Can't Sleep, Haven't Written

So I haven't written in here in ages.

I went to Denmark with my mom and sister. It was fabulous. Viking ships and castles and cobblestone streets everywhere and a beach where two seas flowing in opposite directions meet and crash into eachother. We spent two nights on the island of Aero which was charming as hell and my mom drove everywhere which was impressive as hell and we did too much shopping on account of the other two people I was with and my mom's search for a raincoat (it was cold and rained half the time we were there, even though it was the end of August). Maybe later I'll go through my notes and write more about the trip, but right now it's 6-something AM and I just can't sleep so I'm writing.

The most amazing thing about the trip, I think, was that a year ago my mom was going through her breast cancer and now we were running around a foreign country from 8 AM until we passed out, usually long after 10, for ten days straight. I often felt like I had to keep up with her. Just one year after the cancer summer.

When we got back, she went to work two days later and, jet lagged as hell, her leg fell asleep and she fell wrong on her foot and fractured it. It was just a hairline fracture, but a fracture nonetheless. No cast, but one of those giant boots she has to wear for at least another week.

In other news of the bad health of beings I love, my dog got scary bloody-eye glaucoma. It was not fabulous. After months of eye drops and specialist visits, he ended up having his eye removed because it just kept getting worse and was clearly very painful. Turned out there was a benign tumor growing in there. The real fear was a malignant tumor, but tumor was definitely expected, so having the eye removed was clearly the right thing to do. He's still healing--the surgery was only a week ago and he gets his stitches removed on Monday. It looks like one eye is just closed all the time, but right now he's stuck in a cone and keeps bumping into things. Otherwise he's pretty much back to normal, going on regular-length walks and huffing and puffing at the world as he tromples about the house. I think he's still adorable.

Then there's Corvus. He's in Colorado with his mom. He left the same time we left for Denmark (end of August) and still hasn't come back. He had a recording project out there that, when almost finished, went awry as the guy he was recording assaulted Corvus's mom and Corvus (long story, but Corvus pissed him off...doesn't justify assault but Corvus did something that was, in my opinion, really rash and dumb). The guy being recorded ended up mouthing off to the judge (speaking of rash and dumb...) and landed himself a double felony conviction. With his father vouching to make sure to get him to all his hearings and whatnot, he's on probation and back in his home state, project unfinished. Now Corvus is trying to get paid for his time engineering and everything else on an unfinished record and seems to think he can't return to Chicago until he sees his money. So it's about to be seven weeks since I've seen him with no concrete sense of when he's actually coming back.

When I first got back from Denmark I missed Corvus painfully, but the longer it's been the more I feel ok on my own and just see how unreliable he is. I still love him, I still miss him, but I don't see spending the rest of my life with him, and I'm not sure how I feel about that. I'm 29 and I'm happy to be with him if he gets his ass back here but I wonder about finding a Forever. I also wonder if I'm not being fair; he's only 26 and still getting his own life in order. Was I reliable three years ago? It's not much time, but for some people it can be huge. Is he just immature? Or am I making excuses for him now? I wish I knew. Either way, absence is not making the heart grow fonder, it's making the heart ask all kinds of questions and get all kinds of annoyed and impatient.

Great. It's barely after 7 AM and the workers across the street are making beeping noises with their trucks. I was hoping to get back to sleep at some point...

Belated

Why write now when I haven't blogged in almost two months? A Boy, of course. I'll get there in a moment...

I never wrote about Thanksgiving, how much we had to be thankful this year. My cousin adopted a child. My other cousins are pregnant. Amber stopped by and she's all kinds of pregnant, too. I've created an actual business that's started to make actual money that I enjoy and works extremely well with the chronic migraines and depression that I need to accept as part of myself that's not going anywhere any time soon. And my mom had the fastest, easiest experience with breast cancer humanly possible. I don't think we've ever cried so much as we went around the table and did our "I'm thankful for..."s.
My babycousin (the adoptee) is almost one and friggin adorable. My parents still have this plastic horse on wheels that was my favorite 1st birthday present. I found it in their basement, Lysoled the hell out of it, and brought it up to see if Babycousin wanted to try it out. She loved it and I love that she loved it. Maternal instincts creeping in, biology and all that...raising the next generation with my own experience...someone please start singing "Circle of Life."

I never wrote about my business taking off over the holiday season, money coming in for the first time in a substantial way, paying down the credit card I pretend doesn't exist from a few years back, seeing 800 shop views in an hour, front page, treasury after treasury, hard work paying off.

