscle spasms, arthritis, IBS and migraines.

I have PTSD and Bipolar 2, along with the associated anxiety disorder, which includes panic attacks that make me feel as if my soul is being sucked from my body. I have nightmares almost every night. (Last night, I dreamt my skin was being eaten away by maggots that spit acid.)

What angers me most is that I have fought in no war. I have never played sports. I have never injured myself in any grand or noble adventure. Am I cursed? Is it all in my head? Is it some kind of punishment? I ask myself these questions every day.

I wish for some doctor or spiritual counselor to find the root of all this, the "why" behind my suffering, because I wish there was some clear path to make myself better. I struggle every day to do just that.

I find strength and inspiration in my spirituality and in those who truly love me. If it weren't for those things, along with my curiosity as to "what happens next?", I would have given up long ago.

I get very frustrated. I want to curl up and sleep forever. But after reading Samantha's update earlier today, I can see the pain is a gift. I can empathize with her pain and the pain of those like her. I can more deeply appreciate her sacrifice, because I know what it is like to hurt.

I wish no good people ever had to hurt."

I got many heart-felt positive responses to this, of course, because my friends are awesome. Samantha, whom I mentioned, is a Desert Storm veteran, whose physical and mental diagnoses are almost identical to mine. I met her through a Heathen group on Facebook, and she is one of my biggest sources of spiritual strength and validation. She's truly a remarkable woman. I call her my warrior sister. I dearly wish she lived closer, because I think we could help each other a lot. It might sound arrogant to say that I can feel the pain of such a warrior, who has seen more horrors in her life than I could imagine, but she doesn't see it that way. She sees me as an ally who can empathize with her pain and suffering. Though I might not have seen combat, she respects that I have fought my own battles, and won. We draw strength from each other. This is the kind of friendship I need in my life. And though it is true that I wish no good people had to hurt, I also acknowledge that good people are good because they have been hurt. People like us tend to believe in the motto, "Whatever doesn't kill me better run."

So I guess that's it for right now. I have more things I need to write about, but I'll do it later. Thanks for reading.

Tuesday, November 5, 2013

Recovery.

"Look at your stupid awkward blog. You make a fool of yourself every time you post in it. Even the name is stupid."

Someone on my friends list on Facebook actually said this to me after I asked her, politely, if she could put me on a filter where I didn't see her fighting with people all the time. (You can do that on Facebook. Just post really personal stuff to your "close friends" only.) I didn't know her well. We only started chatting because I thought it was neat that she lived in the Ukraine and she worshiped my gods. But after seeing post after post of her whining about how everyone hates her, and calling out this person or that person and publicly tagging people by name, I got tired of all the negativity. I'd tried to be a listening ear before, but after this immature and hateful response, I blocked her with absolutely no hesitation. That means I can't see her, and she can't see me. (I'm explaining this because my therapist, bless her heart, is a total Luddite, so bear with me.)

The amount of fucks I didn't give about blocking this person is staggering, and it's actually a sign of growth. I used to feel guilt and shame for cutting people out like that, even if they weren't really that close. So that's all I'm gonna say about it.

More pressing are the series of breakdowns I've been having. I've already discussed the one I had last week with my therapist, and as this journal exists largely as a tool to use in my therapy sessions, I'm not going to go into too much detail. It wasn't so much a panic attack as an extended bout of heightened anxiety which was resistant to all my usual techniques, and it was brought on by a combination of physical illness, grief for a broken friendship, and a really bad experience at an urgent care facility. I eventually calmed down, and was feeling much better after talking to my therapist on the phone.'

Sunday was another matter altogether. Still sick, my anxiety reached critical mass. Despite all logic, I was convinced I was going to die. I was convinced I would never feel good again. Each day I'd been trying to get up and do what I could do, and each day I had ended up feeling worse than I had felt the day before. Add to that the fact that I knew that Matt was going away for most of the week. I just... lost it. Complete and utter breakdown. I could not stop crying. I could not relax. I could not think straight. I think I cried for more than an hour before he left, as if I would never see him again. I felt shame for breaking down like this because Matt was doing absolutely everything he could to help me. I did't want him to feel bad leaving me alone, but I couldn't help it. I was in complete despair. Even Loki, whose comfort often comes as a clap on the shoulder (or a smack on the ass) and a reminder that his love for me is evidence that I'm stronger than I think I am, was gentle with me. I felt him near me, holding as tightly to me as Matt was.

And then, Matt left. And I stopped crying.

I realized I had gotten myself so worked up about him leaving, about being alone for almost five days, that I had used up all my tears. And then, quite suddenly, I began to feel better. Maybe the crying loosened up some of the congestion. Maybe I had simply burned through all the adrenaline and cortisol in my system. Whatever it was, it was sudden, as if I'd taken a pill, except that I hadn't. And instead of crying myself to sleep, I ended up walking down to the corner store to buy cigarettes, which might seem counter-intuitive in case of a respiratory infection, but something had to give.

After the greasy urgent care doctor had told me I was sick because I was a smoker, I had thrown my cigarettes away in a fit of fear and anger. I actually went three days without smoking. But, between the illness, grieving, withdrawing from cigarettes and also from pain meds, I was at my breaking point. (I had to stop taking my pain meds for a while because they act as a cough suppressant, which is the opposite of what you want when you're trying to get rid of chest congestion.) Eh, it was worth a shot. As I have told Matt, I will quit when I am ready.

It might have even just been the act of walking to the store that helped, but after I had a smoke and calmed down even more, I ended up making two pairs of earrings. I'd been saying I was going to start making jewelry by re-purposing old or broken jewelry I got for cheap. The first two pairs of earrings aren't particularly sturdy and I don't know if I could actually sell them, but it was a turning point. Somehow, I turned manic dysphoria into creative energy.

Since Matt has left, I have felt progressively better physically and emotionally. Yesterday, I washed my quilt and cleaned up my room, scouring away evidence of my illness. I think just looking at the pill bottles and the trash bin full of slimy snot rags. (Sputum. Isn't it a beautiful word?) I opened my window and let in some fresh air, lit the candle on my altar and burned some incense to cleanse the air, all of which made me feel much better.

