Inpatience

It's amazing that last post reads so coherent. I felt like I was in pieces, like I shouldn't have been able to type the words.

Now, I'm in a hospital bed with an IV aching on my left hand.
I've been  so ambivalent  about this whole inpatient thing because this is somehow the big huge next step overhaul in migraine treatment options and it feels like more of the same: more throwing curious chemicals at a problem we don't understand. The drugs they're giving me to break up my current headache cycle aren't even anything new; they're the exact same thing dripped  into me five years ago in Cleveland with limited success.
I feel so down and negative right now. It's a universe of infinite possibility and potential. I'm trying to concentrate on the shiny happy things, but it  feels like all my shiny happy places are currently imaginary. Still way better than feeling like shiny happy places will never exist, but at the moment I can't see them in a touchable way.
I see the beautiful moon and amazing view from my hospital window. I see tubes and informational bracelets and "mid-century furnishings."
I had one friend (Possible Boy) drive me to the doctor's office, the bank, and the hospital, and stay with me through all the waiting and my frazzled uncertainty, until hours later I had a room and internet and gratitude I'm never sure how to show.
I have another friend  (HDS) who is not only walking and feeding my dog but also sent me a picture of him adorably accepting her surrogate love.
These are my shiny happy and these are real. I feel like I'm covered in muck and can't be a part of them. They are a part of me, I know, but I am a part of them, too.
I want this dark cloud off of me and the only way out is to realize it's not actually there.

My parents came by to visit tonight. They showed up just after visiting hours ended. I was still glad to see them.

My insides are fizzing

What's wrong  what's wrong  what's wrong?
I'm trying to write it. I can't seem to write it.
I feel like crap.
I'm spending another day here because I chose to spend another day here because I decided HDS's need to have another day at home was more important than me having one more day of this.
Lots of  pep talks and rallying cries. The bad I'm feeling isn't so bad, it's just knowing it gets worse before it  gets better that makes me want to smash my head through a plate glass window. I'm going through Prozac withdrawal. And the weather is migraine hellacious. And I'm already down to my last shot which I have  to  save  for the drive home. I'm tired but anxious so I'm  not sleeping well and I want answers that apparently don't exist on weekends.

Monday I will get home, get dog, do laundry, and pack for my extended hospital stay. Monday hopefully I will get all  of  my questions answered while I'm on the road. I'm  particularly frustrated that some papers I meant to bring are at my house and make it much harder if not impossible to get everything (charts and doctors and such) up to date and  finalized while we're on the road.

I do things at the last minute, or at least wait until I feel the pressure of the deadline. I think this makes me a  procrastinator and procrastinators are bad people.

I'm  mad at myself for deciding to stay in Nashville until Monday. I did it for the wrong reasons and I am mad at myself for being mad at myself  instead of just accepting that I made a decision. Let it go. I can't let anything go  lately. I'm gooey.

Writing isn't  supposed to  make  me worse. I'm feeling worse. More  agitated. Where's the fucking  Lorazepam?  I need sleep and I'm too fucking bonkers. I've taken more Lorazepam this month than I have in the past year. It's still less than some people take in a few days, but it's a lot for me.

Wigging out again.
We leave for  Nashville in the morning. Driving. HDS is really homesick. Nashville is home. And the flea market. Fun fun fun, right? I'm just in dread mode. Dreading a car trip. Dreading getting back and going into the hospital. Things I don't understand and don't think I can understand and things that make me upset. I have many many doctors. It feels like doctors are something that happen to me. They are like the oligarchy  of my life. They say different things and think they are science and right and I want them to be right.

Down with Down

I'm having an icky down time. I've been wrestling and fretting, tears and furrowed brow, bile working the backwards path of post-nasal drip.
So I'm having a down time. My clawing around for a reason and a way out makes me bleed a little deeper without finding firmer footing.
Relax, take a deep breth, and remember it's ok to go through the sad, lonely, depressed shit, too. Fighting so hard is what makes it so hard.

What if your kid starts biting people?

Upstairs neighbors who went to the condo board to voice their concerns about  my dog instead of talking to me had a baby a few months back. HDS and I opened the door to leave on Sunday and the dad, his grandmother, and other various adults were in the hall. My dog ran out barking and snarling. I ran out and got my dog, picked him up, and carried him back inside (he's 14 lbs). He didn't bite anyone. But my neighbor still lost his shit. "There are laws against this." I lost my shit in tears.