I never wrote about The Ritalin Experiment. As happens every year, fall showed up and so did a general feeling of gloom and constant exhaustion. My psychiatrist thought I'd do well on a "stimulant" meaning Ritalin. It was a good thought. Unfortunately, I had a paradoxical reaction and it took me two weeks to realize my total lack of desire to do anything and deep dark depression were a result of the drugs and not just a part of me I deserved (isn't depression fun?)

I never wrote about my mom's surgery. Breast cancer reconstruction stuff. The last of it. She was getting back to her negative fussy ways, but then about 24 hours before going under, she saw her therapist and POOF! back to positive thinking. Amazing.

I never wrote about the ovarian cyst I got the day before my mom's surgery. I ended up driving myself to the ER in agony, getting probed by nice people with creepy machines and dumb people with nice drugs and then missing the entire  time my mom was in the hospital. Not ok. Ok with my mom (who was wonderful about it) but not with me. I felt guilty, like somehow I'd made myself sick so this would be about me instead of her. They got a nice clear view of the cyst in the sonogram, so if I did somehow give myself the damn thing, I've gotten good at materializing my psychosomatic symptoms.

But I never wrote about the boy, either.
At first I thought he was gay. I misinterpreted something as him flirting with another guy, and I must have thought he said something else early on, too, because I filed him away as "gay" very quickly in a way I don't normally do. So he was my fun new friend I didn't see that much. He was there for Halloween, we hung out for a good chunk of the night as I got consistently more and more wasted. He was gone by the time I was almost ready to follow home the snarky stranger.
I think Halloween was when I first thought, "Wait, why exactly did I think he was gay?" Went from "Too bad he's gay" to "I don't think he's gay..."

Apparently I'm extremely dense. Aural Girl is amazed at my obliviousness, and Possible Boy knew exactly who I was talking about because "it's just that obvious that he likes you."
Still, I wasn't sure until he was talking about Neighbor Guy basically trying to rape him no matter how many times he said "I'm. Not. Gay." (Glad to hear Neighbor Guy is sticking to his M.O., falling for straight boys and  then not taking "no" for an answer.)

I had to reevaluate The Boy. Because now he could actually be a Boy. What? Further investigation was in order, but I saw him at most once a week at the bar. We didn't actually hang out until right before he left for the east coast for a month-long winter break vacation.
But.
The day we hung out, we were together from 11 AM to 11 PM and had a really fantastic time. Driving around in freezing rain and an estate sale and making music and cooking and more music and being awkward and then just a little bit of smooch on my way out the door. He followed me out to my car in his t-shirt, oblivious to the cold in our mutual dazed bewilderment. The freezing rain slush had turned to snow. After our final bits of giddy and apprehensive, I managed a cool "See you in a month," and drove home.

And then he flew away. To a Carolina. For a month. He won't be back until mid-January.

I wished for an excuse to write love letters, but at this point it would be for the storyline and the love of myself.
But it turns out, he tends to be awake at stupid hours of the night creating things. Whether it's a bad habit or just my natural clock, I've been  indulging my nocturnal tendencies and spending hours and hours (like, a good 5 hours a night) "talking" to him on Facebook chat.

I'm not quite sure he's real. I suppose there's enough about him that is just completely his that he can't be purely a narcissistic projection of myself, and there's so much I still don't know. But so much of what I'm finding out seems to fit very well. I'm not getting completely lost and stupid because, via instant messages, he seems more like a concept than a real  person. We'll see when he gets back. As long as he keeps making me feel better about myself instead of worse, he's an improvement on most of my past emotionally-involved Boys and I"ll gladly live in fluttery-but-cautiously-optimistic limbo for a few more weeks.

[No code name yet because I haven't decided on one.]

Ethics, Judgment, Fault: Conversations with my Mother

Yesterday I had a conversation with my mother about blogs and privacy and all of that.

When I write about my life, there are other people in it. What right do I have to publicize their secrets and stories? But I do have some right to my own happiness, and writing is how I process. And not to sound pretentious/conceited, but "Art" has a stake in this equation as well. The written work created effects far more people than those mentioned in it, and that is every bit as important as the process of its creation, for what good is the unaffected life?

My parents pick pick pick and criticize my (and everyone else's) every action. My own doubts in my mind sound in their voices, echoing back and forth conversations real to imagined and imagined to real.

