Archive for the ‘The Crazy’ Category

(Warning, this post is kind of really freaking gross. And it doesn’t make me look very good. And really, I have no idea why I’m telling you this.)

So last Monday I finished with my last final exam/make up midterm, drove home and took a nap. I wallowed around the house until Slappy and I went out to dinner and as usual, he asked me to drive.

I drive almost everywhere because I am a control freak can’t stand when he moves forward at red lights like it makes them turn green faster like to drive and he doesn’t. So we walked to my car, opened the door and dropped dead.

When I tell you that my car smelled like ass, I’m not trying to be obnoxious or crass, but literally, the only way I can describe the stench that poured out of my car is to tell you that it smelled like someone put their ass in there and left it to die.

Holy crap.

I decided to tackle the smell the next day and we took Slappy’s car. Before we left, the sage doctor suggested that I park the car in our garage and open all the windows to air it out. And because I’m really stupid and I didn’t see the huge flaw in this plan, I agreed.

The next morning I opened the garage to go to the grocery story and before I knew what had happened the ass smell reached up and smacked me in the face. And so did my stupidity. Because our garage gets no fresh air. So basically I stewed our entire garage in ass smell over night.

Oh. dear. God.

I drove my car out of the garage and cleaned it out. I found nothing rotting. I found nothing dead. I found nothing.

But the smell. The smell persisted.

Slappy suggested that it was cat food. Because you see, this one time, a year and a half ago, we evacuated for a hurricane and a full bag of cat food spilled in my trunk. And I cleaned it out, but failed to realize until July of this year that there were like 2 pounds of cat foot in the spare tire well of the car and that’s why my car perpetually smelled like Petco.

(Stop judging me.)

I scoffed at him and felt assured that if I aired out the car for a few hours all would be well.

I was wrong. (Holy crap, did I just say that?)

And moreover, he was right. (Proof that the ass smell has forever ruined my ability to use sound reason or judgement.)

Let’s just say that PERHAPS moldy cat food (erm, it rained for almost a week in Los Angeles, and evidently some water got into the spare tire well of my car…barf) smells a lot like ass and PERHAPS I had to air my car out for a solid week before the smell diminished.

The moral of this story is, I’m pretty much the classiest person you’ll ever meet.

And also? If you spill catfood in your trunk, don’t wait 18 months to clean it out.

You’re welcome.

To be honest with you, I had a completely different post written that I just deleted.

I had written all about the appointment with the neurologist and how she, as usual, had no idea what was wrong. And how she prescribed me a HUGE dose of steroids that I’m not planning on taking. And how afterwards I went to the student health center and got a referral for and called and scheduled an appointment with the shiny new doctor who specializes in CSF leaks.

But I’m not going to tell you all about that.

Today my doctor asked me a lot of questions. Some about pain, some about my life. And eventually she got to the question that I knew was coming and before I could stop myself, a lie spilled out.

My doctor asked me, point blank, if I was depressed. She even went so far as to say that she would be depressed if she was in my shoes (for the record, that’s ALWAYS comforting…) because this situation is shitty. And I looked her in the eye and lied.

I said no.

I told her I had been depressed before, but this wasn’t the same. And maybe a shred of that is true. But…

I am depressed. I need help.

There. I said it.

I have focused so much time on trying to find the source of this pain and dealing with the way it has ravaged my body that I have long ignored what the pain and dealing with the pain has done to my mind. I’ve told you a hundred times that pain has changed me, but I think I wasn’t willing to see just how much.

The person I used to be didn’t cry every day. She definitely didn’t cry over stupid things every day. She wouldn’t have cried when a parking attendant yelled at her for (ACCIDENTALLY) breaking a pen while signing an debit card slip. This person I am today, did. (This person I am also might have flipped her off while crying.)

The person I used to be didn’t get upset and suddenly forget how to cope with tough stuff or even cope with easy stuff. The person I used to be identified the problem, made a plan and stuck to it.