HDS and I had been on our way to lunch with my mom, who suggested a gate for when we open the door so there is no way my dog can run out in the future. I had the gate up already when a police officer came by later in the day. My neighbors called the police. They don't  talk to me, they go to the condo board and then they call the police. When they were dog sitting, I was there when their furry charge got out off  her leash. I reattached and tightened the harness for them. My dog escapes for an instant and they call the police.

I'm terrified. I don't  know what to do. I keep him on his leash, muzzled in the presence of others, and we've been working our butts off on training. But he is my dog and I love him so much and he isn't going to kill anyone and he's a complete sweetheart, joy, treasure, necessity in my life. He is not a pit bull or a thing or  a gun. I'm so scared my neighbors will go after him and I see the huge unfairness and uncaring of situations  like these and it crushes me into a little ball of chalkiness.

Friday we go to Nashville.
Monday I  go to  the hospital.
When will this anxious, sinking feeling go away?

Decisions, Stress

I leave for Santa Barbara tomorrow morning.
There are things I wanted to do before I left.
I cannot do all of them.
I absolutely have to go to the DMV and renew my drivers license, which apparently expired on my birthday.
I absolutely have to pack.
I absolutely have to shower.

Just shy of absolutely, I have to photograph as many items as possible and upload them to my computer. Every time I go to take photos of something, I want to scream. Even the things I thought would be super-quick shots need to be cleaned or don't sit straight or something else killing the super-easy. And now that I know how to find all  kinds of  information on any given item, I feel much more obligated to keep digging until I have at least the manufacturer and time period. So no more instant gratification, and I've spent the last two weeks pushing pushing pushing without taking a breath, stoking my anxiety fire.

Not absolutely but I really wanted to, I was going to go to a movie with Possible Boy this afternoon. I haven't hung out with him or Aural Girl in ages and his school year is over now so he's a bundle of free time. Last night, "everyone" was at the bar watching the Blackhawks win the Stanley Cup, but HDS was cooking really fabulous dinner and she's still far from ready to plunge into the bar, no matter how tame it is. By the time dinner was over, so was the game and I was back to stressing.
But somewhere in the "watching the game at the bar" was an invitation to today's movie watching, and in my last night thinking, going to a movie today would be an excellent break from the crazy, a reunion with the last time I blinked and a person I'd like to see.

Now it's already after 2 PM and my body is begging to lay down again. I don't want to cancel movie time. I don't want  to feel like I've let someone down or messed up his plans for the day. I already blew off Neighbor Guy who called with boy troubles and really wanted to hang out and talk, my mother when she called with one of her non-reasons, and my dog by cutting his morning walk to bad-weather length. I know I have to call Possible Boy and say no movie. I know writing this instead of using these minutes on one of the  time-requesting entities is extremely narcissistic, but I have to consider this a case of  putting on my own oxygen mask first before assisting others.

See? Starting to breathe better already.

Too much. I need to decompress.

Friday I cleaned like I've never cleaned before. I went through the piles and lumps and stacks and ridiculousness of my office and transformed it into HDS's room. The craft closet is still a craft closet, my "to file" bin is still outrageous, there's still one pastic drawer unit of crafting insanity, and several boxes of miscelaneous I've yet to go through, but compared to a week ago, it's an entirely different room.

SHIT SHIT SHIT.

Phone just rang. I had an appointment to get a hearing test for research people. I never put the appointment in my phone calendar, the final resting place for all things transfering from memory to schedule. I feel like such a jerk. I also feel extra frustrated because this is one more piece of "too much" I just couldn't carry and don't  see why I can't do it, too, without brain matter sloshing out my pores.

So I cleaned HDS's  room and most of  the house barely in time for HDS and husband  (Cheeseburger Sam? Hot Dog Ashley?) to arrive a day early. I wanted the house to sparkle and for HDS's room to look ready and inviting, I wanted her to walk  in and feel welcomed. Instead I was frazzled and hadn't gone to the grocery store or made her a set of keys and I still haven't mopped, but there was  nothing  to be embarassed about and I had worked hard  for many many hours and accomplished something visible.

My dog and I are both awkwardly adjusting to a roommate. He sniffs her legs, follows her aaround, then turns around and barks like she's a newly intruding burglar after his food and warm spots. I'm trying-too-hard step-mother wanting to do and say the right things but not even sure what those things are. There's conventional wisdom, there's my gut, and then there's HDS and my shared flavor of crazy sauce that we have to  be really careful  not to splash  all  over the walls and eachother.