It's now Tuesday evening. I'm half-way there. Matt gets back late Thursday night. Thor 2 comes out this weekend, and I've been chomping at the bit to see it. It's like my reward for getting through this. Hopefully, I can look back on this whole thing and remember that yeah, actually, I am stronger than this shit, and I am going to be okay. Whatever doesn't kill me better get the fuck out of my way.

Thursday, October 31, 2013

Samhain.

Well. Long time, no write.

I have been sick all week with a nasty chest cold and a sinus infection. I am still sick today, but this is my favourite day of the year, and there was no way I was gonna spend it home in bed. I'm just well enough to be here in the coffee house instead of sitting propped up on pillows in my bed, and I'm grateful for that. Today is my day. We're given a precious few days to enjoy this world as who we are in this life, and I won't let this one be stolen from me by illness of mind, body or spirit. The rains come, washing away all regret.

Well, not all. I do regret deleting the previous entry entirely. There were some relevant things in there. I'll try to remember as much as I can. I did quit the haunted house, primarily because of pain brought on by working outside without heat or adequate clothing in near-freezing conditions. I refuse to look at leaving early as a failure. I gave it my all for the time I was there, and proved to myself that I was capable of far more than I was giving myself credit for. I worked through pain and physical discomfort as well as emotional issues. I even worked straight through a panic attack, surrounded by things that were potential triggers. That, my friend, was pretty epic. Could I do that every day, or even every week? I doubt it, nor would I want to- but I can do it. I've been asked back next year, and I may consider it, depending on where I've taken my life by then.

Okay, so that deleted entry... Yeah. I could have handled things better. I acted (and typed) rashly, spoke out of anger and hurt, but it's over now. Yeah, I did want her to see the things in that entry, but in my haste I had actually forgotten it was public. (There aren't any filters on this blog like there are on Livejournal.) For her, that public entry was unforgivable. Even if I wanted her back in my life, she'll never speak to me again. I made sure of that. Did I want it to end like that? No, of course not. But it had to end somehow, didn't it? All I can do now is move the fuck on, as I'm sure she's already done. I try not to, but I imagine her friends telling her the same things I've told her about others who hurt her. "S/he's not worth it. Don't listen to anything s/he says, s/he has issues and they're not yours." Thing is, I was already feeling like I wasn't "worth it" to her long before the blow-out, and she seemed much more concerned with how other people would perceive her than apologizing or even acknowledging she had treated me poorly, so I still feel that this was for the best. I'm still not really sure when the friendship turned toxic, but it was toxic for both of us, so we're both better off.

For the first few days, I was inconsolable. It didn't help that I was getting sick, or maybe I got sick because of the emotional stress wearing on my immune system. (The thought of being punished or cursed did cross my mind several times, but that's just my guilt talking. Almost everyone from the haunt is sick, and my doc's office was swamped with coughing, sneezing people.) At some point, I transitioned from sorrow to anger. I'm actually still pretty angry, at her coldness or cluelessness or whatever it is, at her cliquishness, at myself for getting so wrapped up and the realization that the closeness, or at least its permanence, was all in my head. But I'm working on moving on to acceptance. I feel like I'm closer to that today. I'm at the coffee shop for the first time since we stopped being friends, and, curiously, I feel no sadness. I am not watching the door as if she might walk through at any moment, either in longing or in fear. I feel the tie has been completely severed, as if she has banished me from her consciousness altogether, and that's fine by me. I'm just glad to be here, to be feeling well enough to be here and not in my bed, for the first time in almost a week. I'm glad for the soft grey sky and the wind and the flurry of fiery leaves. I'm grateful for all the things I'm usually grateful for. I'm even grateful that I don't need to wonder about what's going on in her head anymore.

I feel that this is all part of something far bigger for me, honestly. Growing pains. Shedding the old. I'm relying less, now, on the approval of and validation from others. Instead of putting people on pedestals (as I did her, for so long), I'm seeing people for who they really are- just people, just as flawed and broken as I am. There are no gods among us mortals, and yet, god is in us all. Some relationships may have expiration dates, but they all give us experience. It's my choice to value that experience, for better or for worse, and take the hints from my gods when they come to me. It is unrealistic to expect to always be friends with everyone you ever make friends with in your life. It is pointless to look at yourself as a failure because you don't get along with everyone. In terms of friends, I grew up in a mindset of "beggars can't be choosers," and would latch onto anyone who didn't actively dislike me. I'm finally learning that, even though I might share a worldview with someone, or we might worship the same god, or we like the same movies, or have the same mental disorder, that doesn't make us guaranteed to be friends for life. If someone is hurting me, I need to let them go. If I am hurting someone, I need to walk away.

When there is more doubt than trust, there is no more love.




Monday, October 14, 2013

Positive-negative-Positive

Let me just begin by saying that I had an absolutely wonderful weekend with my husband. It wasn't just a celebration of a date marking one year of marriage; it was a celebration of us. We enjoyed a hockey game, a couple of good meals out, a burlesque show, and a picnic at the same park where we held our wedding. We've endured many trials during our first year as a married couple, and all have served to strengthen our bond and bring us closer together. I am so blessed and so happy to be with Matt, and to know that he feels the same about me. People talk about their wedding days as being the happiest day of their lives. That day was a happy one for me, but I feel that it was only a preview. I wish that everyone could find someone with whom they could build a relationship like ours. I have no fears that our love for one another will fade with time, or that the difficulties we face will drive us apart. That, to me, is true love.

It's also true stability, something I'm still trying to get used to. I've become so accustomed to things falling apart just as I get comfortable that there are times I worry there's another shoe hovering out-of-sight, waiting to drop on my head. These fears are diminishing slowly as Matt and I continue the process of learning to live with each other. It's a process, and it takes work. You can't ever stop and take things for granted, because the moment you do, resentment will begin to build. I believe in complete transparency in a relationship, and that requires complete honesty with one's self and one's partner (or partners.) I think we do a pretty good job of it. I think it's what keeps us on our toes while at the same time giving us room to breathe. If you're waiting for a "but"... there is none. Right now, things are peachy.