I tried to be clear and strong to my mother yesterday that she, as a therapist, needs to insulate her privacy to the degree she sees fit, and that's her prerogative. If she wants to write books (as she has) and be findable on Facebook (as she does and is), those are all her decisions and her issues. I am a writer and not a therapist. I write under a pseudonym now, but my business is under my real name, I'm on Facebook, I am me and I am not afraid to share with the anonymous world or with people who might know me very well. I get to choose what I cloak about myself. If she is the therapist and the person trying to maintain privacy, she needs to be the one to put up the blocks and the barriers. It is literally her job, not mine.

When it comes to writing about other people in a public forum, I wrestle with it all the time. My instinct is to share it all as openly and honestly as I can, real names attached because then you know what I'm talking about and it's true and pure; anything I change or fabricate on purpose will be somehow less beautiful than the genuine article.
But I behave myself. I'm not actually the narcissist I often think I am. Maybe that's why I'm so bothered by my mom calling back today with her ominous "We need to talk. About the blog thing," that I know is just her dissatisfaction with my trying to put the responsibility on her instead of taking the burden on myself.
I have to decide what path to take when I call her back, because if I just listen and respond the conversation will be her telling me why I'm hurting other people by doing the one thing that means the most to me in the world, and it's my responsibility to protect her and myself and everyone else from her crazy stalking client because she (my mother) didn't foresee the professional conflicts of Facebook.

I get frustrated because I feel like everything is all about my mother except for judgment and blame.

Pathological

Pathology report: lymph nodes all clear. No chemo necessary. Woohoo!

My mom had to have a second, though minor, surgery because her skin wasn't healing properly from the first surgery.

My dad has been by her side every possibly moment, bringing much of his work to the hospital and actually taking his years of accumulated time off. He has been an absolute super hero. Under normal circumstances, he likes doing as many things as physically possible. He's mellowed down some so that he can now wait in line without exploding, but he used to send each member of the family to stand in a different check-out line and then we'd all join whoever got to the counter first. If there were fewer lines than family members, my father would bounce back and forth between lines, check things out at the front, go back and shop some more or do whatever he found to keep himself occupied. The man couldn't stand still. As adults, my siblings and I refuse to participate in the efficient but rude multiline blitz.

I try to be there for my mom as often as I can so my dad and my brother don't have to. My dad hadn't cleared his work schedule to take my mom home after the unexpected second surgery so I planned to be there Tuesday and Wednesday. Thanks to the migraines and everything I've had to do to fight them, I'm no longer bothered by blood and IVs and all that, plus I'm female and not modest so I can help my mom get undressed and dressed.

Driving back and forth these past few weeks, I've somewhat abused my Torodol: nothing that will kill me, but a bit much for keeping it effective.

Tuesday, HDS stayed home from work because the inside of her head burned. I went to the hospital to find my mother quite chipper. She was walking around before they had her out of recovery and wanted real food as soon as the nurse could find her an unplanned turkey sandwich. Considering how much trouble she had with the anesthesia the first time, we were all pleasantly surprised.
Meanwhile, I took one of the alcohol wipes and bandaids laying around and gave myself another shot of Torodol. My sunglasses never came off.
My mom, who had surgery, was doing fine and better all the time. I, who had all my parts intact, got worse and worse. Sound, smells, all the usuals but no amount of caffeine or drugs seemed to stave them off.
I wigged out. There was nowhere I could hide in the hospital that was dark or quiet. Everything buzzed and hummed and beeped. I'd find a dark hall or stairwell only to step in and activate motion censor fluorescent lights. It was light a bad nightmare. I curled up in a corner behind a doorway where at least no one was around and cried and cried because it hurt so much.

I cried because I felt like I had no right to my pain, here on a post-op hospital ward.
Mine can't kill me.
But my mom will get better. My mom will be a cancer survivor.

I went back to her room and sat in a chair in the dark part while my dad tried to fuss over making it darker for me. I'm not sure what I said or did at that point but I figured I'd just sleep in the corner until the pain blew over. Then my mom said my dad and brother were going to both drive me home so my car would be back at my house and that was what she wanted and they would deal with Wednesday because I needed to take care of myself.

Lots of gratitude and I was home. I give my family a lot of credit for this one.

That night it stormed so loud the lightning woke me.

Ways to Help

My mom went home today. My dad has been with her since she had her surgery, sleeping in the chair beside her hospital bed. My parents can be infinitely annoying and occasional emotionally abusive, but they are pretty incredible.

Today is the first day since Tuesday I won't see my mother. I'm relieved. Starting tomorrow, much of her daily care will fall to my brother and me. He lives there for the summer, so he has less ability to escape. I have to remember it is not my job, that her friends can take up some of the slack.

