railenthe: (Default)
Almost a full week ago I started a fitness alteration. I switched up my macronutrient profile—more protein, less carbs—and started an amino acid supplemental nutrition program to help with recovery. I can tell it's working—I'm in less hell after work (and if you know me at all, you know it's hell). In fact, I've started craving the aminos. I might have had a deficiency somewhere.

Today, I had the strangest craving: fresh pears and strawberries with whipped cream.

I eat neither of those on a regular basis. In fact, I usually detest strawberries, unless we're talking with bananas in a smoothie.

As I sit here, too EXHAUSTED to be hungry right now, I'm wondering what the next week of this program will bring. So far, the gun show is back, and I feel my strength improving...

But GOOD GRIEF, housekeeping takes it out of you. And I still get tired of seeing beds.

So what's the first thing I see in my tiny apartment? :D
railenthe: (Default)
I have an official diagnosis of gender dysphoria!

Now I know that sounds like a HORRIBLE THING but it means two good things:

— I can take official action against the asshats and

— I can get things going on an official basis... Starting with what they call me at the doctor. :)

In fact while they were doing it my new counselor corrected someone in earshot and I thought she was calling me.

We got a lot done. Like, A LOT a lot. Like I didn't even realize how far back this started until we got started.

I feel lighter today.
railenthe: (Default)

More pills than I care to count.

More fluids than I am comfortable drinking.

Skin sloughing off where it most certainly should not be.

And enough fainting spells that that Ion—you know, the kitten?—has taken a spot near the recliner I'm sleeping in tonight.

Despite my best efforts, somehow pestilence has followed me here. My allergy went off and I did a check in paranoia. It either came in from the job or a bus.

It's a fuck of an occupational hazard. And not the only one.

My doctor's oh so brilliant idea to lower my pain management meds led to me having unmanageable pain. My side is worse than ever. The fainting spells are back—not “near” syncope, flat out syncope. I've hit more floors than the bodies in the song.

An exterminator will be called. …here, not the apartment. They still don't have this together.

And I'm fighting two opportunistic infections right now. It sucks.

railenthe: (Default)


It's a little past 8 in the morning and I am not rested. I occasionally get bouts of insomnia, which if you know insomnia is kind of a dick. It was four something this morning when I was still up, bitching at the ceiling and my stuffed animals that the pill I'd taken for nausea was doing the opposite of its job.

So to keep missing busy I decided to install an assistant on my phone. An English patch isn't available for my favorite anymore, so I decided to try something different.

Kicked myself in the teeth when I asked Andromeda (yes, my phone has a name) how to set up Siri. I am an Android user. I do not have Siri. I'm two seconds from correcting myself when Cortana opens and—

Well, I liked that tutorial. It boils down to “Boss me around, we'll work on nuances later.”

I then set about half a dozen reminders—a function I've missed since my Windows Phone days—and took a hit of grape Tylenol.

I woke to a jangly cacophony of alarm tones at about five minutes before it was time to leave. For some fucking reason I glanced at my phone and muttered: “More cowbell.” THEN I spotted the pair of redflats that had made snack of my hand. It will swell up ugly but it's all they got. The morgue grows.

Shotgun meds, out the door. Not nearly awake.

I'm still amused that CHILDREN'S TYLENOL stacked on this tramodol—which my doctor's claiming to be a narcotic but all the research says no—is in fact helping. I'm also amused that he almost wilfully overmedicated the otc component but undermedicates everything else. A round of applause for the ever underappreciated pharmacy technicians who keep us from doing the dumb when the doctors aren't paying attention

I'll let you know what I think of Cortana in a week.

railenthe: (Default)

About a week of groceries there. There is not much variety today. Or much there at all really. The tear in my abdominal wall muscles keeps me from carrying much, as well as from eating much—if my stomach is close to half full that part of my body is nothing but pain.

So dinner is a single bologna sandwich, made with the cheapest brand I've ever seen, praying that “flavorings” on the ingredients list doesn't involve anything related to juniper.

The pain in my side is about the worst it's been in a while… And the worst part about it was that it decided to kick in at the store. An impulsive decision to use a European style shopping cart paid off when I used it to keep from hitting the floor.

