Monday, August 26, 2013

Spine-tingling

I thought that, considering all the crazy-ass PTSD and psychological stuff I write about all the time, an entry about a problem with my physical body would be comparatively easy. I have been bitching about pain for the last few entries. I've even played show-and-tell with my squishy insides. But somehow... somehow the word "surgery" has thrown me. That's right. Big, tough, crazy, Heathen me, who went through a colonoscopy fully-conscious and without any medication, is terrified of surgery.

I've been looking up surgical options. There many different types of surgery available. The ones involving spinal fusion all entail bone grafts. This is scary to me, because they involve injuring another part of my body to fix the part that's broken. They would take some bone from my hip and fuse it to my spine. It would also involve quitting smoking immediately, since nicotine apparently slows down the healing of bone. Well, fuck me. There goes one of my coping methods. (It's an unhealthy coping method, but it's a coping method nonetheless.)

The other option, which I do not know if I am a candidate for because of my weight and other factors, would be a total artificial disc replacement. The doctor I am seeing next Wednesday specialises in this particular surgery, and, in fact, helped pioneer it. It's attractive to me because it does not involve breaking one thing to fix another. It also seems to have a much shorter recovery period, with patients encouraged to start walking the first day after surgery. On paper, I like this, but if the doctor says, "You need to lose 50 pounds first," well, how the fuck do I do that when I can't fucking exercise?

Regardless of which procedure the surgeon prescribes, it's going to be life-changing, and it will not eliminate the pain. It may lessen the pain to the point at which I am more functional without the aid of a cane, but it isn't going to make the damage magically disappear. There is going to be a lot of physical therapy and a lot of teeth-gnashingly difficult lifestyle adjustments.

And then, there's the surgery itself. I know it sounds ridiculous, but I am absolutely terrified of anaesthesia. I have this horrible fear that they'll put me out, and I won't wake up. Well, that would be a shit way to die, wouldn't it? Screw that! There's also this irrational part of me that thinks, "While I'm out, they could do anything to me and I wouldn't know." I don't like the feeling of lost time, of not being in control. I don't like the idea of going to sleep and waking up having had my body sliced open and my innards manipulated. If I could, I'd stay awake during the whole thing so I could watch exactly what they were doing.

For now, though, surgery is still just a concept. I haven't spoken to either surgeon I am considering, yet. So, I'm dealing with painkillers and their associated crap. Sometimes I kinda like the loopy feeling, but really, it's getting old. I know it's going to be another big battle to get off the Percocet once all the other stuff is done. I see my psychiatrist today, and I'm going to have to tell her that I'm going to be on opiate pain killers for the foreseeable future. I don't know how or if that will change my psych meds. We'll see.

Fuckity fuck.


I look to my gods for strength, and I know They will see me through. I already know that I'm going to get an Irminsul tattooed over the scar, however large or small the scar ends up being. If you don't know what that is, here is a link, and here's a picture of the design most commonly used to represent it today:

Saturday, August 24, 2013

ow

So here I am at a coffee house again, spilling my guts. I'm tired of the pain. So, so tired. I thought maybe it would get better as the day wore on, but it has not improved. I am looking longingly at the restroom. I know that as soon as I get up from a sitting position, the pain will shoot through my lower spine again and I won't be able to straighten up. I know that the same thing will happen as I get up from the loo. Every move comes with a punishment. This is the worst it's been in a very long time, and it makes me want to scream. Took a Percocet at 12:00. Just took another one at 19:40. Had only moderate relief from the first pill, and it wore off quickly. After this, I only have two pills left. If I were a horse, they'd have shot me by now.

I don't want people to look at me and say, "Oh, poor lady, I wonder why she can't walk?" or "She doesn't look that old. Why does she have a cane?" I just want to be seen as a person. The problem is, right now, I don't even see myself as a person. I see myself as a soul attached to a body that doesn't work correctly. My soul wants to dance, and run, and swim, and ride a bicycle, and climb mountains, and slide on the ice, and hang by my legs from a tree. My body can't even make it to the bathroom without pain.

But pain, like everything else, including anxiety, is temporary. I think. No, I mean, I know I've had bad days like this and I have recovered. I will recover again. I have to. But just like a panic attack, right now, all I can think about or feel is the pain, and it feels like I've always been in pain and always will be.

I'm really just bitching. Don't mind me. I gotta pee. I'll be right back.

Okay, back. I guess I didn't really have much more to say. I'm kind of in a fog. Second dose of drugz hasn't quite kicked in yet. Maybe I'll write something more coherent later.

Fucking OUCH

Fuck, fuckity fuck fuck fuck fuck. Fucking fuckity fuck fuck fuck, FUCK! Fuck. Goddamn fucking shit-sucking ass monkeys. Swear until I laugh. That's a strategy I use sometimes. It's somewhat effective, especially in situations where pain is involved. Today is one of those fucking days.

I realised I was taking more Perco than before I got the injection. As I said, I have been trying to taper off. I have been trying to do gentle stretches and stuff, doing the best I can to stay as active as possible, but it just isn't fucking working, at least not today. I got up, I took a shower. I shaved my legs. Shaving my legs is one of the most painful parts of my day. It hurts to lean down. It hurts to put my foot up on the side of the tub. It hurts to straighten back up. I literally get out-of-breath from the pain. Since I'm in the shower, the water helps somewhat. I got out of the shower and started to dry my hair. About halfway through, my back and ass started to burn. I wasn't able to stand in front of the bathroom sink long enough to put my makeup on. I went to my room and (painfully) got dressed. Then I sat up on my bed, bolstered by pillows, and used the camera on my phone as a mirror to help me put on my face. And part of me was like, "See? I can adapt!" And another part of me was like, "Seriously? You can't handle putting on makeup? This is really bad." Not in the shameful way, mind you, just in the, "It's really scary that such simple tasks are becoming so painful.'