Yesterday, while I was feeding her ice chips, my mom started complaining to me about one of her friends and went on her standard bitch-and-moan about her mother and one of her clients and other flawed people in her life. She's keeps checking to make sure she's not overburdening me with the physical stuff--repeats over and over I don't have to feed her or help her stand or poke at the bloody things unless I'm comfortable--but I've never been able to properly communicate how uncomfortable I am being her emotional support system, and now seems a cruel time to say something. I feel so backwards--help from her local adult daughter post-double mastectomy is a huge act of charity; therapeutic services have been assumed since I was 4. I never had to do the dishes or take out the trash, maybe I just got the emotional trash instead. And my parents still don't expect any sort of physical, visible work, but perhaps to them it's a greater burden to do something than to feel something. Not me.

I'll be back at their house tomorrow night and it will be emotionally draining, too, but it's emotionally draining sitting at my house.

The cicadas are loud again tonight. Crickets chirp, cicadas scream. The sound swells and ebbs in irregular waves. I never see them, but I hear them. They are monsters.

Not Real Sucky

Headline News on mute in my mother's hospital room has been nonstop coverage of Lindsay Lohan. I don't have to look up the spelling of her name online because I can look up and it's on the TV. Still.

There are four clear turkey baster bulbs attached to four clear tubes attached to the incisions in my mother's chest. The body tries to heal the wounds, sends blood and fluid, and something needs to be sucked out. The tubes are stretchy and need to be squeezed clear of blood clots. Then we have to empty the bulbs and measure the fluid.

I don't have to do any of this. I volunteered. I'm strangely good at it, except when I tried to feed her the applesauce and got more on her than in her. At least I thought to bring the applesauce. All natural, NOT chunky, no sugar added. My dad said she'd been really nauseous all day, and I'm an expert at nauseous. She has dry mouth, too, way worse than I ever did but at least I understand the feeling. Ice chips mixed with the apple sauce trumped everything the hospital tried to feed her. You'd think hospitals would know these kinds of things, but I suppose it's different for everyone. We're related, so I imagine our reactions are far more similar. Nausea requires cold. Cold and wet, but not clammy. I'll often run my wrists under cold water at rest stops to battle the car sickness. My mom was grateful and amazed that I knew to put ice chips on her wrists when she was at her wooziest. But with her, with Cancer, with life in general, there's so much beyond my and anyone's control. I want to say it's "nice" to be able to make her feel better in little ways for even a moment, but "nice" the wrong word. It's all I can do and I'll take it.

The past few days have been filled with heat waves and electrical storms and flash flooding. Our power went out three times in the last week, only once while it was raining. Driving to the hospital today traffic signals were out or blinking all over the place. Transformers 3 filmed in Chicago last weekend, with explosions and parachuting and fireballs. Tuesday HDS and I sat on the Wao Bao patio at State and Lake and heard a huge blast. Most people didn't even look up.

I feel like the world is getting more and more absurd. There's crazy shit all over and we have our far-fetched explanations because if you stop and really think about any of it, the whole universe is too insane to be real. My dreams make more sense than my awake. Nothing makes real sense, we just stretch and accept whatever gets put before us. We're incredibly flexible creatures. Turkey basting my mother's chest? Why not.

Staring at the Sun

My mom is being amazing. She's optimistic and rational and moved by all the support she's receiving. I'm so impressed. She was built for this. I very much wish she didn't have cancer and we're only a week into knowing it's there, but at least it's acting as the smack-in-the-face we all sometimes need to remember what it means to be alive.

I'm also completely freaked out and not sure what else to feel or think, so alive is a pretty good place to concentrate.

My mom just called to let me know she has breast cancer.

She just found out. It's apparently one of the least bad kinds and she sounds pretty positive about the whole thing. My response was "That sucks, I'm sorry, do you need anything? I love you."

She said she kept thinking, "Oh no, now my daughters have a mom who had breast cancer."
Maybe all our day-to-day negativity and pessimism is just a way of saving our hope and optimism for the big stuff. I always say about  my migraines, "it's not cancer and it can't kill me." Well, my mom has cancer. Maybe the distraught hasn't hit yet. Maybe today's just a day I'm accepting things. One foot is already in a dream. My mom has to have cancer to show her the meaning of life. That's how the story goes. We all learn things and understand things and hurt and cry and bloom. I've seen this movie. Now it's our turn to live it.

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.