I should have got a motor cart was my first thought. The second was blinding panic. You know, the usual. Is this that bad this can't be that bad SUCK IT UP MOTHERFUCKER

The aisle goes Laser Floyd. Muscle spasms in the area force me back onto the cart.

Is this it? Am I DISABLED?

It took a lot of good Samaritans to get me home today. The groceries were put away, only mildly smashed—the bread may reinflate from where I landed on it—and I was finally able to rest.

I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do. This is the kind of injury that I'm not supposed to do the things that are in my line of work. But if I don't, bills and rent…don't. If I keep working, I could really wreck my body… Well, worse.

…I think I'm gonna sleep now. I really can't see straight from this pain anyways.

railenthe: (Default)
The recent influx of these so called bathroom bills is just the latest round of body policing and transantagonism that has been going on since the time of the colonizers. People don't understand something, so instead of trying to understand it, they seek to violate, dehumanize, or rationalize away their own internal revulsion of it.

It happened before in every culture that embraces nonbinary identities as something to be acknowledged—but, slowly, we remember our heritage as our spirits wake. And it happens now as our sisthren, brethren, and sibthren come into their identities and walk their truths. At the same time, they—we—live lives like the other people, like those people who do so dislike being called what they are—the cisgender.

And it is with the cisgender that I take my current beef.

(Any comments to the effects of "not all cis" are subject to a metric buttload of side-eye. Only warning.)

It should be no one's business what is in anyone's trousers/kilt/skirt/long dashiki except their significant other and the owner of the parts, yet a mob of legislators wants to control where people can go to the bathroom or change clothes at the gym based on this. Were we to subject the cisgender populations to this treatment it would be called invasive harassment and overturned so quickly that your head would spin.

But since it's "for their protection," this is fine. The double standard is disgusting. It makes me furious. And more than a little sick.

It has also brought back the old chestnut that equates gender to genitalia, and I'm seeing more and more talk about how people would immediately drop a partner—even a long time partner—if their genitals didn't match the perceived or presenting gender. No other justification is even given, just "I thought you had X" and "bye, Felicia."

This revelation makes me sick. Just plain sick. And I don't understand how this line of thinking could be interpreted as anything but transphobic. Putting my cards on the table as nonbinary gets the same reaction. And the reaction is always the same:

"Never mind. Thought you was a woman" and a fast walk away with much dusting of shoulders.

Determining partners on plumbing exclusively is fetishist at best, phobic bull at worst, and needs to stop.

People forget: we are whole persons, with minds and lives and interests and hobbies. Not just sets of genitalia for you to fixate on.
railenthe: (Default)

So, the OB went looking for the mass and almost knocked me out, right? And he says that if the thing gets removed we might lose that ovary but do you realize there's also a fucking hernia here

And I'm like “ask again later when I'm not seeing lightning bolts?”

Five minutes later in the room with the books he literally goes down the textbook and


It's also probably already INCARCERATED even and he's gonna kill my GP for missing it last month before it got here.

He doesn't think it's the mass causing the pain—in fact after the pelvic almost knocked me out, he was positive. It was why he went through the book and looked at the signs of a hernia (after I'd recovered enough to answer his questions) actually. We're going to need more exams to see if the thing is benign or something else, but the fact is this thing is kicking from one side to the other in my guts along a hernia scar that is literally the same age as me—the hernia that was repaired in it is older (I WASN'T BORN YET).

It gets better/worse: we are having a fuck of a time finding a surgeon who takes my HMO.

Literally my best chance is to blow this thing at work and wind up in the hospital from there.

So yeah, this kinda sucks.

railenthe: (Default)

The novel approach my doctors are taking has basically been

  • test this.
  • test that.
  • did we test this? Test this.
  • Don't test this. We don't need to test this. This person is healthy.
  • “What the fuck do you mean they didn't test that? Send a fax right now and then make sure they send one back CONFIRMING they tested it today!” (My gastroenterologist may have had words with my GP.)
  • UH this is worrisome let's test this.
  • THIS IS NEW. So that side effect might actually be THIS thing we found here
  • But hey at least these are healthy!
  • Oh, those though? Not so much.

