excuses, excuses

Tonight, I got on the train in the wrong direction. Not my normal route or station because I went to catch the express one station beyond my usual stop. The red line towards the loop is on one side of the platform, so I assumed the purple line on that side also went towards the loop. It does not. It took me two stops into Evanston to realize this.

I was feeling ditzy and out of it and the gazillions of pills I'm on don't help matters. I was ten minutes later to meeting my dad for dinner than planned, though I'd texted him as soon as I got onto the right train.

According to him, my train mistake is part of my pattern of self-destructive behavior and people don't want to hear the excuses, they just want to hear that I'm sorry and I know it's not ok.

That's the kind of thinking that keeps me depressed and self-hating and crazy, not to mention, it's just not true.

I'm sorry for the intrusion on my dad's time, because he cares about timeliness (which is a serious pot calling the kettle black, but that's enough negative campaigning there, Annabell McCain...), but what are 10 minutes, really? Our reservation wasn't even until the time I showed up.

My "pattern of self-destructive behavior" could be seen as a "pattern" of all kinds of things. It's the pattern you're looking for. Getting on the wrong train is dazed, and this wasn't some major life anything. Plus, the fact that I could ride the train at all should be cause for celebration. My head has been very cranky the past few weeks and my "monthly cycle" is in super-fussy-mode, too. I had enough foresight to check the map from the el stop to the restaurant, knowing I haven't been "all there" and I didn't need to waste time hunting down Wacker when I could look it up before leaving. And I left my apartment with time to spare, as proven by my making it to the restaurant only 10 minutes late with a full wrong-direction train and then more waiting for the right one.

Not every imperfection in life is an excuse. Sometimes, they're just reasons. Because I'm human and I'm trying really hard to let myself be human and have that be ok.

Goldie

I took the #70 Division bus tonight from the red line stop at Clark to Paulina. Clark and Division is at the edge of the Gold Coast (super-rich neighborhood), turns immediately into Old Town (still rich, a little younger and cuter, Second City is in the 'hood but on North), and then something was clearly wrong. New shopping centers and developments bore the name "Old Town" but I was pretty sure we'd passed Old Town and it didn't feel like Old Town. We were still on Division. There were mismatched new buildings scattered around huge empty lots, random blatant "green" developments, a big garden that looked like it had been planted on top of a parking lot with a sign advertising its Tuesday and Thursday markets and another sign tied to the fence that read "It takes a village to raise a tomato." The whole stretch felt like a ghost town with haphazardly placed well-intended left-winger projects band-aided over the holes. The bus was back among the affluent and into the hipsters of Wicker Park when it finally dawned on me where we'd driven:
Cabrini-Green.
If you're not from Chicago, that may not be much of a punch-line. Cabrini Green was a notorious housing project. [For more info, have fun with the Wikipedia site and Chicago Housing Authority site.] Six years ago, when they began tearing down the buildings of Cabrini-Green, I would have been much more aware what lie between the red line and Wicker Park and probably would have opted for a different public transportation path. But in 2008, I sat across the aisle of the #70 from a redhead who spent the entire ride on her cell phone flirting and talking about ultimate frisbee. A woman in her 60s got on a few stops before we crossed the Chicago River, still in the heart of the ghost town, but she started to get off at the next stop because she couldn't pay the fare. "Does anyone have one ride on their transit card?" Someone swiped for her to get back on the bus. The area is certainly safer, but what happened to the thousands and thousands of people who used to live there? Where are they now? The CHA hasn't accepted new applicants for housing since 2001. Totally fucked up. It's like the entire plan for Cabrini has been to make the world nicer for Rich White People and worse for Poor Black People. Stupid, stupid, stupid. I don't love the Chicago Tribune or their reporting, but read this anyway.