There  are some big things happening right now for my vintage/antiques/buying/selling enterprise. From  an objective standpoint, right now I should be filling my shop and marketing  like crazy.
But I also have to go to my  cousin's graduation in California this weekend.
My dog has a vet appointment this afternoon so I can kennel him if he's not BFFs with HDS by Friday.
Catalogue. Photo. Research. List. Repeat Repeat  REPEAT.

I need my computer for everything. HDS didn't bring her computer because it is a giant desktop. What's the protocol for sharing? What's the protocol for me making sure HDS has what she needs? This is where I end up being weird.

The house is already a mess again. It's raining and my priorities list has cleaning the house pretty low. Writing wasn't  even on  the  priorities list but became an obvious necesity when I was  ready to curl  up into a little ball.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    

Getting Help

I  scoured the inside of my fridge. Something smells. It's clearly inside my fridge, but it's none of the individual foods. I hope my neurotic cleaning takes care of the stink.
My counter tops are visibly dirty.

My mom really wanted to come over this week to help me with anything that needed helping and have me try on clothes she and my dad bought at a store they love that just went out of business. I had a few projects that I wanted to get done before HDS got here and my brother is home for the summer.

I wanted to finally hang my dining room chandelier even if that was all we did.

That's all we did.

But it's up and it's beautiful and my dining room is finally beautiful and ready for dinner parties and the arrival of HDS.

I enjoy basic creative problem solving, working with my hands, doing things myself, etc. My mother was clearly trying to be helpful and said more than once, "It's your house." Trying is good. Still, she complains, shoots her misery from the corners of  her eyes and sighs. She makes sure you are well aware of her martyrdom, being there and helping you out. Then when she's really sick of waiting, she offers to take my cousin out to dinner if I have him do it.
We are not bribing my already overworked cousin with a meal to come fix my chandelier.
This is why I feel weird asking my friends for help. It's this whiny bored refusal to use the thought and energy to do anything. Then as soon as a task or project gets labeled  "I can't," it's devalued and outsourced.

I feel weird asking friends for help because my family doesn't return favors in kind or kindness, they use money. I'm trying to figure out how to be a good, real, equal friend.

Tonight was what I imagine my life "should" be.
I cleaned, photographed, researched, and listed things to sell on Etsy.
I walked the dog.
Then I went to the bar and was socially awkward among the socially awkward for several hours of healthy human contact, food I didn't cook, and and alcohol I only occasionally had to pay for. I hung out with girls and non-prospective boys and watched people play bags and tried to learn to play bags for real instead of having to giggle and flirt to hide my embarassment.

Birdie came to visit Friday night and got to see all the wonderfulness that is my bar. Neighbor Guy was completely shit-faced and thought Birdie was the hottest woman he'd seen in his entire life and could say little more thant "You are so hot!" He's still convinced she's "mixed" (racially) and would gladly go straight for her. Then tonight Neighbor Guy is following around this "straight" guy I don't particularly like as a person. I escaped the bar a bit earlier than necessary because I got sick of the two of them.

I hope the grocery store is open tomorrow.
Is it supposed to rain? My feet itch.

What I learned from the LOST finale

Black people don't go to heaven. Even if they marry white people.

Morning Downs and Ups

The president of my condo board is a complete dick, as proven by this morning's round of emails. There's a lot of hot-headed self-centered bullshit in this building, and having grown up in a nest of hot-headed self-centered bullshit (frequently wrapped up in it myself) I now like to play peace ambassador whenever possible. But in Condoland, I know so little about the process and the rules and everything, I don't stand a conscilliatory chance.

Reading nasty emails full of personal attacks was ruining my morning when my brother called.
At 10 AM he was drunk.
It was the last day of finals. He was at a bar.
Ah, college. Memories. The bar staying open all night right up until graduation the next morning
My brother's call drastically improved my mood.

HDS coming to live with me is such a godsend. I need help right now and an HDS roommate friend is perfect. I hope i can be at least a little good for her, too.

Hard-Headed

Yesterday was a really bad day with lots of awake pain.
Today is worse. I try to unravel the pain like it's a tight, rigid riddle--release this muscle, swallow this pill, concentrate on this simple activity. Minutes are hours as I sit and breathe and dance across the surface of this hard hurt inside me.

State of the Onion

Thursday was my birthday. I'm 28. The last several years I've been having trouble remembering how old I am; each birthday I'm not sure if it's that birthday or the next one. This year, I know I'm 28. It means very little, but it's comforting.