I've spent a third of the month in and out of medical testing. We've found nerve damage in my legs and the hip/groin (THAT one, we're not sure how it happened). We've found a not small ovarian cyst. We've found no problems with my boobs, which means I've so far beaten a family curse. The migraines are atypical and we don't know if they're seizure related, but the zappy lights do trip them. I go back in a few months.

The legs are fucked. Losing five pounds might ease the pain on them but no guarantee. But I've got six months to do that in. Three of the four doctors do not care otherwise about where my weight is.

The fourth proceeded to fat shame me and suggest that I drop to 130. The last time I was that light, I was, if you can believe it, sicker than I am now. I also had no chest. (…and no associated back problems, but hey.) However, he finally took my pain seriously and provided something for it—

And it knocks me out for six hours at a time.

I'm a fan of not being in pain, but, I kind of miss being conscious sometimes.

railenthe: (Default)
 On Tuesday, I had to wake up at what a relative calls “ass o'clock in the AM” to go to an appointment. It was an EEG, to get to the bottom of my migraines. So I started the day getting little electrodes taped to my scalp and forehead—about 22 of them total—and then two clamp style on my wrists—and then plopped into this chair into a dark room. They were going to do a bunch of tests to measure what was going on in


Oh it gets better. That got followed by this...this thing.


“Um, what is that?” I asked, pointing at the thing that looked like it was part of GlaDOS.


“It's a light. I need you to close your eyes, and it's gonna blink a lot.”


There may or may not have been a long “nooooooooo” from me. Blinky bright flashy lights close to my eyes make a weird noise and make me twitchy.


And this went on for...I don't know how long. All I know is my face, shoulder, and part of my leg went completely twitchy and I was told to unclench my jaw once or twice. (Couldn't do anything about it. Reflex. Twitchy means clampy.) By the time the blinky-horrible-light was gone, I was dizzy and headachey and sick. And still twitchy.


Fun fact: apparently migraines aren't supposed to do that.

The next place I had to go was beyond awkward. It STARTED awkward when security had to be called on a very public fight in a bus stop. And the bus was speeding. By the tine I got to the place I had to get directions, but apparently I wasn't ready for the exam.


Let's just say there was enforced drinking of water and the awkward discovery that, despite an intake of over a gallon of water a day, I am severely dehydrated. We skip that part of the test after three attempts and 45 minutes of waiting we get to the second part of the ultrasound.


There's this...thing that gets SHOVED and PRODDED. And a lot of asking about where the pain is and where it has been and where it's been moving if it's been moving. We're looking for two things here: the cause of strange inflammation and this obstruction we can't explain.


By the time that one is over I've been moving since six in the morning and haven't eaten since...a quarter to seven in the morning. It's a trip to fast food place before home.

Next week it gets interesting again. We got the followup from the ultrasound, and a nerve conduction test. The neurologist who thinks that the migraines might actually be seizures also thinks that the neuropathy that I've been having could be something else—like lupus or MS—and he needs to test the functionality of my nerves to be sure. In fact, he thinks that my GP has been irresponsible with his throwing around of the shingles pill and the nerve drugs without sending me to him at some point or another.


A week after that, I got an ultrasound of MY LIVER.


Then I get to enjoy something that I'm apparently a few years overdue for thank to family history: a mammogram. I'm losing a lot of work to scan days and recuperating from scan days.


It's beginning to look a lot like fuck this.

railenthe: (Default)

So Yeah: You're not going to believe this.

Then again, you might.

Last chance to bail if you're super squeamish about a certain type of bug! )

You've heard the stories about my apartment building. It's mismanaged all to hell, the building is old enough that there is a fading Fallout Shelter placard on the exterior (as opposed to this positively pristine one mounted on the local Masonic Temple—and I do mean that in the original definition of the word: that thing looks like it came out of the original factory and somehow was protected from all the elemental nonsense that's been thrown at it since it went up). There is enough mold in the building that adding a HEPA system to the unit last year actually did increase my quality of life (I actually haven't had a sinus event since I got the thing). Pieces and bits of the bathroom wall regularly fall in and it takes weeks to get any attention to the problem. I've had to repair my own damn sink a few times because maintenance seems to not care about that issue, and the only reason a gas leak that I've been reporting since I moved in got fixed was because I was out for an extended period of time, there was a draft, and someone else just so happened to smell it.