Things aren't quite so peachy with me and Isa. We're having another ... hmm. It's not really a fight if the other person refuses to talk, is it? We're having a difference of perspective. Yes, let's put it that way. At the beginning of haunt season, Isa offered to give me rides down to the fairgrounds, since she would be working there and my house isn't that far from hers. Yet, every single week, she has made some kind of an excuse as to why she can't give me a ride. She tells me she will if I come to her house, which I find to be ridiculous, because that involves a mile walk, bus fare, and 40 minutes on the bus, in contrast to the ten minutes it would take her to drive to my house. When she offered me said rides, no conditions were put on it. She didn't ask for gas money, though I offered to pay when I had money of my own. She didn't stipulate that I had to come to her house; if she had, I would have found another way to get to work.

I got mad today. I'm tired of feeling like I'm putting her out because I'm asking her for what she offered in the first place. I'm tired of her making me the bad guy because she overcommitted and can't just come out and say "I'm sorry, but I can't do this." It's either that, or she's upset at me for something else she's not telling me, and again, I can't fucking read her mind. So I'm just keeping my distance. I told her that after haunt season, maybe we could be friends again. It was a mean thing to say, but really, I'm tired of the bullshit. I do not respond well to passive-aggressive behavior, even if the person who is behaving that way isn't doing it "on purpose." But it hurts, because I love her. I'm starting to think that she doesn't care about me, or maybe that she just doesn't have the capacity to care about me right now. I know she's busy, but neither Matt nor I got so much as a text wishing us a happy anniversary, and she was one of my bridesmaids for fuck's sake! Eventually, I will muster my strength to write to her again, but since nothing I said the first time seemed to sink in, and she never actually responded directly to any of it, I'm wondering if it's even worth it. Maybe she just doesn't like me as a person anymore. Maybe she's tired of my bullshit, whatever she might perceive that to be. I don't know. I'm just done for now. I'm not going to let a conflict with a friend, regardless of how close said friend is, affect my happiness.

I have a lot to be happy about. We're getting out of the ghetto. We're moving November 22nd to a nice little courtyard flat in a pretty little apartment complex with two pools and a gym and great bus access. My confidence is growing. Despite the drama attached to the haunt, having any kind of a job at all is good for me. I'm coming out of my shell more. At the burlesque show, both Matt and I got up on stage. *We didn't take our clothes off. There was a poetry reading/ stand-up comedy portion of the program.)People congratulated us and complimented me on my looks and my style. I'm progressing with physical therapy. I'm able to do more than I was able to do a month ago, with less pain. I'm looking forward to taking some next steps. Once we're settled in, maybe I'll look more seriously at getting a part-time job, or making stuff for a living. Maybe I'll even take burlesque lessons. Who knows? I just feel like all kinds of good stuff is coming. I'm not even that worried about the surgery anymore. I have support from friends, new and old, and family. Things are looking up on multiple fronts. There's no reason why I need to dwell on the stuff that sucks. There really isn't that much of it.

There. I made a positive-negative-positive sandwich.

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Disability...

There is a new decoration on the rear-view mirror of our car.

Some people prefer the term "differently abled" to "disabled." I am not one of those people. There is no advantage to the fact that I lost the genetic lottery in terms of my musculoskeletal system. There is no longer any hiding the fact that I use a cane most days, and that I walk like someone twice my age, and that I depend on pain killers to function on any meaningful level. I am disabled. It's not a dirty word. It's just a fact of my life.

Tests on the nerves in my legs had shown that there was no nerve damage, and I decided to go the route of physical therapy for my lumbar spine rather than pursue surgery. Since that problem is getting better (slowly,) I asked if we could talk about my neck, shoulder and arm pain. (They only work on one level at a time.) I had breathed a sigh of relief, since I had been psyching myself up for possible lumbar spine surgery, and I was confident that physical therapy and losing some weight would help.

But today, my neurosurgeon told me that surgery on my neck is inevitable. Basic neurological tests showed that I have pathological reflexes in my hands. My MRI shows that I have a bi-lobar bulge in C5-C6, which basically means that the disk is squishing out of the space in two directions, probably impinging on the peripheral nerves.

I had thought that I might not need surgery on my spine, and now it looks as though it's something I need to prepare myself for in a serious fashion. Interestingly, the doctor told me that some of the pain in my back might actually be referred from the site in my neck. Luckily, this particular doctor is world-renowned in terms of cervical column surgery, and he pioneered the use of synthetic cervical disks in the US. In fact, the friend who told me about this doctor had the procedure done, and it vastly improved his life.

I'm now back into "psyching myself up for surgery" mode. Still afraid of going under. Still afraid something might go wrong. The surgery itself is kind of scary to think about. In order to remove the blown-out disk, they'll slice open my throat and go in through the front. Yeah, I know, I'm making it sound really gory, but maybe that's my way of desensitizing myself.

One thing I have to wonder is whether there is an underlying cause for the fact that at 35, almost every major joint in my body is diseased in some way. I was born with hip displaysia and a deformity of my sternum called pectis excavatum. These are both hallmarks of Marfan's Syndrome. Though I don't display any of the obvious physical characteristics of someone with this particular disease, I'm curious as to whether there might be some genetic reason why I'm all jacked up. I might see about genetic testing in the future. Now, though, I need to focus on moving forward.

I'll post more later. It's just about time for physical therapy, and then therapy-therapy.

Tuesday, October 1, 2013

Work and friends and poly and stuff

Whoo. What a week.

Working at the haunt has been fun, but predictably exhausting. I feel like most of the people there are younger and more energetic than I am. However, I've received nothing but encouragement from the cast and crew, and I've made quite a few new friends already. I even went to Waffle House after we closed on Saturday night, and going out in a big group like that isn't something I've done since my theater days in my teens. I've been enjoying myself, and surprising myself with how much I actually am capable of in terms of work stamina. It helps that I'm normally up until the wee hours, so it doesn't disrupt my sleep schedule. About the only really bad thing about it is that we aren't going to get paid until haunt season is over, after November 3, and obviously, I could use some cash before then.