But this has happened before, and I always just sort of ignore it, and moving around generally works to help loosen up my back a bit. Usually. Except when it doesn't, like today. I had been sitting in my office chair (I use it sort of like a wheelchair to get around my room when I have days like this.) I tried to get up, and pain shot through my lower spine. It was like someone driving a hot railroad spike through the small of my back. It takes a LOT for me to react vocally to pain, and I cried out. Matt freaked out and ran upstairs. I told him, as I lay on my stomach on my bed with my feet on the floor, "chill out, chill out, chill out, it's okay." This does not happen every day, but it does happen. He's just not usually here to see it. I felt kind of bad for worrying him.

We talked a bit, and then I continued to get myself ready for the day. Again, I was sitting in the office chair. I leaned to reach for my jewellery box to get my earrings and felt another jolt of pain. I sighed, paused, and tried again. After the third time, I broke down in tears of frustration. I just wanted my goddamn earrings.

Matt and I talked some more. He brought me some tissues. I'm glad he was there, but I am also embarrassed. I have only 4 Percocet left, but it's obvious I'm going to have to take one today, whether I want to or not. I'm frustrated, scared of being addicted to this stuff, and beyond angry at the pain. I did eventually get my earrings. I had to make the chair move for me instead of moving myself. My movements reminded me of how I've seen people in wheelchairs move, and it just made me so upset. I really don't want that to be my future. I want to ride a goddamn fucking bicycle again. I want to be able to go somewhere without being afraid I'm not going to have the energy or pain tolerance to get back.

I see the doctor who performed my injection on Monday. I'm glad they could get me in to see him. I am also seeking a second opinion from another doctor on Sept. 4. I've officially entered the "doctor roulette" stage. With everything else that's going on, I feel selfish for needing so much help, but if I can't think straight because of pain, what good am I to anyone?

Grateful to my gods, particularly Thor, whose simple steadfastness has been a boon to me lately. (Sometimes I even imagine my cane as Mjolnir.) Grateful to Matt for being patient, as always. Grateful to Matt's parents for helping with the rent. Grateful for a good therapist. Grateful that we have health insurance to begin with so that these problems can be taken care of. Grateful that we are not getting kicked out. Grateful that the Percocet is kicking in. Grateful for everything that doesn't suck.

Friday, August 23, 2013

Midnight-thirty and I have to shit

I am wondering if it's possible I'm already having withdrawal symptoms after taking 1-4 Percocet daily (one at a time) for about three weeks. Is it just the stress and IBS? I don't even know any more. Horrible burning lava poop and a dizzying (but strangely mild) headache. It's been about 24 hours since my last Perco and I only took one yesterday. I slept almost all day today, which does happen. I was feeling more or less okay, and about to go to bed, when the wave of nausea/IBS hit. (I'm typing this from my phone, live from the toilet.) The TMI entry keeps my mind focused enough so that I don't tip into panic, while also provides an accurate record of my symptoms. Like a mad scientist, I am attempting to step outside my own symptoms and simply observe them and their resulting behaviours. Analysis has a way of allaying the subject's anxiety. Most curious, indeed.

Seriously, though, if this is withdrawal of any kind, then I need to just stop taking this stuff and find some other way of dealing with the pain. I do not need an addiction (aside from cigarettes and coffee) to add to the mix of my issues. What if the Percocet has been causing my mood swings, and not the steroids? It doesn't change the fact that the injection did nothing to help my pain and may have made it worse.

Oh, and for extra suck? Matt got a work call. He's on it now. It's 12:20 on Saturday morning. He is not supposed to be getting calls - he was just on-call last week! Grrrrr....fuck.

And I am still feeling deep amounts of shame about money, and dreading our next session with the financial counselor. And I am playing doctor-roulette. And we have a couples session with Michelle in 13 hours. And I have two appointments on Monday. And the way my brain is warping things right now, I feel like every one of those appointments is the equivalent of being called to the principal's office to sort out my "conduct" issues.

Fuck fuck fuck fuckity fuck..

Well, the Gods will see me through this, and all the other stuff. They will. Always have before. 100% success rate. 


Tuesday, August 20, 2013

Sorry

Dear Matt,

I'm tired of saying I'm sorry.

I was so relieved today, once we found out we weren't going to be evicted. I had a good session with our therapist. You and I were talking about games and stuff on the way home. Everything seemed fine, more or less. And then, the financial counselor called. I was afraid of the guy on the phone. I just felt cornered. I felt like he was being condescending. I guess that was my imagination. I guess "businesslike" sounds condescending to me. I don't know.

I really do feel worthless right now. All my strong words yesterday, everything I did to make things better, it's like it was all just an illusion. "It's all about the numbers." He kept saying it over and over and over again. I feel like if you look at me in numbers, all you will see is a leeching caffeine and nicotine addict who is draining all your hard-earned resources. And then I go and have an outburst like this, and I think it might make you wonder why you bother with me at all.