I'm not saying that you have to have high expectations for a damn public housing complex but base livability would be nice, yannou?

This is the same place when, the BB infestation started a little over two years ago now, certain residents—yours truly included—were called unhygenic, had our morals called into question, told we had fleas and “why don't we try bathing a little more?”

What the miso-glazed fuck?

At the height of my own problem—thrifting was in, I'd had a rather gorgeous sofa sleeper thrifted in because I was getting rid of everything associated with a certain ex. Little did I know, this gorgeous sofa sleeper was going to soon be known as…


Yes, THAT Pestilence Couch. Turned out the store was POSITIVELY RIDDLED with the bastards. And reporting did nothing. So, took drastic measures. I captured one of the fuckers and brought it to the landlord.

“That's a flea.”

…y'all better get used to the phrase “What the miso-glazed fuck” because I actually asked her “What the miso-glazed fuck are you talkin' about? Does this look like a flea to you?”

“Look. I don't know what kind of life you live, what you have—”

“I know you didn't just call me flea-bitten.” A death stare. The landlord is oddly quiet.

“I've already confirmed outside what this is. I'd like a confirmation from the exterminators, and then an extermination.

“If we don't find anything, though?”

“Then y'all are full of it and I'm getting rid of the furniture that brought them in if you're JUST THAT SURE.

On my way back up, I found a neighbor who ALSO had them on hand to report. She lived four floors below me. On the one hand, it was good to see I hadn't tracked them in with that damned Pestilence Couch. On the other, it meant the building is completely fucking fucked.

Three weeks later, Orkin doesn't trip the tripline I set leading to the obvious signs and I have Pestilence Couch removed. You know what else gets removed? Orkin as the building extermination company.

But it ain't over

Fast forward, it's nigh a year of sleeping on the floor, and I replace the bed with something new. The building still has issues. My linens and bed are mostly clear. I'd like them completely clear. I report every one of the bitey bastards, since a winter with them has taught me that I am very allergic. A few times a month the place is sprayed. A few times a month the new exterminator tracks a new one or two in. A few times a month a few hitchhike from the bus and I have to take care of that. It's all very awkward and panic attack inducing. The bugs have invaded my C-PTSD. Apparently it's colloquially called 'bedbug psychosis.' I can kinda see it.

And now the Fuckery

The building manager and the exterminator are in disagreement about my bug status. You know why?


So, what am I supposed to do, let them bite me? Feed? Breed? Leave them be? Fucking fuck no bruh. I literally got orders to “capture one alive to prove it” from the manager

And this morning I got my chance. Yanked him right off the bed and an attempt to get at my ankle and slammed him into a glue trap. Then there was one on my back support pillows for gaming. ONTO THE GLUE TRAP WITH YOU TOO—YES, DEFINITELY SIR WITH THAT SHAPE.

And then I missed my bus for work.

…but, while I was trying to make the intercept walk to my bus, I got called off. Not a day of work this week so far.

I turn around, leave a giant fucking sign with an arrow on it reading BEDBUG by the glue trap, and make a grocery run—smoothie stuff because my stomach is back on the warpath.

By the time I get back (a prescription won't be ready until later, I have to make a second trip), the trap as been moved slightly and replaced with a fresh, empty one.

…got my point across this time.

railenthe: (Default)

In my head today: Vicarious Atonement

It's happened.

The rent adjustment meeting used the data from the busiest fall we've ever had, and had no data from what is becoming more and more the slowest winter I've ever seen. I've worked a single day this week—and would have had two if I hadn't had to take off for the damned adjustment meeting.

But I did.

As rent was late—I was ill the day I thought I paid it, and hallucinated the action—I had to take the money that would have been an emergency food budget for the week and spend it on the late fee.

There is enough for lights.

There is enough for the phone bill.

There is enough to stay connected and not have to face the isolation that paralyzes me every time I think about it.

There is enough for rent if it doesn't go up, at the least, if there are enough hours by payday next.