Unfortunately, I am again sensing a lot of tension between me and Isa. She volunteered to be my ride to and from the haunt, since she works there, too, but I am suddenly finding myself feeling like a burden again. She asked for gas money, which I would gladly give her if I had it, but at the time, I did not. She seemed very annoyed about this. She just seems annoyed in general at me and everyone around her right now, and I think this is another case of her over-committing and not knowing how to say "no." She is also treating this as if she is an organizer of the event, which she is not, and she's just putting undue stress on herself. It's hard to watch. And it's none of my business, really, unless she talks to me. The problem is, if I can't rely on her for a ride, I might be SOL a few nights. I've been getting rides from other people whenever possible, including Matt, but he's been out-of-town more days than not for the last two weeks. I've tried to talk to her about it, but she's been avoiding me (though she won't admit to this.) I'm beginning to worry that I am losing her as a friend, and it hurts, and I don't know what to do. It seems like I can't do anything right no matter how careful I try to be.

Switching gears, there's been an unusual amount of activity on the poly front, at least on my end. Both times Matt went out of town, I found company with play/sex partners. This is not typical for me. It just sort of happens when it does, and it seems like, in terms of partners, it's either feast or famine. When Matt isn't out-of-town, I don't really have that much interest in other pursuits. Right now, I feel guilty, because Matt is jealous. He isn't the kind of jealous that you would normally associate with a monogamous relationship. He's jealous that he doesn't get to play, too. He's jealous that, while I have had several dates recently, all his potential partners live in other states. I don't feel shame for being with others, but I do feel bad that Matt isn't getting to enjoy the benefits of an open marriage the way I am. If he asks me to, I am willing to stay monogamous with him until if and when he finds an outlet, but I don't think he really wants me to do that. It's something we need to talk about more, obviously, even though I tell him everything that happens immediately or, when possible, before anything happens at all. One benefit to my little forays into foreign bedrooms is that when Matt gets home, we have awesome sex. I like my other partners, of course, but one of the best things about having the kind of relationship Matt and I do is that it enhances our sex life. It brings in new energy and ideas and sparks passion. I don't really want to give that up if I don't have to. I just really wish Matt could find another partner so I didn't feel like I am the only one benefiting from this. I want to talk about this in couples therapy.

Last, but not least, physical therapy. I think it has been helping me. I have a chart to check off which home exercises I complete daily, and I try to make it a habit to do some of them before bed. This seems to help me sleep better. On the downside, the electrotherapy and massage really only soothe my pain for as long as the treatment lasts. I appreciate it anyway, of course. It's like my reward after my workout. The people on my physical therapy team are great, and really do listen to where I'm at and take into account my pain level when I come in. I've come to look forward to the sessions.

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Money ... it haunts me

I'm employed.

It may be temporary, but I feel excited just to say that for the first time in over four years, I have a job. I'll be working at a haunted house on weekends from now until November 2. I'm a little nervous about it because I will have people counting on me, and I still have issues with crowds and claustrophobia, both of which I will have to deal with nightly. However, I'm not going to be alone. Isa and Tory, two close friends, are going to be there with me. It's not much money, but it's money that I will actually be earning for myself, and that's a big step forward.

Money is still a source of extreme stress for me. I have a lot of shame centering around it that I haven't been too successful in dealing with. It's a strange mix of feeling like I don't deserve things because I don't work, and a terror of getting back out in the workforce. It's a paradox between wanting to have some money for my own, and losing the comfort of having Matt provide me with the things I need. Right now, he can't give me everything I need or want on his own, because of continuing issues with medical bills. We're talking to financial counselors, and things may get better in the next few months. But I was triggered badly when, during couples therapy, Matt told me that I have to learn to live on $100 a month or make my own money.

I have no confidence. There are lots of things I am capable of doing, like making art or jewelry to sell online. I just feel like nobody will want to buy what I make. I look at people who sell things on eBay and on Etsy, and compare it to my own work, and it feels like everyone has either already done the things I can do, thus saturating the market, or that they've done it better than I can. This has been an issue for me for a long time, in terms of blocking my creativity. Why write about things when they've been written about before? Why draw things when they've been drawn before? Why make jewellery when so many people make similar things? I feel like if I can't be truly original, it's a waste of time. Yet, given what actually sells on the Internet, originality doesn't seem to be a concern for others.

I defeat myself before I ever start, and yet I have a deep need to create. And I would love to be able to make money creating things that other people would enjoy. I don't know how to get past this mentally. It may be a case of just doing it anyway. As soon as I have some kind of success, it might give me the confidence I need to continue to produce. At least, that's what I'm hoping, because once the haunt is over, I won't have much choice.

Over the last few days I've been trying to take small, pro-active steps to save money. For instance, I downloaded an app to my phone that automatically loads coupons to my Kroger card, so that when I buy the items and scan the barcode, the discount is taken automatically. I've also chosen not to go out as much. My only real regular expenses are cigarettes and coffee. When I go to a coffee house, I tend to stay for many hours, buying many drinks. If I reduce this to once per week instead of two or three times, that will save me money, because I won't be buying coffee, and I smoke less when I'm at home than when I'm out. I have also chosen not to take my phone outside with me when I smoke, since it's easier for me to chain-smoke if I'm also messing around on the Internet. I think these small steps are a good start, but I need to do more.

I hate being an adult. I hate money. I hate the entire concept of it. I've never wanted to play the game. I'm also afraid that if I start to make too much money, it's just going to get taken away via garnishments because of my defaulted student loans. I made my bed ten years ago, and now I'm being forced to sleep in it, and it sucks, and I feel like a failure, and that just cycles back to preventing me from taking any steps forward.

I'm also plagued with the idea that I have to do everything right now. That I have to change everything I do immediately, overnight, and that if I don't, I'm a failure (again) and it's pointless to even start. Maybe this goes back to the way I was in school. Did you know I'm a genius? That's what IQ tests say. The lowest I've ever scored is 133, the highest was 165. So a lot of things come very easily to me. I'm used to things being easy. When I encounter something that isn't easy, where I make mistakes and learn just like everyone else, I feel like I want to give up. It was like that with maths and reading music in school, and I guess money is my Achille's heel as an adult.

So how do I get past all this? How do I trick myself into thinking I'm capable of this stuff that seems to be so hard for me? I'm still not entirely sure. I'm working on it. I'm hoping that this job will be my foot in the door, the confidence I need to start thinking of myself as someone who is capable of generating an income instead of a useless, lazy person. I am terrified that I will give up. That I will find it too hard because of the pain or the anxiety to continue working at the haunt until the end. And if I do quit, that will start the whole cascade of self-hate all over again.

