I wrote that last post before I got dumped (do people still say "dumped"? The last time I was the dumpee, I was a teenager, so I don't know) for philosophy. That's right, philosophy. I don't mean that we had irreconcilable philosophical differences -- quite the opposite -- I mean he left me for the study of philosophy. We didn't get in a fight or anything, he still likes everything he ever liked about me, there's no other woman, there probably won't be another woman... he just prefers to focus on his studies. Which revolve around thick books and the old men who write them. And he wants to do this unhindered by a supportive, intellectual, alluring (bear with me, I just got dumped) girlfriend.
Peace out, bro.
It's as if the Fates went, Wait a minute, She got something good? She doesn't get to have nice things! But they were kind of tired after wreaking havoc all over the world, so instead of creating some problems to destroy our relationship in some believable way, they just lazily... ended it. Boom. Snatched him away. Really, the Fates? You could have at least done it with some flair.
Oh, and this happened one hour after I turned down a charming young man with a Mustang. Sorry. I take back what I said about no flair.
20160831
Pop Quiz
I haven't been around lately because I've been busy having...
a) crazy bad fatigue
b) a boyfriend
c) a documentary made starring my intestines
d) all of the above
If you picked D, you are strangely correct!
I have had chronic fatigue for at least a year now, and sometimes it's bad, but for a few weeks there it was crazy bad where it was all I could do to move my limbs, and just the thought of dressing myself or preparing a meal seemed overwhelming. Writing a blog post was out of the question. Then it went away overnight and now I'm back to regular fatigue again. My body is incomprehensible.
For the record, the boyfriend is younger but only by four and a half years. He really took his sweet time getting born. (Thankfully it didn't take him quite that long to realize how great we would be together.)
I got a head start on my colonoscopies at age twenty-three -- but that's another story. That time, they told me to come back in five years. Understandably, I wasn't in a big hurry to repeat that experience, so almost ten years later I finally got around to scheduling it. My boyfriend Drew was moving out of state for graduate school on the day of my colonoscopy. Besides the fact that we just started dating, talk about bad timing! I could have rescheduled, but I figured this way I would be too drugged to be sad. The problem was that I forgot about the, ahem, "prep."
There are several steps that must be taken before the procedure, the first being five days out and the last being mere hours prior. The first step is as easy as quitting iron supplements and the last is drinking the laxative. The laxative is really the worst part of the whole ordeal. It tastes like super salty Gatorade that has been swished around in someone's mouth for awhile, and you have to drink a huge jug of it until you are gagging.
Reading the instructions, I realized I had to start the laxative early on our last evening together, which is so not conductive to a long, lingering goodbye. Obviously we wanted to spend every last minute together, but at the same time I didn't want our last moments together to be... interrupted. When it was almost time, I checked the sheet again to find that I had misread it and would not need to drink the stuff until the next morning. So that was horrible because we could have actually planned a memorable evening instead of rushing home by 5:00 p.m., but it was wonderful because the evening could have been a little too memorable.
I was glad that they improved the laxative, though; this time it tasted merely like cough syrup.
Story Time! The previous weekend our church had a barbecue in the park, for which we had reserved one of the pavilions. Drew and I showed up, got in line for food, then realized there were several generations between us and everyone else there. Then we saw our church at... the neighboring pavilion. We were accidentally in line for a high school reunion for the class of 1951! (And there were a lot of people there, considering how many in their class must have died already. I didn't even go to my ten-year reunion so I can't imagine having any desire to go to... whatever number reunion that was! Fifty-fifth? Wait, are they doing it every five years because they know if they wait another ten years half of them will be gone? Weird, I took the opposite approach to my colonoscopy frequency.) The funny part was that even though we clearly did not fit in, no one questioned us.
This was a similar situation, except all the butt doctors (and butt nurses, butt secretaries, etc) were questioning me. I was clearly the youngest person in the waiting room. No one was even in their fifties or sixties; it was all seventies-plus here.
Did I say the laxative was the worst part? Maybe. The creepiest part is the drugs. You get a sedative, but also you get amnesia. So you're sort of awake while it's happening, but then you just don't remember later. For some reason, this creeps me out worse than just being out completely. How do I know they're not taking advantage of me in my semi-conscious state, and then wiping out my memories?
When I was twenty-three and they found polyps, they told me to come back in five years, and if everything looked good then, I wouldn't have to come back for another ten years after that. This time they didn't even find anything, but they said to come back again in five years. How does that make sense?! Come back, come back, you're the freshest piece of ass we've seen in awhile! No way, perverts just want to go up my butt again.