…there is not enough money to eat. I can't spend anything but what is there for the next rent. I have enough stashed to survive December thanks to the physical inability to actually eat much more than a sandwich a day, but I'm going to have to come up with something. That meeting confirmed that I have no EBT benefits—and I don't make enough money to bills and food at the same time.

There is not enough money for next month's bus pass—a $78 expense—unless I risk not having enough for rent, or attempt to pick up odd jobs on a flareup, risking a hospital trip. Hell, today my legs lit on fire from an attack and I had to walk a room on feet that burned and legs that were absent from hip to shin. I was given the option to work tomorrow or not—apparently I looked bad after the pain attack.

…not that I have a choice.

I fucking hate the winter grind.

But rest is a luxury I literally can't afford right now.

This is life at the bottom. This is what you live with when making more money means you keep less of it. When you pick between bills and food.

When you spend the first half of the year stocking the shelves because you know damn well what is going to happen.

When you see an upside in the disease they've been trying to nail down for—shit, officially a year next week—because it means you have more time to figure out what the hell you're going to do about the new problem of eating.

…I'll figure something out. Maybe.



At least the medicine I need hasn't been cut off.

railenthe: (Default)
 The telltale scent of gasoline, syrup, and carrion meat is all I needed to tell me that for the final few weeks of not having an actual mattress, I’d been lucky: the bedbugs are in the bedding. I’m quite glad I’d taken the paranoid option and bagged every piece of linen that I had used as a temporary bedroll mattress assembly at this point—I didn’t even need to see the place where a dead one had dislodged its desiccated corpse.

What I’d forgotten about was that this is weeks of signal chemical, and anything live was about to come running.

Cue my shriek when an exceptionally fat, well-fed little pestilence bringer shot up the side of my bed frame and made a beeline for me.

The horror.




I had a plan. Trap it with an envelope and flush it like I did with the one I found on the tote sham.

Problem—this one was live and bouncy. The other was not. It took ten minutes to catch that fucker.

After that I stripped the bed and sent everything to the laundry.

The battle with the bedbugs has been going on for a year. We’ve been through two extermination companies since it began. The landlord has not taken us seriously.

On the first claim, she told me that I had fleas.

If I had the time to think about it I probably would have been arrested for the thing that I thought about doing. I’ve worked in hospitality for almost ten years—I know damn well what one of these things looks like. The couch that was my introduction to the bastards was teeming with them, and when I tried to get the exterminator in, I discovered that he didn’t even look.

…for the record, the new company is not impressed with the old one.

I ditched the “pestilence couch” after getting the all clear (we know it wasn’t) but by then I wasn’t the only one. I’d been on a roll being able to say I’d avoided the things. By then… The entire building had them, all because of the rampant mismanagement going on.

• Dryer sheets don’t repel them or kill them. That’s one of the lies we got.
• Glue traps won’t do shit. These things eat YOU, not peanut butter.
• Those plug in ultrasonic things don’t work.
• Unless they make contact and are baited to eat it, borax won’t be able to work.

So we dealt with the things for a year, and I developed a violent allergy in the process.

…even if you’re living into low income housing, I think you should learn from my mistake—vet your building management.

I thought the maintenance was bad… This is worse.

railenthe: (Default)
The story is actually a little funny. I walked into the appointment about five minutes late. I have notes. I have a paper from a bunch of nurses. I have all kinds of things.

It takes a while to get back there but I do, and it's priceless.

The doctor starts rattling off literal jargon, medical acronyms and nonsense--and then a bunch of acronyms I recognize from a Cracked article on "Things Your Doctor Doesn't Tell You" that are shorthand for things like "Looking for Pain Pills" and "Hypochondriac"

And so I cut him off like "Listen here, you little shit"

...more politely than that, of course

And I just ask him:

"So, if everything is normal, why have five different squads of nurses, MRI techs, and one set of ER techs asked me about my seizures?"

You have never seen a man lean on the ESC and DEL keys so fast.

So I'm going to see a neurologist now.
railenthe: wtf!Cloud (wtf)

I came home to this...MESS.  This, and the reek of natural gas.

What the miso-glazed fuck? I mutter as I see that a hole has been cracked in a bottle of cooking oil, a drawer that I was told was fixed in place has been removed, the food that was to be defrosted has been introduced to the floor, and the pantry is simply wrecked.