I'm thinking maybe something I need is a form of self-affirmation that I do daily, just like my physical therapy exercises. It can't be contrived and stupid like the shit they taught us in middle school. I can't just tell myself "I am lovable and capable" all the time and be on my way. I feel like I need to look at my past and appreciate the things I have accomplished already, despite numerous barriers, and draw upon that for strength for the present. I'm going to ask my therapist tonight how I can go about this.

Anyway, for now, I'm employed, I'm cautiously optimistic, and I'm looking forward to making money scaring the shit out of people. Life is generally good. I need to make sure I remember that.

Tuesday, September 17, 2013

Loving myself

Lately, I love to look in the mirror. Getting my new haircut has given me a boost of confidence in my looks. I've been taking more care to do my makeup before I go out, and choosing my outfits carefully. I try to dress each day as if I'm going to meet someone important. The reason I've been doing this is because looking good and truly liking the way I look counteracts how my body feels.

Because if I presented myself to the world visually the way I actually feel, I'd be barefoot and in my pajamas. My hair would be unwashed and messy. I'd have no makeup on and the most prominent features on my face would be my mustache and my tired frown.

Creating a look for myself, an identity, is important. When I'm feeling terrible, I need to look in the mirror and see that I don't look terrible, that when others see me, they don't see my pain, physical and otherwise. It's a way to "fake it 'til I make it." And so far, it's working.

In two days, I finally have my evaluation for physical therapy. I'm looking forward to it as one might look forward to an audition. My assets and weaknesses will be taken into consideration, so that my training will yield the maximum benefit. I'm nervous, but I'm also confident that this is going to be a huge step forward for me, literally and figuratively. After so many years of being in pain all by myself, suffering in silence, I am finally doing something about it. I am finally able to take action.

Physical therapy is going to be a spiritual practise for me as well. It's going to force me to face my weaknesses. It's going to make me push past my fears. It's going to require me to put my trust in my therapists, and in myself, to affect change. There are going to be days I don't want to go. There are going to be days when the pain of training is going to seem like it isn't worth it, but I have to remember my strength. It's there. I just need to tap into it and make it work for me.

This all comes back to the idea of loving myself. I have often seen myself as defective, for all sorts of reasons. Growing up, I was never "normal" in terms of the way I interacted, the way I learned, the way my body worked, or the way I looked at the world. From the ancient nun who admonished me for being left-handed in gradeschool to my failures at relationships in high school, I have always felt there must be something terribly wrong with me. Something someone wasn't telling me, something that made me different.

Now, I am an adult. I have broken through many of my barriers, I have stability in my life, and I have support and love from friends and family. I don't feel like there's something "wrong" with me any more, but I do feel like I'm still working to define and accept who and what I am, and to love myself unconditionally. I can't say to the face in the mirror, "I only love you when you are having good days." Though I have had "friends" and relationships with people who treated me this way, I can't afford to have that kind of influence in my life any more, especially not from within. Though it is vastly important to have emotional support from those closest to me, I must empower myself in order to reach my full potential. I feel that I am emerging from my chrysalis at last. If you've ever watched a butterfly do this, you can tell how hard it is, breaking through that last barrier. Stretching those new wings. Taking those first quaking steps before catching the wind.


I am beautiful.
I am strong.
I have faced and conquered many challenges, and continue to do so.
I am not defective.
I am me.
I love who I am, and look forward to becoming more than I ever thought I could be.

Friday, September 13, 2013

Various things

Had my EMG. It was actually rather enjoyable. The mild electrical shocks relaxed my muscles. Even the needles didn't hurt very much, though they were embedded in my muscle tissue. The good news is that the results of the test were completely normal. That means that there is no actual nerve damage, at least, not in my legs. I'm going to have another test done for the nerves in my arms and hands.

What this means is that surgery is not an immediate necessity. Because there is no permanent damage to the nerves, it is more likely that physical therapy and other less-invasive treatments may help alleviate the pain. So, my decision to go forward with physical therapy has been reinforced.

I feel pretty good right now. Nice to have a test show me something positive for once. On the other hand, if they had found nerve damage, that would be a definitive diagnosis for the source of the pain. Medical tests are always mixed blessings this way.

In other news, I've reconciled with the friend that I'd had a falling-out with. Unfortunately, Isa is again dealing with the crisis of unemployment. This is the third job she's lost this year. It's becoming increasingly difficult to console her. Today, when I met her for coffee, she was so wound up I was worried she was going to have a collapse. I did calm her down eventually, but I am worried for her. Still, much as I'd like to, I can't fix her problems. I suggested that it might be time to consider a new career path. (I suggested that the last time, too.) We'll see what happens. I just let her know that I am here for her and I will support whatever decision she makes, and that no matter what, I consider her family.

Matt and I are still having money issues. There was another significant overdraft notice in the mail yesterday. We are seeing a couple of financial counselors, but I have to admit that I was floored that this happened again for the second month in a row. We were meant to have a date night tonight. I sat him down and said, "No. We have to make up for it somehow first." So we decided, together, to sell some of our electronics to pay for groceries this week, and use some of the money for dinner tonight. It was a difficult decision, but it was entirely necessary. I'm even selling a few of my collectible items on eBay so I can have a little bit of spending money. But this is a temporary solution, just a bandaid on the immediate problem. I'm hoping that by next month, the financial counseling will start to pay off, and the consolidation of our credit card payments will leave a bit more breathing room. We still need to make some serious lifestyle changes to make ends meet.

One of those things might be for Matt to find a higher-paying job, but I can't help but feel shame for not being employed. I keep telling myself that I am going to find a job somehow, that I am going to do all this stuff when my treatments start to ease the pain, but I'm terrified. I haven't worked in four years now, my employment history is terrible, and I am very limited in the types of jobs I can do because of my disability and the fact that I don't drive.

I'm trying not to feel this shame, and just do what I can, when I can, to help Matt out, but I'm a little selfish. I don't want to give up what little freedom I have, which consists of going to the coffee shop two or three times per week to write. I can cut down by buying less-expensive drinks, of course, but then there's my smoking issue. Ever since I've been on painkillers, I've been smoking a lot more. I have a lot of hard things ahead of me, and I'm overwhelmed. I don't feel like I can do PT, quit smoking, lose weight, and look for work all at the same time, and I feel like I need to do all of those things, right now.