In conclusion, I aced all my exams.
a) crazy bad fatigue
b) a boyfriend
c) a documentary made starring my intestines
d) all of the above
If you picked D, you are strangely correct!
I have had chronic fatigue for at least a year now, and sometimes it's bad, but for a few weeks there it was crazy bad where it was all I could do to move my limbs, and just the thought of dressing myself or preparing a meal seemed overwhelming. Writing a blog post was out of the question. Then it went away overnight and now I'm back to regular fatigue again. My body is incomprehensible.
For the record, the boyfriend is younger but only by four and a half years. He really took his sweet time getting born. (Thankfully it didn't take him quite that long to realize how great we would be together.)
I got a head start on my colonoscopies at age twenty-three -- but that's another story. That time, they told me to come back in five years. Understandably, I wasn't in a big hurry to repeat that experience, so almost ten years later I finally got around to scheduling it. My boyfriend Drew was moving out of state for graduate school on the day of my colonoscopy. Besides the fact that we just started dating, talk about bad timing! I could have rescheduled, but I figured this way I would be too drugged to be sad. The problem was that I forgot about the, ahem, "prep."
There are several steps that must be taken before the procedure, the first being five days out and the last being mere hours prior. The first step is as easy as quitting iron supplements and the last is drinking the laxative. The laxative is really the worst part of the whole ordeal. It tastes like super salty Gatorade that has been swished around in someone's mouth for awhile, and you have to drink a huge jug of it until you are gagging.
Reading the instructions, I realized I had to start the laxative early on our last evening together, which is so not conductive to a long, lingering goodbye. Obviously we wanted to spend every last minute together, but at the same time I didn't want our last moments together to be... interrupted. When it was almost time, I checked the sheet again to find that I had misread it and would not need to drink the stuff until the next morning. So that was horrible because we could have actually planned a memorable evening instead of rushing home by 5:00 p.m., but it was wonderful because the evening could have been a little too memorable.
I was glad that they improved the laxative, though; this time it tasted merely like cough syrup.
Story Time! The previous weekend our church had a barbecue in the park, for which we had reserved one of the pavilions. Drew and I showed up, got in line for food, then realized there were several generations between us and everyone else there. Then we saw our church at... the neighboring pavilion. We were accidentally in line for a high school reunion for the class of 1951! (And there were a lot of people there, considering how many in their class must have died already. I didn't even go to my ten-year reunion so I can't imagine having any desire to go to... whatever number reunion that was! Fifty-fifth? Wait, are they doing it every five years because they know if they wait another ten years half of them will be gone? Weird, I took the opposite approach to my colonoscopy frequency.) The funny part was that even though we clearly did not fit in, no one questioned us.
This was a similar situation, except all the butt doctors (and butt nurses, butt secretaries, etc) were questioning me. I was clearly the youngest person in the waiting room. No one was even in their fifties or sixties; it was all seventies-plus here.
Did I say the laxative was the worst part? Maybe. The creepiest part is the drugs. You get a sedative, but also you get amnesia. So you're sort of awake while it's happening, but then you just don't remember later. For some reason, this creeps me out worse than just being out completely. How do I know they're not taking advantage of me in my semi-conscious state, and then wiping out my memories?
When I was twenty-three and they found polyps, they told me to come back in five years, and if everything looked good then, I wouldn't have to come back for another ten years after that. This time they didn't even find anything, but they said to come back again in five years. How does that make sense?! Come back, come back, you're the freshest piece of ass we've seen in awhile! No way, perverts just want to go up my butt again.
On the other hand, a couple days before my colonoscopy, I went to the dentist and Dr. Whoa (whose name is not really Dr. Whoa but when he walked into the room, he tripped while introducing himself and now I'll never remember his real name) practically kicked me out... Bo-ring! Get out of here and don't come back until you have something for us to do. Rude!
In conclusion, I aced all my exams.
20160711
Chocolate Monster
Every once in awhile I worry that I am turning into my mom, but then I accidentally get chocolate on the ironing board and inadvertently melt chocolate into my clothing, and all my fears cease. How did I even get chocolate on the ironing board? I wasn't even eating chocolate! I am not turning into my mom. I am turning into a chocolate stormcloud, just hailing down bits of candy from my person like sugary sweat.
20160629
Shut up... you're the big baby.