I wait at the elevator door for a while until a neighbor from my floor comes by, asking if they remembered seeing the electric company come past.

“Yeah, to YOUR place.”

Well no shit. “Did you hear if they fixed—”

“I don't know anything about that,” and she moved on.

I went back to my unit to discover more wrecked food, and after some text based ranting with liberal Angry Smiling Faces I went to the store for bread—

The corner store has Bob Marley sodas again. YAY.

It was on the way back up that I ran into someone talking about the gas being out until just a while ago.

“That was my unit. I've been trying to get a leak fixed since I moved in.”

“And they JUST got to it?”

“Left the joint a wreck, too.”

“I know you're glad that finally got done, but you might have a suit at that rate.”

My, my, my.

I mean, I don't know if I'll be able to act on it, but if my health improves abruptly after this?

You bet.

railenthe: (Default)

The phone rings, but it's a noise I can't identify until too late, because apparently when my model of phone detects that the thing on the headphone port is actually a line-in, it replaces the ringtone with a very unobtrusive “bloop” noise. In fact I missed it. It's my doctor's office with the MRI results.

I dial back within 58 seconds.

“Yeah, hi, you probably just missed me? I'm at work and the ringer was drowned out.”

“Yeah, we left a message—”

Bullshit, I think silently, noting the lack of the answering machine symbol in my taskbar.

“—and, um, um, um, we, um—”

Okay, how fucking bad is this? I wonder.

“—um, um, your MRI showed active migraine.”

It's all I can do to not flat-what her.

“We know about the migraines,” I say. “What does that mean? I wasn't experiencing one at the MRI. I would have rescheduled if I was.”

“Um, well, um—”

I am getting very suspicious of all this “um”-ing.

“—that's what it says here,” after another minute of that. “Other than that, normal.”


“So let me get this straight. I have probably had ONE migraine for possibly months and, normal. Nothing to address the vertigo, the fainting, the ringing, the TWITCH?”

“Hmm. No.”

Of all the FUCKING flip—

“You're setting up an appointment with the doctor for a follow up. This is not [here I redact myself just in time to turn it into an emphasis pause instead of the Precision F-Strike that was coming] sustainable. It's wrecking my work and social life.” It's not a question.

And that is the story of why I'm going to be marching into my doctor's office with copies of pictures of my brain asking for a neurologist. And I am NOT letting him test me for the diabetes again. We know that ain't it.

railenthe: wtf!Cloud (wtf)

Happiness lies, first of all, in health.

I don't know who said this. It's the “You've got to write today because you've got to keep in the habit, so here's a quote to get you started” thing that my app generates for me.

I feel like this one is mocking me.

Sure, I have more health than some do. But here's the thing:

I am not “some.” I am me.

I have a leg that blows up for no good reason. I just got out of having my brain scanned. I'm trying to find to which is the actual amount of money I owe to the collectors so that the doctor will stop basically holding my leg for ransom and fucking treat my leg before next February.

It could be $360.

It could be $605.

I don't fucking know. They're not answering my question. All I know is that it's official—the slow season is here and all my money is tied to living expenses like the phone, lights, and the “dead in November” internet.

The prospect of the isolation that will bring is terrifying.

Happiness lies, first of all, in health.

I have an aunt who hits me with this sort of thing. I want to tell her every time, don't mock me.

Happiness lies, first of all, in health.

People tell me that I have no right to feel as sick or hurt or be as injured/disabled as I am because I'm YOUNG, and therefore must be healthy and happy and positive (egads, if it were possible to strangle a word…).

My happiness would just be less pain. That's it. And I'm settling on that. I'll work my way up from there.

railenthe: (Default)
# LEG.

Leg. Leg. Leg.


I don't know what I did to it. The worst thing is that now it is getting to both legs.

*Worst* on that pain thing. The one with the faces.


A long rooms beat meant hours on my feet meant woozy moments... Meant leg pain.

It buzzes and vibrates and *burns*, the burning the worst of all.

...at least I didn't imagine the tremor earlier. Apparently there really *was* a 2.0 in the area.