Anyway, yeah, that's what's going on at the moment. I'm write more later, when more things come to me.

Thursday, September 12, 2013

Can't you just rip it out and give me a new one?

I think I always knew I'd be in pain for the rest of my life. It's been a fact of my life for as long as I can remember, so why should it not continue to be a factor? But again, actually hearing a doctor tell me that I have a "50-year-old back" and that regardless of what they do to fix the problem, it isn't going to eliminate the pain, somehow made it more real. Yep. All the suspicions I had about my spine were right. Even if they did perform a laminectomy and fuse my L4-L5 vertebrae, chances are, disease would progress to my other lumbar disks, which are already showing signs of wear.

I decided to go ahead with physical therapy. I have my evaluation in a week. I hesitated at first, because I did not want to go through all the work in PT, then have to go back to square one if I ended up having surgery. But since it seems like surgery isn't necessarily the most effective option and because I'm fucking terrified of surgery I have decided, for now, to go with a more conservative approach. This will include regular PT, hydrotherapy, possibly electrotherapy (especially for my neck), continued pain management with gabapentin and percocet.

There is a possibility of undergoing a nerve-block procedure. The nerve block is another injection, but this is numbing medication similar to novocaine which will be targeted at the nerve root. If numbing the nerve root lessens the pain, the next step might be cauterizing the nerve root to "kill" it. I may need this done several times a year. After my first experience with injections, I am of course sceptical and nervous about any similar procedures, but if physical therapy fails to help, I might consider it.

Surgery is, by no means, off the table. I'm just trying to balance my terror of going under the knife with my desire to get it overwith if it needs to be done, and not draw things out. Honestly, I am still disappointed that the procedure I hoped to have is unavailable for the lumbar spine. Taking out the broken part and putting in a new, shiny replacement is just so much more appealing to me than poking and prodding my collapsed disc and arthritic vertebrae trying to get them to work. I mean, it's like when you've got a car, and it's not that old, but stuff keeps going wrong with it and you discover one day that it'd be cheaper and easier to get a new one rather than to pour money and effort into fixing it over and over again. Unfortunately, I am told, the human body doesn't work like that, and even if they fixed all the damage, there's no guarantee it would stop the pain. It's kind of like wrapping duct tape around a frayed cord, which fixes the weak point, but ends up causing another weak point right below where you put the tape.
I have a lot of choices to make, and I'm kind of overwhelmed. I'm grateful that I have so much support from people who love me. I'm just .... tired. One day, I promise you, I will become a cyborg.



Tuesday, September 10, 2013

"Family" is not a dirty word... anymore

We've all heard the jokes about mother-in-laws being nightmarish creatures to be interacted with only when the consequences of not doing so outweigh the danger. Wives' mothers don't ever think their daughter's husband is good enough, and husbands' mothers never stop blaming their sons' wives for usurping their power.

Well, I'm not afraid of my mother-in-law any more. Not after yesterday. In fact, I'm pretty overwhelmed at how much we shared with each other, and how much wailing and gnashing-of-teeth and passive-aggressive sniping did not happen. It isn't that I ever had reason to believe Matt's mom was a monster. It's just that I have had precious little positive experience with family of any kind, at any time in my life. Even the word "family" has, in the past, been enough to trigger feelings of dread. And not just the "normal" dread people talk about when dealing with lots of family interaction at holidays and whatnot. I'm talking about any interaction at all.

Yesterday afternoon, I met my mother-in-law for coffee. I had initiated this little get-together, which is an accomplishment in itself for me, due to my abject terror of mother figures in general. I wanted to talk to her about her experience with spinal fusion surgery, since it's something I may have to deal with very soon. I reached out because I needed reassurance that all of my anxious, paranoid fears were indeed simply anxious, paranoid fears. (For contrast, my own mother, upon being told that I was considering surgery, promptly sent me links to scary articles warning of the dangers of anaesthesia and antidepressants.)

We talked, and she gave me the reassurance I was looking for. And then, the conversation took an unexpected turn. I told her about my panic attack of the evening before, and she asked me, point-blank, if anything at the memorial service may have triggered me. I had told her before that I am not Christian, and she hadn't run screaming, but I was still apprehensive about talking about my views (discussed in the previous entry in this journal.)

"I... really don't want to argue about religion," I told her, fidgeting in my seat.
"I won't argue, I promise," she said. "I just want to know."

So I told her about why the service had made me uncomfortable. To my surprise, she empathised with me. She actually seemed to agree, at least somewhat, in particular with my irritation at the assumption that all of the fallen had been Christian. She went on to imply that their church had changed a bit since the pastor I was familiar with and had liked had gone into mandatory retirement. (Apparently it's just a thing Episcopalian priests have to do.) The previous pastor, a woman, had made me feel quite at ease when I had visited the church previously. The energy of the place was definitely different without her leading the service. The new priest kind of gave me a bad vibe.

We went on to talk about other subjects that I didn't think I would ever dare talk about with my mother-in-law. (I'm not going to go into them here, as they're rather private, and this journal is public, but the subject of boobs came up.) By the end of the evening, I felt like I'd actually made a friend.

Wait... a ... what? A friend? Who is also my mother-in-law? I ... don't know how to process this. Family is family and friends are friends. There's my chosen Family, people who are not related to me in blood that I love as if they were, but that's different. I've almost never been friends with people I call "mandatory family." Blood relations, relations-by-marriage, that sort of thing. My mind is now desperately trying to categorise this new type of relationship. An "adult," who is the mother of my husband, who likes me as a person and wants to spend time with me. And there's no weird ulterior motive, no secretive back-biting bullshit, none of the stuff I'd come to see as "normal" in my own family.

The closest I've ever had to this kind of friendship was the mother of Brian, my first truly long-term relationship, and she died just as I was finally beginning to trust her. That was a long time ago, and I was a very young adult. Is my mother-in-law going to up and die now, too? I know that's ridiculous, but I can't help but think it. It's part of the feeling that this sort of relationship is so rare and fragile that it could disappear or implode at any moment.