A tiny person came to my house the other day. It appeared to be between zero and five years of age. I was making dinner, so I asked the other adults around if it could eat food. This got me an "Of course he can eat food!" but it's a totally legit question. The tiny person was wearing a diaper but used the toilet. I'm like, Bro are you a baby or not? He was confused about me too, so my mom tried to explain how I was her daughter. His takeaway was "You big baby."
20160406
Things I Never Thought I'd Say
You know how people compile those lists of Things I Never Thought I'd Say once they have kids? Well I'm collecting a good share of my own from living with my crazy mom:
"Valentine's Day just means you can wear red with pink. It doesn't mean you can wear earrings on your shirt."
"Good job not doing the dishes! I know that was hard for you."
"Babies can't smell soft. That's not even possible."
"It'd be nice if you wouldn't nag as a greeting."
"Please don't buy any more turkeys."
"Valentine's Day just means you can wear red with pink. It doesn't mean you can wear earrings on your shirt."
"Good job not doing the dishes! I know that was hard for you."
"Babies can't smell soft. That's not even possible."
"It'd be nice if you wouldn't nag as a greeting."
"Please don't buy any more turkeys."
20160316
The difference between outrageous and extremely outrageous: pickles
I'm planning to host an international student for a term, but I'm a little concerned about how our delicate rental management company is going to take the news. I noticed in our lease (18.1.c), we could be evicted with merely 24 hours notice for committing "any act which is outrageous in the extreme."
One time my brother and I spent an evening dipping everything we could find in peanut butter and eating it. (Note to Bright Apartments, in case you are reading this: This did not happen in your rental! This was a long time ago!) According to Merriam-Webster, "outrageous" could mean exceeding the limits of what is usual. People don't usually host international students. And so you see my concern.
20160203
Not Otherwise Specified
I'm down to just one job now, which is why there are sadly no more pictures of ridiculous products. And no more people shooting at me. So far.
I had to cut back to part time for health reasons. A few months ago I discovered something called Complex Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. I recognized myself in all of the diagnostic criteria, and finally the last fifteen years of my life made sense: All the bad decisions that seemed logical to my malfunctioning brain... all the times I inexplicably couldn't keep up... all my bizarre behaviors that I couldn't even explain to myself. This whole time I thought I was just stupid and lazy, ineffective, couldn't get it together. So it's a relief to finally have a name for this vague, constant feeling of swimming upstream. And it's helpful to accurately identify a problem before going about solving it. That's the good part.
The bad part is CPTSD is not included in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, so my problem officially doesn't exist. The closest match is Disorders of Extreme Stress Not Otherwise Specified... you know that's going to be taken seriously. Anyway, I no longer meet all the criteria, so I doubt I will ever have the luxury of a diagnosis. Is it possible to be diagnosed retroactively? So far I haven't found a therapist who will even stray from the term PTSD, so how can I be effectively treated? And if mental health practitioners don't recognize a real problem, how can I expect anyone to understand?
The bad part is CPTSD is like an autoimmune disease of the mind (although it's an injury, not an illness). I have to guard against sabotaging myself. My brain is wired to see the negative in everything. Even when I make progress, it seems like I'm not making any -- but even that thought is symptomatic!
The bad part is that I don't know where to go from here. I don't know how I can even have long-term goals anymore. How will I ever raise a family when I can barely take care of myself? How could I have a career when I am so unstable? For that matter, how can I even plan for the weekend when I never know how I'm going to be feeling by then?
Not that I haven't been making plans for the last fifteen years, but I used to think I just needed to try harder when I wasn't able to follow through. I used to think "this day was just bad because I didn't sleep well last night" or "this year was off because of blah blah blah," unable to accept that insomnia is a chronic problem for me and the "off" times had long stopped being the exception. Now I realize that I will always be in survival mode, and coping well is the best life I can hope for.
The bad part is CPTSD is like an autoimmune disease of the mind (although it's an injury, not an illness). I have to guard against sabotaging myself. My brain is wired to see the negative in everything. Even when I make progress, it seems like I'm not making any -- but even that thought is symptomatic!
The bad part is that I don't know where to go from here. I don't know how I can even have long-term goals anymore. How will I ever raise a family when I can barely take care of myself? How could I have a career when I am so unstable? For that matter, how can I even plan for the weekend when I never know how I'm going to be feeling by then?
Not that I haven't been making plans for the last fifteen years, but I used to think I just needed to try harder when I wasn't able to follow through. I used to think "this day was just bad because I didn't sleep well last night" or "this year was off because of blah blah blah," unable to accept that insomnia is a chronic problem for me and the "off" times had long stopped being the exception. Now I realize that I will always be in survival mode, and coping well is the best life I can hope for.
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