I'm sorry I pushed you away. I'm sorry I got angry. I'm sorry I started beating up on myself. I'm sorry that I have to apologise at all.

I'm so tired of saying I'm sorry. I don't want to blame it on outside factors. I want to take responsibility for my own actions. Maybe I do need to be on anti-psychotics. I don't know. I just don't feel good about taking that drastic a step when there are so many other factors contributing to my volatile emotional state. There's the steroid injection, the pain, and the painkillers. There's the constant roller-coaster we've been on. I'm afraid to take something that could potentially permanently alter my personality because we're going through a bad patch, and while I know I must be on psychiatric medication, I don't think that yet another change is something I want to risk right now. I'm explaining this because I don't want you to think I'm resisting treatment at the cost of making you miserable.

I love you, and I don't want to go to bed angry. Please talk to me.

-Morgan

Hair trigger

An hour to nap, or an hour to write? I'll be a good girl, and write, though there is so much going on it's going to be hard to focus on what to write about first. My nerves. My back. My drugs. The steroids. Humans being assholes. Household money problems. For someone who is unemployed and is no longer formally a student, I have an awful lot going on to potentially set me off.

I've had to remind myself for the last couple of weeks of various things.

  1. Shit doesn't happen to me, it just happens. The moment I cry "whyyyy?" is the moment I become a victim.
  2. I am not in control of other people's emotions or reactions.
  3. Being around people who have similar diagnoses to my own is potentially toxic, especially if those people aren't on meds.
  4. I am in control of my own reactions, despite my feelings. I can choose to act on feelings or not to.
  5. Once I have apologised for something and made every effort to make right a wrong, it is up to the other person to forgive or not, and I cannot control when or if they choose to do that.
  6. Re: previous point; shame and regret are useless, destructive feelings.
  7. When threatened with losing everything, ask yourself what "everything" entails and whether you are really losing it.
  8. Change can often be predicted, but rarely prevented, and that is no one's fault.
  9. In the world of the Internet, I have more friends than I realise, but they aren't necessarily the people I thought they were.
  10. It's okay to let go of things that are holding you back. Even people. Especially people you've only met in person a few times.
  11. Your hair looks cute, and it will, in fact, grow back.

Now, all of these things are going to be talking points in therapy tonight, and during my session, this is where I'll pause. I don't have the time nor the energy to write about all the causes of those reminders in one entry. Instead, I'm going to write about the very last point, because it's an inner child thing, and when I'm stressed, I regress.

My mother did not allow me to get my hair cut when I was a child, owing to some traumatic experience in her own childhood in which she was forced to get a haircut against her will, apparently. Anyway, by the time I was in my early teens, I was pretty tired of being made fun of for my long, unkempt, scraggly, dry hair. Seriously, she even had a thing against conditioner. "It costs too much and will just make your hair greasy," she'd say. Anyway. I was 14 or 15, and I had a piano recital, and I was tired of my hair. I didn't cut a lot off, just about three inches off the bottom, and a few little wisps of bangs.

My mother's reaction was to run through the house, screaming. I wish that was an exaggeration, dear readers, but it is not. She kept saying, "No, no, no, no!!!" as if I'd hacked off one of my limbs. My father tried to calm her a bit, I think, but it probably just turned into an argument between them. I don't remember. Anyway, it was absolutely forbidden for me to do anything with my hair while I lived in her house beyond the use of barrettes or pony tail holders. So, naturally, as soon as I was away from my mother, I started doing all sorts of things with my hair. I dyed it, I cut it short, I even had it butched at one point. It's been every colour of the rainbow. And yet, every time I do something new with my hair, I feel an almost immediate sense of dread and remorse. I have had nightmares about my hair getting cut off, and it's terrible when I'm dreaming it, but when I wake up, I wonder what the big deal was.

Fast-forward to Saturday. With all the stress and pain making me feel horrible, I really wanted something to make me feel pretty. So Matt gave me $20 and dropped me off to get my hair cut. When I got into the chair, I said, "Yeah, so, I want like, an asymmetrical bob with it really really short on one side and really long bangs. Can you do that?"

And I got most of my hair chopped off. And it felt lovely, and I thought I looked cute. And I was happy. And then... the remorse hit. Fuck. I thought I was over this! (I've been saying that a lot lately.) Maybe it was because I had been growing my hair long for several years, and it was longer than it had been in quite some time, I don't know. But I hid in my room, as if my mother was going to burst in at any moment and scream at me for cutting off all of my beautiful hair, and how I was so much prettier with it, and how it would never grow back the same. I pushed it out of my mind by playing video games.

The next day, Matt and I went to a large social function which included many of our hockey friends. I was really nervous about going out in public with the new hairdo, but I got so many compliments on how cute it was, it was hard not to feel good about it. And today, Tuesday, after washing it a couple of times and adjusting the part, I absolutely love it. It feels sexy and cute, and I don't know what my whole deal was. Except that I do. It was PTSD. From a damn haircut. It's frustrating. It's over now, I mean, like I said, I'm really happy with the way I look, but to think that at 35 years old I am still having this kind of reaction is frightening to me.

(And Loki laughed, because Sif. But of course, he made it up to Sif by tricking the dwarfs into making hair spun from gold that grew naturally and was even prettier than her real hair. I think maybe he just wanted to snip some off here and there to pay for cigarettes.)