I listen to emotional music because I am dead inside

This is a friggin' long entry. Some of it is good, some of it is bad, and very little of it talks about anything I've actually done for the past month. If you only read one part, read the blue text. If you read any more than that, sorry in advance.

I don't know why The Sads are winning now as opposed to some other moment over the last few weeks, but they are. Probably hormone-related and all terribly logical, but I'm still feeling The Sad. I should listen to Emo and wear sweatbands around my wrists.

I called a therapist today and left a message. I've had the business card of said therapist for a month, but my parents decided to give me an ultimatum on Friday that I absolutely HAD to 1) start therapy 2) find a good psychopharmacologist and 3) hire a housekeeper on a weekly basis. They thought I'd be most upset about #3. Mostly I was upset that they were giving me Life Ultimatums, but as we all know, They know best and have not only a right but a duty to tell me what to do because They are right. At the moment it's particularly frustrating because, as I check off month number four of seriously compromised physical wellbeing, I do need some help and I do need to get my ass to the therapist but I've had such a hard time convincing them I'm a grown-up that relinquishing any of that is terrifying. And being my parents, their fucked up shit is ever so close to my fucked up shit, so it all gets more and more fucked up and shitty and I start regressing and now I'm back in my hole avoiding the universe. And I hate myself for getting like this, and it's not nearly as bad as it's gotten in the past, but knowing my cave-dwelling tendency, it freaks me out to watch myself bolting back in that direction. I have an appointment with a new neurologist on Monday, and I've done a lot of the crap to get myself on the state's health insurance thing, but I haven't followed up and I needed to do that today. I didn't. I called the therapist (and my regular doctor to restock my supply of Effexor samples, though my head was being too fussy to drive down there) and that was very good, but I didn't deal with the health insurance. I should have dealt with the health insurance a week ago. And instead of it just being the top priority on my To Do list tomorrow, it's a fucking albatross.

On the other hand, Etsy has been great. I'm actually selling things. Not nearly enough to consider it a job or even a real income, but at least my crafting hobby is paying for itself and it's given me something to do in my state of permanently-semi-dead. It's mostly a feel-good lovey-dovey community and the chatrooms provide a vague sense social interaction, and when I make something and someone likes it enough to pay me money for it, I feel deeply complimented and at least a little bit productive. I think the next step in Living-With-Migraines is to find some sort of work-from-home part-time data entry job.

It all comes back to trying to balance my current life formula. What percentage of my time should be spent doing each of the following to make the most out of my life:

• actively looking for medical and trying out answers and solutions to my migraines (neurologists, headache clinics, clinical trials, etc.)
• actively looking for and trying out "alternative" answers and solutions to my migraines (acupuncture, yoga, howling at the moon, etc.)
• learning to live with my migraines and seeking out new short- and long-term paths (find more lucrative work-from-home strategies, get degree online, join chronic pain support groups)
• nursing my wounds and just trying to do things that make me happy on a basic day-to-day level (sleeping, Etsy, dog snuggles, watching movies, etc.)

I want answers. And now I think my parents are convinced most of my migraines are self-perpetuating from my depression, and that's definitely on my list of possibilities, but my parents are back so deep in my skull I can't tell if that's really just me thinking it, if it's them thinking it and so I think it, or if both they think it and I think it but one is not necessarily dependent on the other. I'd say a lot of my opinions are going through this process right now. It's like back when I was 10 and I realized for the first time that everything I thought I knew was only because I accepted what I'd been told.

If I let myself, I could easily spend my entire life in an epistemological daze/fury.

It's hard when the voice of my own nagging and self-doubt is echoed by my parents, and then their voices echo in my head in an orgy of aphorisms and "shoulds."

A month or two back my whole immediate family was out to dinner at a very good restaurant. As we were all quite stuffed and contented and happy with our meals, we started ranking our favorites to least favorites from each course. I pointed out, half-joking, that we were such a judgmental family we couldn't even get through a meal without judging and ranking everything instead of just talking about how delicious things were and why. Everyone got really quiet. We'd switched to judging ourselves for being too judgmental.

This is why I'm crazy.

Tomorrow, I will deal with the health insurance. Head willing, I will go to the post office. I will also gather the plates and bowls and things that have overflown my garbage can by my desk and put them in the trash and take that trash outside. Baby steps.