The Japanese Festival is going on this weekend. I'm not going. I'm stuck at work. Even if I'd managed to get the time off, I wonder now if my legs could carry me.

I still remember my first trip. The place was vibrant, with so much going on. Sumo, martial arts demos, and this enthalling entertainer we just call The Candyman. Part Street Magician, part Confectioner, part Comedian, you never knew what exactly to expect—well, except for the sculpted candy, and even then you spend the time wondering when, given the fact you never took your eyes off him, *he managed to make a candy koi.* (And they're delicious too!)
I miss events. I miss being able to get out. Now I can't even get to the grocery store without this pain. This... damage.

Earlier in the year, I was looking forward to autumn hiking. Now I can barely walk.

The doctors know fuckall. They drag their feet while I drag this leg behind me. I've lost all feeling in my legs more times than I want to admit to recently. They postulate everything from brain tumors to lupus.

I remember that my dad's doctor predicted his health would have him in a wheelchair by the age of 30. His doctor was wrong about that—it's a story he tells a lot, very "screw that guy!"—but maybe he was off by a sprog.

I don't know. I just want my legs back.
railenthe: (Default)
I got caught in the rain en route to my doctor's office and have such a chill set in that I was provided two things when I got there:

  • a heated blanket from surgical, and

  • instructions on how to ward off hypothermia.

The buses for once were PROPERLY chilled and I am still cold. The AC is off.

I am still ice cold.

I'm grabbing two blankets to start with and trying to warm up but it's an hour later and I'm still very cold and sleepy...

And I'm waiting for supplies for a very minor surgery on top of it (latex issue). My decision, it's covered, it'll solve one big problem, nothing can go awry unless latex which is why we didn't do it today.

My gut is still dumb. We're going to do some thing involving some kind of scanner and dyed food. I cracked a "Green Eggs and Ham" joke only to find out that THIS IS IN FACT AN OPTION.

Must warm up. Too cold.
railenthe: (Default)
 I'm too tired to give a frig right now. The hockey game is on but I don't know if I'll be awake for the whole thing. (And it's a GOOD one! Lightning and Blackhawks!) Work ran so long that I don't have a real dinner, and French bread and mayo was the best thing ever. I'm going to curl up in my blankets and enjoy the game while I'm awake. I'm very sore and tired. I can't even be bothered with forcing my glasses on my face outside of proper action.

railenthe: Red Lantern Tonberry (DOINK)
What started out as an attempt to straighten up a bit—hey, let's reclaim our little corner office—rapidly devolved into a panic attack as I knocked over an open bottle of Dr. Bronner's soap.

"NO problem," I think, "I'll get a rag and wipe it up."

The next thing I know I've scrubbed the entire floor of the apartment on my hands and knees, and as I get to the corner office zone I hear my damn grandmother's voice in my head, calling fat and filthy.

I'm finding outdated paperwork and wondering why I still have it. I'm losing things in my hands while I hold them. The only thing I can think of to get her toxic echo out of my brain is to move to a different part of the apartment.

I pass the chest of drawers in what passes for a closet here…and then I hear my father's voice in my head. It was one of the more unforgettable taunts.

"Look at this shit. You live like a fucking hamster building a nest."

As repeated thought loops of "Unclean, fix it" went through my head I ripped the shelf apart and flipped a suitcase open. Several things fell from this case: a rope, my "I'm travelling overnight and don't want to make laundry for my hosts" towels (ironically, the towels I usually reserve for post panic care because I keep them fragranced and they're like extra floofy) and my sgian knife.

For a quick moment, clarity returned. The day I got that knife, with its fine black leather handle and beautifully simple blade, I formally considered myself ready to call myself pagan. It was the same deep clarity I felt that day—whoa, thirteen years ago now.

And I realized as I held the simple knife that this panic was fucking irrational. I took a couple breaths. I remembered that Pops can't, er, pop in because my misadventure with the elevator has allowed me to ninja the spare key back.

I wrestled an out of season blanket into the suitcase, clearing space. I wrestled out of season clothes into a blanket holder that was too small the blanket in question. Stopped to pop a couple kava caps because I was still a bit on edge.

I can finish this. No one is here to hurt me.

I'm going back to work on it now.

September 2017

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