Regardless, I'm incredibly grateful for my mother-in-law... and her son. I think maybe my life is finally starting to round itself out, with mature and non-dysfunctional (should I just say functional?) relationships with people of all ages in varying roles. It's just still a little hard for me to believe.

Where do we go from here?

Monday, September 9, 2013

Yes, I actually have an app on my phone in case of anxiety.

The worst panic attacks are the ones where I can't figure out what triggered them, even after I've had some time to calm down and think about it. My explanation for the one I had last night was that it might have been a reaction to something I ate. Maybe there was a load of sulfites in my food that I wasn't aware of. That's the easy explanation.

The not-so-easy explanation is that I may have been triggered by the day's activities. Matt and I met his parents at their church for a lengthy memorial service for first-responders (police and firefighters), timed, no doubt, for the anniversary of 9/11. Matt's parents are both in the church choir, and they asked us if we would join them for the service and then for dinner afterward.

Don't get me wrong. I like their church. It's pretty. The people there seem fairly open-minded, though I wouldn't just blurt out that I'm bisexual, Pagan and in an open marriage with Matt. They don't do the fire-and-brimstone schtick, and seem to keep to the theme of salvation, which is fine with me. But this service irked me for several reasons.

First of all, it was ridiculously drawn-out. The program was about a dozen full-size pages long, and somehow, four-line psalms ended up becoming ten minutes of off-key choral warbling (bless'em, but they're just not that great). The ancient wooden pews were very hard on my back, and even though I'd doubled up on my pain meds (by accident, mind you), I was in agony after the first hour. I had to ask Matt to go out to the car and get my travel pillow to sit on, which relieved the pain somewhat, but I was horrified to realise that the pillow still smelled of the meat Matt left in the trunk of the car (another story altogether) and I knew the lady behind me, a friend of Matt's parents, could smell it. Ugh.

Secondly, well, I'm not Christian. I don't have a problem with Jesus or his teachings (mostly), but I do have a problem with Christian churches. I was bothered by the fact that it was automatically assumed that all of those who died were Christian, or if they weren't Christian, that they would somehow end up in the Christian version of heaven. And of course, there was the reminder that Jesus said, "No one comes to the Father except through me," one of my least-favourite verses. It is so often used by Christians as "proof" that theirs is the "one true faith," invalidating any other spiritual path.

Anyone who had been baptized Christian was invited to take part in holy communion. I had taken communion at the church before, for the Christmas service, but this time, I declined. I decided that if they were only inviting certain people to their table, and not everyone, I would not partake. I am baptized Christian, technically, but I do not practice nor preach. Though I acknowledge and respect all forms of spirituality, I have chosen to give my loyalty to my gods, whom have redeemed me and given me strength.

Anyway. It was a two-hour service, and by the end of it, I was exhausted, physically and emotionally. We went back to Matt's parents' place, supposedly to have dinner, but they suggested going out. I would rather have stayed there, where I am comfortable, and there are adorable cats to pet, than go to the dinky little sports bar where they decided to take us. I was already feeling anxious. The warning signs were there, but I did my best to ignore them.

By the end of the meal, though, I could not ignore it any more. The chill began at the back of my head and spilled down into my core, pooling in my abdomen, making me feel sick. I said nothing. Matt was engaged in conversation with his parents. They did not notice I was in distress, and I did not want them to. I didn't feel I could move at that moment, so I began to take slow, deep breaths, and I reached for the Let Panic Go app on my phone. The app tells me stuff I need to hear.
It's like having someone tell me to just breathe, just relax, you aren't dying, you aren't going crazy, your heart isn't going to fail, you're not going to collapse. You're fine. So I just concentrate on the leaf. Make the leaf go up and down by touching the screen, in time with my breath. Finally, I was calm enough to excuse myself to the bathroom, where, of course, I had an IBS attack, and I continued to use my app.

Hooray for technology. To anyone looking at me while I sat at the table, it must have seemed I was just reading something on my phone. Matt didn't even have any idea. I guess hiding it like that is a survival instinct. I'm not sure if that's good or bad. On one hand, perhaps keeping my body calm and focused helps end the panic, but on the other hand, it prevents me from action, such as going to the bathroom and splashing cool water on my face, looking in the mirror to focus on the here and now.

Anyway, yeah. Sick of this shit. It took meditation plus two klonopin to bring myself down from this one. It wasn't as bad as the medication-induced "grand mal" panic episode I had a few weeks ago, but I felt like it could have gotten to that point had I not been able to go home, take a cool shower, and relax.

There is nothing I hate more than fear of nothing.

Saturday, September 7, 2013

Nightmares

I'm married to Matt, but I'm still a teenager. Or at least, I feel like one.

"Well, at least you're not a dyke," says my father. "I honestly thought you'd have a better life than this, but you're a fuckup. And you married a fat fuck. At least he's enough of a man to take care of you."

He goes on to chastise me for being fat, and for smoking, and for being a "junkie." I assume he's talking about the painkillers. These are all things that he, himself, is guilty of.

I scream at him. I tell him he has no right to say any of that, that he washed his hands of me as soon as he could get away from my mother, that he lied to me, abandoned me when I wasn't of any more use to him. I tell him he's an asshole and I'm glad I didn't turn out the way he wanted me to.

Flash forward, another dream. Matt and I are going on a trip somewhere together. I think it's to some kind of convention on the other side of the country. It should be fun, and I should be excited, but I feel horrible. I'm deeply anxious. And then, for some reason, we end up on different flights. I can see him in the other plane, but we can't talk. He's lying down. The other plane is full of beds instead of seats. And then we take off. I feel like throwing up through the whole flight. I'm crushed against the window by a man who smells like rotting flesh. We finally land. I wait for Matt at the terminal, but he never shows up. I ask about the flight, but no one has any idea what I'm talking about. It's as if the flight Matt was on never existed. I'm now alone, frightened, and without any means to call someone for help. My phone is dead and there isn't anywhere to charge it. I think it would almost be better if someone told me the plane crashed. At least then I would know. I fear I'm losing my mind and that Matt was never with me to begin with.