And another thing! How can so many people be so deeply and disgustingly racist in so many ways?
I am small, blonde and female, and even if I'm wearing old sweatpants and a stained t-shirt, I walk down the street or into a store and IMMEDIATELY get the benefit of the doubt. Cops do me favors, I've never been accused of stealing anything or loitering, no one crosses the street when they see me coming. I am grateful for these things, but I did nothing more to deserve them than any other human being. I just happened to be born blonde and female in a world that values that.

I don't expect any major paradigm shifts from a silly blog post, but if you could think for a minute about the difference between living with and without the constant benefit of the doubt (and the really sick part is we've gotten to the point where it's not just white people doubting everyone else, but everyone else doubting themselves in varying ways and to varying degrees, too).

Please? Do it for the little blonde girl.

New Whirled Order

I feel stoned. I kind of am stoned, in that I am on drugs, but I am not on marijuana, or anything else illegal. I went to my new neurologist on Monday and he spent three hours with me and was extremely thorough and asked all sorts of questions about the exact location of my pain and the type of pain and if I preferred hot or cold on my face when I was in pain and if external pressure felt good or bad during headaches and things like that. He also determined that my specific type of migraine is very high stroke risk and I never should have been on a number of the drugs I've been on in the past. Awesome. So the new short-term plan is to keep me on what I was on most recently (50 mgs twice a day of Topamax and 225 mgs of Effexor XR once a day) so we don't mess with where I was before as we add the new drugs: Gabapentin (generic for Neurontin) three times a day and Oraphenadrine Citrate (generic for Norflex) twice a day as needed. The Gabapentin is normally an epilepsy drug, like Topamax. I'm starting on 100 mgs at a time (three times a day) for a week, and then I'm supposed to move up to 200 mgs at a time for week 2, and 300 mgs from then on. That means eventually I will be taking at least 14 pills a day, every day, theoretically for the rest of my life. We'll see if I can do it on schedule, since that's apparently a bit faster than my doctor would normally get me started, but since I've been so crappy and told him to "just fix it," he went with the more agressive dosing.
But I'm not so sure I can handle it. I've basically been stoned out of my mind since Tuesday. I'm not quite sure what I did the last few days. I slept a lot Tuesday, but then yesterday and today I know I was awake, I'm just not sure what I did. That's fucked up. I made some greeting cards. That's good, I guess. I don't entirely remember making the greeting cards, but I have the results to prove I did it. I've been on Etsy, too. And some other websites. And I took pictures of my dog in his hoodie in the snow on the beach. Oh! And yesterday I went to my first therapy appointment with my new therapist! How the hell did I forget about that!?! I got on a bus and went downtown and she was good and quickly recognized that I am intellectually aware of many of the things I need to see (the big one being that my mom doesn't see anyone as capable of doing anything without her help and it's not just that she sees me as a permanent child who will never be able to be a functional adult) but our big goal for therapy needs to be getting from the mental knowing to the internal feeling and accepting. She also told me to read Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning, so I stopped at Borders on the way home. Then the bus was running late and there were a gazillion people waiting for it, so I figured I'd go into Lush and poke around since the first bus would be crowded and just get one of the next busses. And I did. And I ended up talking to the salesladyperson about Etsy a lot since she had a friend who sold jewelry on there and she was thinking about opening a shop of her own, so I gave her my card and she gave me a bunch of free samples (standard at Lush anyway) and as I left my bus was just pulling up and I even got a seat. I ruled.

Maybe now I'm just tired. It is after 5 AM. I thought it was 4 AM at 8 PM, but now it's really after 5 AM. In theory I'll get used to these drugs and not feel so damned stoned anymore, but I'm hoping that happens soon. The migraine is better, though not gone, but holy crap I feel stoned. Oh, and I also watched The French Connection, which wasn't nearly as good as The Last Picture Show, and The French Connection won the Oscar that year. Gladiator also won the best picture Oscar, so there's no accounting for taste, I suppose.

I'm going to go to the bathroom and refill my water bottle and go to bed now. I don't think I am going to take another Norflex because I am plenty stoned as it is.