The person I used to be was happy.

The person I am is not.

I have moments, hours, even days of happiness. But more often I have hours and days and weeks of the opposite. I have sleepless nights filled with despair. I have a blog that reads like a tale of sorrow, a tale of woe. I have a marriage that is suffering fiercely and a husband who wants nothing more than to fix something that he cannot fix.

I am depressed. I need help.

I don’t want help. I don’t want to talk to someone, I don’t want to have a discussion about medication. I don’t want to have this be a part of my life again. I’ve done mental illness. I’ve done it in fucking spades. And maybe that’s why I’m having such a hard time this go around.

I thought I beat it.

I didn’t.

Tomorrow morning, I’m doing what so many of you have tried to get me to. I’m doing the thing I have been trying to avoid for weeks, maybe even months at this point.

I’m calling and making an appointment with a therapist. I have to. I see that now.

I see that my happiness, my life, is hanging in the balance.

So it rained in Southern California today. Which means that traffic was a nightmare and people everywhere thought the world was ending.

Having lived in New Orleans for 3 years, where it rains at least weekly, I just didn’t think that the weather was that big of a deal. It’s water kids, chill the hell out.

Since I had a final exam in the afternoon, before leaving into the storm, I put on my finals uniform. A school shirt, sweat pants, a sweat shirt and flip flops. I learned that flip flops are better than good shoes in rain after ruining a pair of NICE white shoes in a NOLA storm. (Did you know that even previously washed jeans will run ink onto white shoes if they get wet enough? I didn’t either.)

So I got to my friend’s house and the very first thing she noticed and commented on was my flip flops. I explained my rationale, feeling super smug about knowing how to deal with rain. Because smugness always leads to good things.

We drove to school and were walking to get lunch when as if out of no where, I was on the ground. I don’t even know exactly what happened. I was upright one minute and down on a knee and a buttcheek the next.

In a puddle.

In sweat pants.

And OF COURSE, a stranger saw and RAN OUTSIDE to make sure I was okay. My friend had almost fallen over from laughing and I was both sopping wet and horrified. But, also? Not surprised. That sounds pretty much EXACTLY like something I’d do.

Since our 3 hour exam was in like an hour and no way were my clothes going to dry out before then, I had to walk to the bookstore and buy new pants and a new sweatshirt and new shoes because my flip flops were so soaked with water that I kept slipping indoors too.

Basically, I walked out of the bookstore looking like a fucking USC ad.

And because I looked so pathetic in my soaking wet clothes, I got a 10% discount at the bookstore. That’s when you feel really good about yourself. When you look like such a huge train wreck that people want you to give you things for cheaper.

My life is all kinds of awesome.

If you’ll excuse me, me and my very sore lower back have a hot date with some notecards.

I know you’re tired of hearing about my pain and worries and neuroses. I really do.

I know my real life friends are and I DEFINITELY know twitter is.

I’ve used this blog as my free therapy for a while now. For the past 120 pain filled days this has been where I turned to get it all out of my head. Where I have extracted the thoughts from my mind and tried to make sense of them. Where I have said the things I can’t say aloud, and admited the things that are sometimes too difficult to admit to anyone else.

I have used this blog in a way I probably shouldn’t. Deep down, I know that it’s not normal to be upset as often as I am. I know it’s not okay to always feel distraught. I know that hopelessness is not a good state of being. I know that what I’m doing now to try and deal with my life and emotions is not cutting it. I know.

I know I probably need to do something about it.

I just…

I can’t.

I don’t know why. I know I should, I know I need it, and deep down, I suspect it would help. But I still can’t bring myself to make that phone call. To tell a receptionist that I need to schedule an appointment with a therapist. To call and tell yet another person that something else is wrong with me.

To admit to not being normal again.