Saturday, August 17, 2013

Oversharing

On Tuesday, Matt and I had a couples therapy session, and I had a complete meltdown. I've avoided writing about it until now, but if I put it off any longer, I won't be able to analyse it properly. What happened was basically this: Matt brought up an issue he had with me, and I felt blind-sided by it. What he said was that he gets uncomfortable when I "over-share" about the problems in our life with our/his friends. Specifically, he brought up two situations in which he'd felt embarrassed by the fact that I went into detail about some of the problems we've been having with bedbugs and with our health after our friends asked, "How's it going?"

Oh, gods. I embarrassed him. I am an embarrassment. I thought I was over this. I am definitely on the spectrum for Asperger's, but I thought I had conquered most of that. I thought I'd adapted well enough that I wasn't going to be an embarrassment in public. Apparently, I have not. This troubled me deeply. Have I gone back to rambling on about things when people aren't really interested, and don't really want to know? Have I regressed to the point where I can't gauge people's reaction accurately any more? Does someone have to slap me with a clue-by-four to get me to shut up?

It's paradoxical, because on the one hand, I'm very introverted, slow to get into group conversations. When someone asks me a personal question, I almost feel privileged. Wow, someone actually cares about what I have been going through! I must tell them everything! I've made a friend!

But... of course, it isn't really like that. When someone asks, "How are you doing?" they don't actually want to know. It's just an automatic greeting, like "Hello." But "Hello" is not a question. When someone says, "How's it going?" I'm usually honest. And if things are going poorly, I say so. And I explain why. I have been labouring under the delusion that people want an explanation. They don't. Conversations in public, for normal people, are scripted. They go like this:

Person A: "Hi! How are you?"
Person B: "Good! How about you?"
Person A: "Great! Just out getting coffee. What are you up to today?"
Person B: "Nothing much, just out and about, got some shopping to do later."
Person A: "Cool! Well, nice seeing you. Call me sometime."
Person B: "Sure, will do. Have a good day!"

Conversations in public for people like me have the potential to go like this:

Person A: "Hi! How are you?"
Me: "Oh, pretty good, been stressed about some stuff. My back hurts. I got this injection last week and it didn't really do anything for me except give me mood swings. And we're still dealing with the bed bugs, and Matt's been out of town a lot lately, and I've been depressed and anxious and stuff over that stuff, but you know, otherwise, good. I'm doing okay today. How are you?"
Person A: ... ... ... "Um, I'm doing good. Yeah. Sorry you have to deal with all that."
Me: "I know, I just want things to level out, you know, be a little bit more normal. And I totally need a cigarette right now."
Person A: ... "Well, I gotta go. See ya later."
Me: "See ya!"

This comes from a desperate need to be understood and accepted. A need to vent, a need to have support, and even a need to have an excuse for my behavior if I ever do something weird in front of said person. Except, I've already done something weird, so they're put off. I actually had someone unfriend me on Facebook, not because they didn't like me, but because they didn't want to read posts about my personal stuff all the time. And seriously, I thought I was over this. I'm not, obviously, and it's causing my husband stress and embarrassment, and that's a nightmare to me.

This also stems from a need to "lay all my cards on the table" when meeting someone new. I think, "I want this person to know exactly what I'm all about right away. If they can accept me despite all my issues, then they'll be a real friend. If not, I'll just scare them off right now, and they weren't worth it to begin with." Welllllll... most people aren't going to respond well to this approach. I'm reminded of a lady at the coffee house I usually go to, who constantly spills all of her problems to absolutely any complete stranger who gives her half a glance. I think, "I'm not like that!" But maybe I am more like that than I think. And that scares me.

The other thing that bothered me was that he'd waited until our therapy session to tell me this stuff. This is a huge, huge trigger for me. If someone is bothered by something that I do, I would rather they tell me right away, so I can stop doing it. Even if I get a little upset at the time, I'll deal with it, and it will be resolved. If you don't tell me that I'm being annoying and/or inconsiderate, I can't read your mind. I don't know to stop the behaviour. I lost two of my exes because of this, including my ex-husband. They were afraid to confront me about things. Resentment built up, until all of a sudden, one day, they told me they wanted me gone because of X, Y and Z that I was doing that they couldn't deal with.

Like my therapist said, I'm not perfect. I don't think Matt expects me to be perfect, but he needs to step up and tell me stuff at the time so I can either modify my behaviour or explain to him at our earliest convenience what was going on and why I did whatever I did. I am afraid that there are other things that bother him that he is not telling me for fear of confronting me and making me feel bad, and that this will lead to the same kind of resentment that destroyed my other relationships.

While he confronted me about my over-sharing in session, I shut down. I went almost catatonic. I stared at the floor. I was non-verbal for a few minutes, and when I did say something, I sounded like I was 14 years old yelling at my mother. I wasn't 35-year-old Morgan. I was 14-year-old Heather. And I was envisioning myself cutting. The entire time. I could see the blade being dragged across my skin. Stupid, stupid, stupid. You are so stupid. How could you do this? You're a disappointment. You're an embarrassment. You deserve to be punished. You deserve pain.

It got to the point where I left the session, because I could not contribute anything useful in the state I was in. I was angry and scared and hurt. I felt cornered, felt threatened, felt like I was in trouble and being made to stand in a corner. None of those things were actually happening. No one was berating me or telling me I was useless or stupid. That all came from the child within hearing her parents' voices.