"Baby steps" is so something my father would say.

bid-ness, yo

Why is it any of my mother's business if and when I call insurance people and doctors go to the DMV? And why is it her job to tell me if and when I should have done these things? And why, at age 25, do I find myself having to explain my perfectly valid reasons for rearranging the dates, times, and priorities of my errands to my mother? This is stupid. I know it's her weird neurotic thing, not mine, but it is unbelievably unnerving and annoying and I just have to avoid talking to her whenever possible until she gets over whatever is making her get all up in my bid-ness.

crafts and crap and life and strife and monkey and chunky

Saturday, I was a real person again! On my way out the door I ran into my cousin-in-law, who was rehearsing for a play in the lobby of my building. I then ran errands and met with a friend at the Handmade Market, a craft fair at a bar, coincidentally located around the corner from where my cousins live. It was pretty entertaining and I managed to buy only a $2.50 home-made lipgloss that is really quite lovely, though I was smitten with a series of bracelets made from old watch faces and subway tokens, but I don't wear bracelets and didn't know for whom to buy one. As we were heading towards the door to look for food, I was thinking I should call my cousins and ask where Bite, a restaurant I'd been to a few times with them that I liked very much, was located. Then I noticed that one of the exits for the bar actually led into Bite. So we ate at Bite and the food took forever and I was very hungry but it was good and the conversation was good and I was out and social and human, even if we were surrounded by hipsters. On my way home I stopped at Joann Crafts and spent too much money, came home and immediately made a completely lovely set of cards and one of my weirdest cards ever. I listed them on Etsy before going to bed, and the really weird one sold Sunday morning! I win.

Sunday morning, NBF and I drove my old car to my family-friends' house and signed papers and picked up my new car! I have a new car! 2003 Saab 9-5! It is GORGEOUS! It is all silver and sleek and pretty and leather and has seat warmers and I have to be nice to it and not mess it up because it is too nice to mess up. I even put a towel down on the front seat because my dog was getting snowy salty paw prints on it when we drove to my parents' house and I didn't want it to have snowy salty paw prints. It's too pretty to have snowy salty paw prints. Pretty pretty princess car.

Last night I went to my parents' for dinner. Brisket and latkes and menorah lighting. Jewish much? I'd mentioned that I had to leave first thing this morning because I had a lot to do today, with going to the DMV and errands and phone calls and whatnot now that I'm functional again and it would be a weekday. My mom was asking about all the specifics of my phone calls and such, as though it were interesting conversation. I hate talking about that crap. It's lame and annoying enough to have to do it without it becoming the topic of polite conversation. Plus as soon as my mom knows I have to do something, she takes it as something she has to remind me to do. So I kept being vague despite her odd prodding and changed the subject.

I frequently dream about being walked in on when I'm changing or going to the bathroom, or that strange uninvited people keep getting into my house or apartment even after I thought I locked all the doors. My subconscious isn't always subtle.

I drove home from my parents' this morning feeling that thick heavy pre-migraine tired, but I didn't sleep well last night, so I figured I'd pop pills and crash for an hour before getting started on my errands. Woke up with my alarm and MIGRAINE. Again. Fuck. More pills, more sleep. Still migraine. Basically slept all day and it's still here. I have another doctor's appointment in the morning, this time with a new internist, and since it's right next door to NBF's school I was driving him down there anyway, so maybe he'll get to do the driving and we'll see what New Doc can do for me if the headache doesn't die overnight. Fuckfuckfuck.

At least I'm getting several real days of real functioning between my migraine days now. Even if this is the new pattern, it's a better pattern. Let's go, optimism!

Monday Revisited

I have to backtrack a touch, since the fire distracted me from other important Monday events.

Monday morning I called my "health insurance company." From the beginning, they made it impossible to get anything concrete with my name, dates, and benefits on it, constantly referring me to their general brochure. Had they not been the insurance through my school, I would have assumed they didn't actually exist and were some sort of scam or money laundering outfit. Well, I should have gotten something writing, because now they say my benefits expired back in July. What? I still can't get a frigging clear answer (customer service keeps feeding me lines from their general BS list and I'm beginning to think they don't actually have access to their own records) , but I have a guess as to what happened and it is partly my fault for not figuring it out sooner (even though they didn't mention my lack of being insured the several times I contacted customer service since July).
So I was extremely frustrated and a little freaked out because a lapse in my insurance means my next provider can consider my migraines a "pre-existing condition" and refuse to pay for their treatment for a year, and that is bad. But it isn't "killed a puppy" bad, as NBF put it, and my parents seemed to think it was "killed a puppy" bad, and I took it as "killed a puppy" bad, and it was all very tragic and "a clear indicator of my problems with basic organization and executive functioning skills that I have to do everything within my power to fix as soon as possible before I ruin my own life." My parents and I feed off of each other when it comes to this sort of intense demanding perfectionism, and it's not healthy. This is why I need to live in another state, some time before the invention of the telephone.