I'm still feeling like crap a lot. Still having good days, too. Good parts of days, bad parts of days. For awhile I was working and sleeping like a normal person, up and down with the sun and churning out fairly regular accomplishments without much regulation. Then it thunderstormed and I slept 15 hours and haven't gotten back on track since.

Today hurts like it should rain again. I didn't expect to spend much time with my friends on my Thursday of a birthday, but another weekend alone in the dark and quiet sucks. I feel so out of touch, seeing the people I'm closest to feels like dropping in on the lives of vague acquaintances.

Well fuck now I'm sulky teary. Maybe letting it rain from my eyeballs will relieve some of the pressure I can't control in the greater atmosphere.

Dear Boy, I don't want this much power; it's not attractive.

One Pille, Two Pill, Orange Pill, Blue Pill

I messed up my pills this morning. Really weird. I have dreams where I just keep putting pills in my mouth without realizing it until I notice my mouthful of pills and spit everything out and worry about what I've already swallowed and what I still need to swallow. This morning, reality felt closer to that than it ever has before.
I went to take my pills as always. I start on the big capsules and then take the little ones, so I grabbed my norotriptyline and downed my most recent dose: two. I went for the next vial and realized I'd  just taken my norotriptyline. That's a night-time only drug. Fuck. Not worth making myself puke (I've never done this in a finger-down-the-throat way, only by mentally allowing my body to let go when it was already nauseous, and I wasn't nauseous, and I didn't want to change that). Fine. It's not going to kill me, I'm just taking it 12 hours early. Now where's the Prozac I was reaching for in the first place?
And having just taken two norotriptyline, I took two Prozac. Not on purpose. I wasn't consciously aware of my mistake for a solid minute, then, boom. I'd taken two because I was compensating for the two wrong pills with two right pills. Prozac fucks me up. I wondered if I was asleep, dreaming this. When my teeth fall out I know I'm asleep. Elementary school reunion is a dream, too. No, this time I was awake, but not for long. I was extremely careful with the rest of my drugs and then took a whole as-needed lorazepam to hold back the double-Prozac jumpy crazy weird shit and anything else unpleasant.
I fell asleep for real and for hours. So much for Thursday. I hear Fridays are nice.

I wore my shirt backwards all day today without noticing.

In college, Post Modernists were PoMos, over-educated hipsters

Oh, oh, silly PoMo
So we don't know what's  real
So?
I, too, have days in which I lash out in outfits
We are so rebellious
Twist up in the meta meta meta
Every generation has us
So so subversive
Can instead we laugh?
Not hate ourselves but laugh?
Twirl our perception of perception around in our fingertips
Love every echo of the meta meta meta
Lose ourselves in it, instead of thinking about trying to lose ourselves in it.
PoMo, let go.

I don't want anything touching me right now. I get like this around the Imparting of the Red Sea, where everything feels icky. I only want to eat smooth cool foods and wear slips and my lingerie/chemise things all the time.
Ok, now I  can't fucking think or write. I have  all  this  writey crap in  my head and getting it down isn't working. I feel electrically charged. The way people describe before they get hit by lightning.

Frustrated.

Roach Attack

Roaches were living in my dishwasher.

Shock value accomplished, I should be more specific. There's space in the door behind the stainless steel face where all the electrical and mechanical workings of the dishwasher stay dry. I imagine if you're a bug it's a pretty fabulous space to live, warm and steamy, always surrounded by food smells, but dry enough that there's a designated spot in there for your instructional  booklet.

I clean my kitchen a lot. I get a bit OCD about it. The first time I opened the dishwasher and a roach crawled out, I was grossed out as all  hell but I chased it down and killed it. The second time I opened the dishwasher and a  roach crawled out of the same little spot as the first time, it was too disgusting a possibility to comprehend. Then Friday I saw a  roach on the digital display, went to kill it, and discovered it was in the digital display.
Screwdriver, paper towels, garbage bag, indoor bug spray.
I had my dishwasher in pieces and it wasn't even 7:30 AM.

As soon as I saw the bug in the display I had this mental picture of a horror show crawling with a layer of roaches. So when instead I chased maybe 20-50 insects out of plastic compartments and insulating foam and around the wires and processors, it felt quite manageable. "Cockroach holocaust" and "I'm issuing a fatwa on creepy crawly things" kept playing in my mind. [Insert thought-provoking commentary on the religious nature of my bug-killing mentality HERE.]

I need to go camping. Then I'm invading the bugs' space and things are supposed to be dirty covered in dirt because they are made out of dirt.

Thanks to a 2 1/2 hour nap today, I am awake  after 10:30 PM for  the first time since...Wednesday?