I don't want to make excuses. I don't want to chalk it up to some outside factor and just let it go. However, I do believe the steroidal injection I received last week has altered my moods significantly. Yes, I have some things to be stressed about, but my emotional response has been way out-of-proportion to the situations at hand ever since that needle went in. (Adding insult to injury is the fact that my back has actually felt worse since the treatment, but that's neither here nor there.) I guess I am just hoping that enough of this is chemical that it will get better as the drugs move their way out of my system. If it's chemical, it is beyond my conscious control. Right?

Problem is, I can't find a balance. The shame prevents me from doing so. I am either Morgan-the-Annoying-Overhsaring-Person or I shut up and remain seen, but not heard, around Matt's friends. Don't say anything at all. Lie, if you have to. "Hey, how are you?" "Great! How about you?"

Stupid, stupid, stupid girl. Just shut up. No one wants to listen to your whining. Just kill yourself. You'll be doing everyone a favour. Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!!!

... Get back in the moment. Who am I? I am Morgan. How old am I? I am 35 years old. Where am I? I'm at a coffee house with my husband, Matt. The couch is comfortable and the room is a little bit twee, with pictures of flowers and birds on the walls. It's bright and sunny outside and the weather is fairly cool. I am drinking a pumpkin chai latte. There is no Sword of Damocles hanging over my head. I am not in trouble. I can enjoy myself today and not worry that something will ruin it. Even if something bad happens later, it can't negate the good things that happen.

I am grateful for this moment. I am grateful for the opportunity to express myself. I am grateful for my self-awareness, and for lessons learned. I am grateful for Matt's patience. I am grateful for the friends I have who love me despite my quirks.

I will attempt to relegate my over-sharing to this journal from now on. If people want to read it, they will. If they don't, they won't. I'm really not sure what to do otherwise. I feel shame for screwing up a session, shame for being an embarrassment, shame for not catching this sooner. Shame isn't productive. It's a useless emotion that has absolutely no practical use. Unfortunately, I am having a hard time letting go.

Monday, August 12, 2013

Fuck it.

I'm in pain. Fuck it.
I'm having extreme mood swings and hypomania triggered by my steroid injection. Fuck it.
It's hot and sunny outside, and hot, sunny weather triggers migraines, anxiety and all kinds of other shit for me. Fuck it.

Today, I just kept walking.

My original plan was to go to the big Barnes and Noble on campus to write, but the vibe there just wasn't quite right. It wasn't cozy. It was loud and bright and noisy. I decided to go in search of somewhere more conducive to writing. I knew that Kafe Kerouac, a place I haven't visited in almost a year, was a good place for me to relax. It was a mile walk from the B&N. I thought of taking the bus, but for only a mile, it seemed a waste. So I just kept walking.

I walked slowly. I used my cane. I made a couple of stops along the way. I went into a shop I'd been meaning to check out, and purchased some incense, and pet their adorable dog. Then I continued on.

I started to feel panicky, a little light-headed, a little nauseated. But I kept walking. I stopped at a drug store to pick up a bottle of water. I sat and drank it, and then continued on my way. The thermometer says it's only 82 degrees, but it feels more like 90 in the sun, and there's no breeze. I just walked a little slower. By the time I got to Kafe Kerouac, I was absolutely exhausted. I sat there for about five minutes, breathing deeply, before I went to order my coffee. I felt better.

Right now, I feel great. I feel great even though my back still hurts, and I got official news of my defaulted student loans (totaling almost $40k), and I have many more hoops to jump through in terms of my medical problems.I don't think it's just the painkillers. I think it's because I made a decision to conquer many things that normally keep me from venturing outside. Maybe it's a hypomanic episode, I mean, I did walk about 2 miles at 1:00 this morning, too, but isn't it better to expend this energy pushing through my limits than going stir-crazy in my room, letting my mind twist my thoughts into all manner of fearful things?

I feel my gods with me today. I feel my strength, the strength that comes from my spiritual being. Hypomania? I don't care. It reminds me that I am still alive inside, that I am more than my physical or emotional limitations. That I am still a strong and beautiful person, worthy of love and the good things that life can offer me.

Oh, I know that I will pay for this excursion with more pain and fatigue later. That's how it works. I just decided that I don't give a flying fuck. I'm so tired of sitting around doing nothing because of what happens later. Life is worth living even if there are consequences. Pain isn't going to kill me. Pain is just pain. It is a physical thing. It isn't a state of mind or spirit unless I allow it to be so.

I want to look back at this entry later, when I am feeling overburdened by my issues, the volumes and lifetime subscriptions I have to emotional and physical pain, brought about by everything from genetic predisposition to past emotional trauma. I have the right and the power to take these "issues" and recycle them, use them as fodder for a new me.

Except it isn't really a "new" me, is it? It's just me, how I was always meant to be, who I am inside. My spirit. My heart. They live and burn, despite all of this nonsense with my back and my head and my scars and whatever damage I have accumulated in this life.

Fuck all of that.

I want to be me.

Saturday, August 10, 2013

Roid rage

Yesterday afternoon, I had a massive dose of steroids injected directly into my spine between my L4 and L5 vertebrae. I was dreading the procedure. I'm not afraid of needles, but there is something about a needle actually puncturing my spine that was freaking me the hell out. I was doing my best to quell my usual urge to research everything about the procedure. I just didn't want to know. I know my propensity for giving myself symptoms and side-effects if I read about them. Now, I kind of wish I'd done a little more research, or that my doctor would have told me what to expect. (To be fair, when he asked if I had any questions, I had told him, 'I don't want to know.')