That was the morning. In the afternoon, I saw a neurologist. I printed out an amended version of the Things I Have Tried list for him and we spoke for less than 20 minutes, but still managed to get through the following:

• I have done a shitton in my pursuit of migraine panaceas
• Either my last doctor or my understanding of my last doctor was incorrect, because while Depakote and Topamax are both epilepsy drugs, they are very different and Topamax is absolutely worth trying, even after Depakote failed
• It is strange I have never been given a steroid in injection or "pill pack" form to break my cycle of headaches.

So I started Topamax, which builds up in my system and I take daily forever, and some generic steroid pill pack, which I take less and less of every day for a week until I take none at all.
Monday night was terrible. I was back to my worst level of pain and I gobbled down the Vicodin in desperation at 3 AM.
But since then, things have been much better. I went out for coffee (well, chai lattes) with NBF this evening and even in bright lights and loud music and talking, my head only poked at me a little. Maybe this will finally do it for real and I can get out of this piece of shit mother fucking 5+ week cycle of hell. That would be delightful

boiled down conversation/fight with my mother

My mom: Right now, in regards to your migraines and your life, you should be doing A, B, and C.
Me: Why do you always assume you have to tell me what I should be doing and not that I'm already doing it?
Mom: Because you're not doing it.
Me: Yes I am.
Mom: Then why didn't you tell me you were doing it.
Me: Because I shouldn't always have to tell you that I'm doing it. The assumption should be that I am doing it.
Mom: But I need to hear it to believe it.
Me: So basically I need you to have faith in me and you need me to constantly tell you that your faith is deserved (never mind the better part of my 25 years having been spent proving it)?
Mom: Yes. Exactly.

And the moral of the story is: my mom thinking that I'm incompetent has nothing to do with my actual competence, but it definitely feeds into my own issues of failure. Yippee fucking skippee.

separation anxiety

Thought on abortion:
Assuming your pregnancy goes to full term, that child will never consider you (the parent) to be a "real person;" why should you consider it a "real person" before it even escapes from the womb?

And for those of you who've been counting, this is Day 12 of the Migraine from Hell. It lapsed for a little while yesterday, and that was great, but it was back full force by dinner. I'm trying to use my more lucid moments to research a good local acupressurist. They can stab me all they want. Maybe sticking me at the ledge of a high cliff and slicing chunks of my skin will help, too. I'm game for anything.

I had to tell my mother again in no uncertain terms to leave me alone and I will let her know if I want or need her for anything. It is understandable that she sees her offspring in pain and wants to help, but she can't seem to internalize that when she leaves me two voicemails and a text message letting me know she's "available to help this afternoon or tomorrow after 4," that does not constitute leaving me alone and makes things worse because then I have to get back to her again to tell her, "No, thank you, leave me alone," and that is very stressful when my moments of lucidity are precious and I want to spend them distracting myself and trying to feel better, not assuring my mother that things will eventually be ok and she needs to just shut the fuck up and leave me alone.

no silver (or green) bullets

Nope. Extremely disappointed to announce, marijuana is NOT the cure for my migraines. The migraine came back, and there were a few hours today that I couldn't tell if I was still unable to think because of the pot or because of the migraine. Losing each thought as soon as I have it seems to be a symptom of both having a migraine and being stoned.

So my next brilliant idea was to go get a massage. My mother and brother have both gone to physical therapy at this Chicago chain and my mom had mentioned before that they do therapeutic massage, so I went for a therapeutic massage. The guy was kind of odd and very high-strung for a massage therapist, but he was good at the massage part. He didn't get rid of the muscle knots or the migraine, but he loosened things and the migraine was not an issue so long as I was laying in the dark silence being worked on. I just need a full-time live-in masseuse, or maybe to go back (or elsewhere) in a few days and tell them to just get rid of the fucking knots. I don't know. I'm out of ideas again. And I'm bored and lonely, because I can't do anything.

My mom called me this afternoon to see how I was doing and started in on "you should call your doctor and see if you can get in right away" and I snapped at her because it's pretty fucking clear to me at this point that modern medicine hasn't figured migraines out yet and I've tried pretty much everything there is to try and I'm even subjecting myself to guinea pighood and the last thing I want to hear right now is what else I "should" be doing, particularly from a person who is neither an expert nor experiencing it herself, and worst of all is my mother. She was on IM later so I apologized for snapping at her and she actually said (without sarcasm) "Sorry I tried to help! I know I should just tell you I love you and hang up." So I guess she understands and is learning, and that is good.