I wake in a cold sweat, nauseous, my head pounding in pain. Matt says he came in this morning to give me a kiss, but I only vaguely remember it. For several moments, I don't know where I am, and then the room finally rearranges itself to be recognizable as my own.

I sit up in bed, take my morning pills and wait for them to kick in. I'd been sick the night before with stomach issues, with a slight fever and a general feeling of weakness. I chalk up the nightmares to that, but I'm still shaking a little bit. I feel like I just want to stay home and rest, but after those dreams, I feel like I can't waste any precious time I have with Matt over the weekend. I manage to get dressed and go with Matt when he has his therapy session. He's in session now, and I'm writing this entry.

I'm better now, but the dreams suggest that I am still struggling with my self-worth, of a fear of disappointing others - my father, in particular- even though my father hasn't been a part of my life for many years. I am also terrified of abandonment, of losing what I have. My world revolves around Matt. I depend on him. He's my husband, so that's normal, mostly, but because I have disabilities, it's even scarier to think what would happen to me if anything happened to him.

Sometimes, I think that this all must be a dream. I will wake up back in my mother's house and I'll be 22 years old and none of this will have happened. And I'll be sad, but safe, in a strange way. Maybe it's just the feeling of needing familiarity, of needing to know that something isn't going to change. We're going to be moving again in just a couple of months, and we don't know where, and I'm really hoping that wherever we go this time will be somewhere we can stay for more than a year.

Again, Halloween, my favourite holiday, will be too busy with preparations for moving to be enjoyed fully. But that's what Samhain is, really. It's when the wheel of the year turns and you get rid of what you don't need anymore and you start anew. I think on last year, when we were burdened with a horrible landlord and the huge expense of treating all of our belongings for bedbugs. I think about how sick I was from all of the bedbug bites. I think that this year has got to be better than that, even if it is stressful. I just really don't want this to be a yearly occurrence.

I'm still afraid of change. Every time, it gets a little better. I know that. It doesn't mean it still doesn't terrify me. In addition to the move, there's the looming back surgery. I just feel overwhelmed. Maybe when I get overwhelmed like this, that's when my brain goes haywire and produces these terrifying dreams.

I just want not to be afraid anymore.

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

Finding the ghost in the machine

My consult with Dr. Chen and his colleagues today was both comforting and terrifying. We went over the stuff that I already knew: the L4-L5 disk is fucked. Chen's medical assistant advised me that spinal fusion is essentially my only option. I was disappointed to find out that total artificial disk replacement for the lumbar spine is not yet reliable enough to be a viable option. I did learn something, though. I did not know is that the disks themselves are ennervated. I thought they were simply masses of cartilagenous tissue and fluid. It is possible that the nerves in the disk itself are inflamed or damaged, and that may be the cause of my pain.

Before any kind of surgical intervention, it's necessary to gather as much data as possible about the origin of the pain. Pinpoint the problem as best they can so they can eliminate it. That's just logical. Only, despite the spiffy white lab coats and expensive degrees, when it comes down to it, no doctor is ever certain about how well a surgery like this will go. They could do everything right, and end up making the problem worse. No, it's not brain surgery. It's spine surgery, and it's no less complex, except that, with all those bones in the way, the surgeon has to be part mechanic. (Note: please do not click the previous link if you're squeamish.)

To my relief, neither the doctor nor the MA mentioned anything about having to lose lots of weight before the surgery, which is good, though they did caution against smoking, which will be a challenge. I think I can cut down. Just not at the moment.

In terms of further diagnostic tests, the medical assistant told me that she would recommend a discogram. It sounds like a new dance step, but it's considerably more painful. Basically, they'd stick needles full of flouroscopic dye into my disk space to try to reproduce the pain. If it hurts, it's considered a "positive" discography. The dye also illuminates any cracks or annular tears in the disks. It sounded horrible. And fascinating, since I'm weird like that.

When I actually met Dr. Chen, he said that he was "on the fence" about that procedure, as it is invasive and extremely painful. (Whew!) He recommended another test, the EMG (Electromyogram), a type of nerve conduction test. Only slightly less disconcerting than the disco nightmare, this test involves:

You will be asked to lie on a table or bed or sit in a reclining chair so your muscles are relaxed.

The skin over the areas to be tested is cleaned. A needle electrode that is attached by wires to a recording machine is inserted into a muscle. (Into a muscle!)

When the electrodes are in place, the electrical activity in that muscle is recorded while the muscle is at rest. Then the technologist or doctor asks you to tighten (contract) the muscle slowly and steadily. This electrical activity is recorded.

The electrode may be moved a number of times to record the activity in different areas of the muscle or in different muscles.

The electrical activity in the muscle is shown as wavy and spiky lines on a video monitor and may also be heard on a loudspeaker as machine gun-like popping sounds when you contract the muscle. The activity may also be recorded on video.

An EMG may take 30 to 60 minutes. When the test is done, the electrodes are removed and those areas of the skin where a needle was inserted are cleaned. You may be given pain medicine if any of the test areas are sore."

(Plus, you're not allowed to have any caffeine or cigarettes three hours prior to the procedure. Guess who's going to the coffee house with a pack of smokes right after I'm done?)

Anyhow, the EMG test is a done deal, scheduled for Friday, September 13th (make whatever inferences you like about the date). I'm less afraid of the electric needles in my muscles than I am about doctors trying to "reproduce my pain" by essentially digging around in my spine. I will decide later if I want to risk undergoing the discofuckme test. If they determine that they absolutely need more data to proceed with surgery or any other treatment, I may consider it. Don't get me wrong, I'm pretty kinky, but the idea of lying down and having someone stick a needle in my vertebrae, squirting it full of dye and asking, "Which hurts worse, when I do this or when I do that?" just doesn't appeal to me.

So, this is all information. I'm not really quite sure what to do with it yet. My emotional response has been, thus far, one of general apprehension, but also curiosity. I think I'll try to write about my actual feelings later. I will say again that I've accepted the risks. I know that, regardless of what I do or don't do, I will be in pain for the rest of my life. At least this way, I can say that I did everything I could to fix it. Worst case, I end up in a wheel chair, and really, given how many awesome people I know who have wheels, I'm actually not that bothered about it. Yet.

(I would totally have a tricked-out chair with Nerf rocket launchers.)