Yesterday sucked giant festering donkey balls. Matt took me to the hospital. They prepped me. I got the impression that I was on an assembly line. This particular medical establishment must do dozens of these injections per day. I'm still not sure if that makes me feel better or worse. What really made the situation worse was the fact that I couldn't find my klonopin anywhere before we left, so I didn't even have that as a backup.

Anyway, the procedure itself was about what I expected. They numbed me up, sort of. Lidocaine never had much of an effect on me, honestly. Then the needle went in, and I could feel it piercing each layer of tissue. Skin, subcutaneous fat, muscle, coming out the other side of the muscle, and finally into my spinal column. The medication push felt kind of like someone was filling my nerves with peanut butter. The solution isn't quite that thick, but it does actually fill up the space pretty tightly.

As they wheeled me out, I felt pain shooting down my leg. I also felt light-headed, a little tingly and weird, like the beginning of a panic attack. I pushed down the feeling as much as I could, telling myself it was probably just my anxiety acting the way my anxiety does when something suddenly changes in my body. We got out of there as fast as we could. By the time we were in the car, I was a sobbing mess, and I had no idea why. Maybe it was just a meltdown from all the stress lately. Maybe I had gotten tired of pretending I didn't feel the pain when the needle went in. Maybe I was just tired, in general.

Whatever it was, it sucked. I sobbed for almost an hour, to the point of almost causing myself an asthma attack. I sat on my bed and just cried and cried. Luckily, my klonopin refill had already been filled. I asked Matt to go out and get that. While he was gone, my mind whirled with thoughts that maybe I was having some kind of reaction to the drug. Oh, gods, this stuff was inside me now, and it wasn't going to just go away as soon as the pill dissolved or whatever. This stuff was going to be with me for weeks. I did start panicking then.

But I called on my gods. I called on Thor and Loki and Odin and Sif. I repeated to myself, over and over again, "I am in control of this. I will not listen to my fear. I will make it help me. I will make it help me. I will make it work for me." In the beginning, I was still sobbing, but I kept repeating it until I was almost shouting. (If anyone had heard me, they'd have thought I was a complete loon.) But it worked. It leveled me out. And by the time Matt came back with my klonopin, I was resting, if not comfortably, at least not in active distress.

I'm proud of the way I conquered that fear, and I am deeply grateful for Matt and my gods, as usual. But today... today I am still in more pain than I was when I went in for the injection. And I'm angry at everything. I feel like I'm going through puberty again, and I just hate everything and everyone just for existing. I'm snapping at Matt when he's just trying to help, and that is just not okay. I don't like this feeling and I am convinced that it is entirely chemical, entirely the result of the steroids in my body right now.

I need to do a cost-benefit analysis of the injections at some point, but I need to wait until I'm not feeling like She-Hulk on her period. As of this moment, I don't think it's worth it. My pain hasn't improved and my mood... well, I started crying again just writing this, and then I stopped, and then I started laughing... you get the idea. It's like my psych meds are switched off.

I do feel better once I'm focused on something, and the action of writing this entry has helped. I didn't say all I wanted to say, but there's always more time for that. And now, I'm off to therapy,.

Thursday, August 8, 2013

Sanctuary

I grew up as an only child in a poor and tumultuous household. There were few luxuries, but one that I could always count on was having my own room. My parents and I only lived in two houses during my childhood. We moved into the second one when I was about seven years old. I remember being thrilled about having a new room, and getting to choose the colour of the paint on the walls. (Being seven, I chose pink, a decision I regretted a couple of years later.)

Back then, the most important part of my room was the door. I could shut it if I wanted to. This gave me a (sometimes false) sense of security. In my room I could do whatever I wanted to do without being bothered. Theoretically. Until my parents suspected me of something. Then they'd come in and ransack the place looking for "evidence" of whatever they suspected me of. That's not what I'm going to talk about here, though.

For most of my adult life, I have been transient. I have moved at least a dozen times in the last ten years, from the first time I left my mother's house to live with my then-boyfriend and his family, to the most recent move to my current apartment with Matt. I haven't always had my own space. I found that, in living situations where I could not have my own space, I never felt like I really lived there. I was missing that place of peace, that sanctuary in which I could find rest.

As a sort of gypsy, I have left behind many more belongings than I have kept. Things like books, furniture, CDs, video game systems, computers and non-essential articles of clothing have seldom remained in my possession for longer than a few months. To me, these are "trade goods." The cash they brought when I needed it was worth more to me than the objects themselves. However, a few special and sacred objects have traveled with me since the beginning of my journey to find "home: A hexagonal wooden box I received as a Christmas present in my teens; Celtic-print sari that I have used as a wall-hanging since 2002; various gemstones, tools and other objects I use for spiritual purposes; a few favourite toys and collectibles.

One thing I am good at is making whatever space is available to me "mine" in very little time once I know I'm going to be sticking around a while. I create a space that is comforting, familiar, and safe. A space I am proud of. Somewhere that I can bring visitors if I choose, if I trust them enough to bring them to my inner sanctum. I'm proud of the space I create. I like to share it with people I think are worth getting to know, because it says a lot about me.