Remembering and communicating every detail of my life seems to be my main compulsion and driving force. I realized this while stoned. The fact that I couldn't express what I was thinking verbally or in writing was making me nuts. Also, I became aware of my constant judging and rejudging of every thought I have for accuracy, allowability, and admitability. It's pretty crazy and exhausting. I imagine not everyone's brain works this way, and I wonder if I can learn to quiet mine down. Obvious solution: drown myself in marijuana. Obvi.

One of the most frustrating things about my migraines is losing my independence. I need to go to the grocery store right now but I really can't drive myself and NBF is "busy" with his stupid crap and my mom is driving by not that far from my apartment soon so I broke down and asked her to come pick me up, take me to the grocery store, and bring me home again. But when I've had to fight so hard over the years to prove myself independent and capable to her, it makes having to ask her for help feel like defeat instead of just an inconvenience. Hopefully I'm making all that as clear as humanly possible, but it's been a long battle and I'm in too much physical pain and too drained to deal with it right now. It hurts and I'm sick of it and I'm hungry and nauseous and crying and making myself worse and explaining and rationalizing to my mother should NOT be on my list of burdens right now. I miss my friends from College Attempt #1 who were always so wonderful and helpful during my migraines. I need more people nearby who love me and understand and know how to help without stressing me out more. Stupid space-time thing. Stupid migraines. Stupid everything.

Taming of the Shrew*

My mom was trying to park her car while my dad and I gave nagging unhelpful advice.
"You know," she said, "I'm actually a good driver, and it gets harder to park the more you say things, because it makes me anxious and unsure of myself."
"Amazing how that applies to so much of life!" I said.
She was also bitching a lot because we had brunch with her oldest brother and he still acts like her oldest brother and she doesn't feel respected as competent. Again I used the opportunity to point out how no matter how grown up and competent she is, he will still view her as his little sister, just like they (my parents) still view me as their baby and treat me as incompetent, and that it is very hard for the person who is trying to prove herself a grown-up.
I very much hope these things sunk in, since frequently it takes a person experiencing something themselves to understand the plight of others, provided they are capable of internalizing the connection. At least I have ammunition next time she starts treating me like a naughty child.


*Not that I'm calling my mother a shrew...

cutting remarks

While packing up on Sunday, my mother found a package of razor blades. She asked me why I had them in her subtly accusing tone.
“You mean the ones for my matt knife?” I asked.
“I guess.”
“They’re for my matt knife. I use it for crafting, when I make cards and stuff.” Pause for effect. “And for cutting myself.”
Sometimes, I just have to fuck with her, and I made it immediately clear I was indeed fucking with her. I don’t cut myself. In fact, I can’t even listen to other people talk about cutting skin, for self-mutilation, surgery, or by accident. But my mom has absolutely no faith in my overall sanity or ability to function, and any time I give her even the slightest hint that I’m not 100%, she takes the chinks in my armor as proof of my inability. For a long time I thought all this was in my head. My mother still insists it’s all in my head, yet it’s swelling up now to conveniently coincide with her newly empty nest. I’m pretty sure the last time it was this bad was when my sister went off to college. But obviously, it’s me. God I wish she liked pets. She needs a pet. Or my sister. My sister is much better at handling my mom’s invasive need to be needed.

Welcome to the Nuthouse

I am about to spend my first night in my new apartment. It is awesome, which is all that's kept me all day from killing something. I am a total pig and I do not know how to organize or maintain order. When my mom saw just how bad my old apartment had gotten, she decided that there is no way a person could live how I was living without it being a sign of a deeper problem and that I need to go into therapy about my messiness as a sign of self-hate or something. But my cousin was there helping and was wonderful, both in getting shit from point A to point B and in maintaining a basic level of sanity. NBF came later to help get things from the U-Haul into the new place, and he was one part brawn, three parts security blanket. Once the U-Haul was empty, we all (two parents, NBF, cousin, Me) went out for Thai, and as NBF poked me repeatedly with a satay stick, my parents quietly freaked out and threatened his life if he physically abused me. WHAT? Yes, my parents are crazy. Either that or all of my more playful friendships are abusive and I should have been locked up in a padded cell years ago for my piggy disorganization.