This is my room. It serves as my office, my bedroom, and my temple. Its tidiness or, alternately, its state of disarray, is an indicator of my state of mind and my comfortability in my own skin. When things are hectic and stressful, it is essential that I have a space that is uncluttered and clear of reminders of that stress. After the bedbug treatment and all of the craziness that led up to it, I felt an urgent need to restore and "re-align" my space. I put away everything on my altar during the pest treatment. When it was done, I bought new bedclothes. Even though I was exhausted when I came home, still dealing with pain, I immediately cleaned put everything back the way it was. I put the new bedspread and pillows on my bed, I heat-treated and re-hung my fabric wall-hangings, and I cleansed and re-dedicated my altar. I immediately felt better.

People might think it's weird that I have a room separate from my husband's, but having this sanctuary to come back to helps enormously when I face stressful situations, or even just busy days. I can breathe in here. I can invite Matt in, or not. I can meditate, I can pray, I can create. Most importantly, I can rest. A physically and spiritually comfortable place to rest is perhaps more important to me than it is to most people. Because of my fibromyalgia and back pain, I spend a lot of time in bed. For better or for worse, my bed is a very important part of my sanctuary. When my back hurts too much to even sit in my padded office chair, this is where I write. When I go to bed, this is where I sleep, and if it's uncomfortable, I will feel it in the morning.

Having bedbugs invade this space set my teeth on edge, as if I hadn't already been traumatized from the first time we dealt with these tiny demons. Now, for the first time in several weeks, I feel truly safe here again. There will be follow-up treatments, but they don't require the same level of disruption. In a way, I'm grateful for having been compelled to tidy my sanctuary, because it definitely seems I've gotten a lot of the negative energy out of here. However, I still feel like this is the only comfortable place in the house. The rest of the place just feels barely-lived-in and sort of chaotic. This feeling of disconnection and lack of permanency is partly why it is difficult to motivate myself to be a better housekeeper. (The rest of the problem is physical pain and fatigue.)

Every time I've moved, I've gotten just a little closer to finding "home." But it seems every time I get my space feeling just how I want it to feel, it's time to move again. Matt and I will be looking to get out of this neighbourhood sometime after our lease is up in November, when our rental agreement goes month-to-month. I'm no longer going to settle for someplace that "doesn't feel quite right". This time, I want to find a place that feels like a sanctuary in every room, for me and Matt.

Wednesday, August 7, 2013

Someday, we'll look back at this and not laugh

Today has sucked, I mean, really, really sucked. Let me just explain to you right now that, as I write this, a lot of the stress is over, but I'm sleep-deprived, anxiety-ridden and dog-tired, so if I'm not as coherent as usual (as if I am usually coherent) then please, excuse-the-fuck-out-of-me.

I'm grateful for my husband and his courage and sense of responsibility, even if the latter is overplayed at times. I am grateful that the worst should be over, concerning the bedbug infestation. I am grateful for the few pleasant moments Matt and I had together at the coffee house before all the shit started. I'm exceedingly grateful to Isa, for letting us board our cats. (In thanks, I shall buy her dinner, and I will never, ever ask her to do this again). I'm grateful that I did not have a panic attack today, though it might have been due to painkillers, which I am grateful for whether I should be or not. I'm grateful for a pest-free, protected bed with new sheets, comforter, and pillows.

Now that I've gotten the "grateful" bit out of the way, I'm going to start bitching. Rather than type everything out in paragraph form, I am just going to use bullet points to explain how shitty today was for me and Matt.

  • Last night, we had to wrangle the cats and drop them off at Isa's place. She was nice enough to let us board them while the exterminators were in.
  • I had to get up at 07:00, after less than six hours of fitful sleep, immediately get dressed and bag all the rest of my clothes and bedclothes.
  • The Orkin Boy (I'm not even sure if he needed to shave yet) didn't get to our place until almost 09:00.
  • The Orkin Boy was supposed to call us when the treatment was finished and tell us when it was safe to go back into the house.
  • Matt didn't get the message from O.B. because his cell coverage mysteriously dropped and voicemail was unavailable. Result: we wasted about half an hour.
  • Matt finally gets hold of O.B. who tells us the house should be safe at around 12:00. Perfect, since we still have a couple of errands to run.
  • Got waylaid at the store where I was buying new sheets by a call from my doctor's office asking me fifty-seven questions while my head was still addled from lack of sleep and growing stress.
  • We went to pick up the cats at Isa's, and, after an hour of searching, came home with only three of the four. We could not find my Radar anywhere. We are pretty sure he could not have gotten out, but there are lots of hiding places in the rafters and such. As of this writing, I am still worried sick.
  • My sugar crashes on the way home with three crying cats.
  • The moment we pull into a drive-through to get something to eat, Matt's boss calls. So we sit there in the drive-through, stuck, not able to move forward or back up, as his boss passive-aggressively berates Matt for not being at work yet and asks him if he can be there in ten minutes (which was obviously impossible.)
  • Matt gets angry, screams at the drive-through speaker, and peels out of the lot, all of which makes me more anxious.
  • We still have three crying cats in the car.
  • Matt drops me off home and runs to work. I want to take a nap, but before that happens, I have to put the encasements on my box spring and mattress, and make up my bed. My back is already screaming from the mad search for Radar.
  • I check the mail to discover a notice that our rent is past due. Well, fuck me sideways with a plastic shoehorn. I am sorely tempted to say to my gods, "Anything else?" but I'm far too smart to ask that anymore.
  • I am horribly tired, but I find myself too stressed to nap, so I write this entry instead.

All the while this was happening, Matt and I traded off blaming ourselves and reassuring each other, to the point of the ridiculous, really. I'd say "I'm sorry," and he'd say, "Don't be sorry, this isn't your fault." Thirty seconds later, Matt says, "I'm sorry." I point out how ridiculous that is and we almost get into an argument. We're both fucking exhausted. At least I have the option to take a nap; poor Matt is still at work as I write this. And we still have to find our cat.

Matt told me earlier today, with tears in his eyes, that he might look into seeing a psychiatrist. Given his family history of depression, I told him I thought it was a good idea, but not a decision to be taken lightly. I explained that once you go down the road of taking psychoactive drugs, it is very difficult to go back. That being said, I know that I am better off on my meds than off them. (I think my mother is a good example of what I could become if I didn't take my meds and keep up with therapy.)

I don't like to see Matt cry. I know it's necessary and good sometimes to let emotions out that way, but seeing him get to this point is hard for me. I'm scared that I won't be able to be strong enough for him. I'm barely strong enough for myself recently. I feel like I'm just muddling through, hiding away from the stress until I have no choice but to face it. He doesn't have a choice. He has to get up and go to work every day, no matter how he feels, to support us. He does things every day that I know I could not do, at least not yet.

I've asked my gods for help in finding Radar, which really is my biggest worry in the right-now, replacing my previous biggest worry, which is the nerve block procedure I have scheduled for this Friday afternoon. (Yeah, my reward for getting through all this bedbug crap is a needle to the spine.) I guess it's a game of perspective-shifting, or something. Why focus on Radar? Well, for one thing, he's the closest thing I have to an eldest child, and the house feels empty and sad without him. For another, the poor thing still has that cancerous lump, and I worry that he will get sick while he is lost, and there won't be anything I can do for him. So my intention is focused on Radar, right now. The gods already know about all the other stuff. I find it helpful, when doing spiritual work, to just focus on one thing at a time, and not have too many irons in the fire, so to speak. Would it be pretentious of me to ask for even more help? I know from experience that these periods of what-the-fuckery have expiration dates, and even if I don't know when it's going to end, it's helpful to know that it will get better. Since this has really just been a barrage of crazy, all I can ask for is that it end soon. Please? Pretty-please with mead and mutton on it?

Will Matt and I look back at this and say, "Hey, remember when we were really struggling, and we had bedbugs and landlord problems and your back hurt and we lost Radar? Man, that was hilarious!" Uh, no. But I hope we can soon look back at it and say, at least, that we got through it and were stronger for it. We may not look back at this and laugh, but we may look forward with hope and wisdom.

Friday, August 2, 2013

Happy place

At the coffee house. Headphones on, dance music playing. Sipping a drink, writing, pausing now and again for a cigarette. I will spend hours here. Sometimes, I will be productive, and sometimes, I will just "play." Right now, this is my happy place. Despite the lack of friendly felines and the comfort of my carefully-maintained sacred space, this is preferable to being at home right now.

And there are no bedbugs.

Yes, the little vermin finally found their way into my bed, and I woke with large, itchy, painful welts on both my arms. I don't think I have ever hated a living creature as much as I hate bedbugs. These tiny terrors have caused so much strife for me and Matt over the last year that I would like to see the entire species eradicated from the planet.

I could have resigned myself to it, to the fact that I felt terrible when I woke up, arms swollen, slightly feverish, generally annoyed, but I made plans to go to the coffee house and wait for Matt there, and I kept my word. He wouldn't have been upset with me if I had stayed home, given the circumstances, but I would have been annoyed with myself.

While I was walking, cane-assisted, to the bus stop, I got a call from my neurosurgeon's office. My first steroid injection will be this coming Friday at 3 pm, and two more will follow, two weeks between each treatment. I am a bit apprehensive. After all, they are going to be jabbing a needle into my spine and squirting drugs into it. If it helps, it will be worth it. If it doesn't help... well, I'll be very annoyed.

I feel in constant, desperate need of rest. Every moment I have to relax or sleep, I feel I must do so. Distraction is important, too. The din of conversations at the coffee house, the patter of rain on the window, the soothing music of not being at home allows me some semblance of sanity. Home, right now, is where all the trouble is. I am constantly reminded of all the work that needs to be done. I am always worried. I am always annoyed. Here, at least, I can get away from it. A change of scenery. A change of perspective.

When I meditate, I have a different "happy place." It is beneath a tall, graceful weeping white birch at the edge of a river, with a deep forest on the other side. It is always early autumn there, and the clouds are always thick and grey and warm. There is the rumble of thunder in the distance, and the consistent rush and ripple of the clear water flowing over rocks and around boulders. I tune myself to the flow of the river. I ground myself in the roots of the tree. I reach to the sky through its branches and cycle down again like the swaying birch boughs that brush the mossy ground below them. I can be there just by describing it. I'm there now. There's a path on the other side of the river that leads deep into the wood. I have to swim to get across. This is where the veil parts, and I journey to other realms.

But I do not choose to journey much, these days. I am content to stay grounded with my tree. I need safety. I need the deep calm that comes from nature. From this serenity comes strength, the power I need to solve my problems elsewhere. I will need this strength to handle the stress of my treatment, and the prep for the exterminators, and the cleaning of the house, and the planning of the mythical trip to Norway that I am more and more convinced won't happen...

Meh. I'm just babbling, now. But babbling is still more productive than curling up in a ball and hiding away from everything that I am afraid of. Talking about it makes me less afraid, and being less afraid allows me to take rational action.