I encourage others to seek help when they feel the way I feel. When they feel like there’s no future that isn’t full of fear and pain and unhappiness. When they feel like there’s no way out. When they think about how much easier life might be if their plane crashed to the ground instead of safely delivering them back to a life that they can’t face. I don’t look down on anyone else for getting help.

But I hold myself to some ridiculous double standard. I can’t do it.

I want to be me again. I want to live a life without pain. I want to live a life without constant tears and breakdowns. I want to find joy in normal life and happiness in the life I have. I want to rejoice in small victories instead of worrying about the next battle.

But I just don’t know if I’m ready to take the steps that get me there.

I fear I might never be.

On Monday my mom, dad and husband will be walking me into a hospital.

The last time this happened, was November 27th, 2007, the day I had brain surgery.

I’m glad my family is coming for the cisternogram, I’m glad for the support, but I cannot deny that the situation scares the shit out of me. It reminds me of the surgery I had, of the days of pain and fear and endless retching that followed. It reminds me of feeling completely helpless.

And, more than anything else, it reminds me that there’s an excellent chance that I’ll be facing a similar surgery soon.

I can’t hardly wrap my mind around it. I don’t want to have another brain surgery.

And yet, at the same time, I’m so afraid that this test will show absolutely nothing. That after 16 weeks of headaches, we’ll be completely without ideas, solutions or help.

It’s hard to straddle this line. This line of wanting something fixable to be wrong, but being completely terrified at how we’ll have to fix it. It just feels like an entirely no-win situation. And as much as I want to run for my life and get away from it, days keep passing, time keeps moving and the appointment keeps getting closer and closer.

I’m scared. Of what this test might show. I’m scared of what this test might not show.

And most of all, I’m afraid of what comes next.

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For the latest on Anissa, check here. She is fighting like we knew she would and now we have to wait and see. I think that Anissa would probably appreciate how many people have had a glass of wine or a tranquilizer in her honor (because, dude, we’re trying to cope). There’s also a button on the right where you can donate and help Anissa’s family with the costs of her care. And most importantly, don’t stop praying. She needs us now as much as ever.

After 3 hours of sleep, which was halted by indescribable head pain, an exam that I can only hope to have passed, and an afternoon of classes that served only to remind me how little I knew, I lost it.

The tears poured from my eyes like water from a faucet. Every time I regained my composure and found the steady rhythm of my breath, the sobs came back and the tears returned.

For 3 hours I fought a losing battle with my emotions.

For 3 hours my face was a riverbed of tears, my living room covered in tissues.

My mind, a mess.

I wish I could better describe what happened today, but I’m not ready yet, I don’t have the words yet.

I am broken. And it will take time to put me back together.

And until then, I lie here, cracked and teary eyed. Not knowing how to take the next step.

Not knowing if the next step should be taken at all.

Remember when you were a child and you used to spin around and around until the whole world spun around? All the colors blurred, your eyes lost focus and when you stopped, you felt like you were still spinning. It felt like freedom.

Now it feels like being trapped. Now it feels like being out of sorts all the time.

That’s the way my life feels right now. Blurry. Out of focus and control. Dizzying.

I did not do well on my test today. I truly didn’t and I really don’t want to talk about it (don’t tell me I did fine, I didn’t, and I know it). I have another quiz tomorrow, a paper due Thursday, another paper due Monday and another exam next Thursday.

It feels impossible. I don’t know if I can do it. I don’t know if I want to.

It feels like the world is spinning off without me.

It feels like I might not be able to find solid ground again.

It feels like I might fall.

And I’m afraid that I might want to.

I don’t feel well.

I don’t have the swine flu (unless the media REALLY exaggerated how severe it is), but I do have a low fever, an ugly cough and from that cough an extra dose of head pain. Because I needed that.

And most importantly, this has made me into a whiny, cry-y mess.

Yesterday I went to school in the morning, which was a terrible idea. I got up at 5:45 and by the time I got on the train at 6:30 realized what a monumental mistake I made. But then I looked at the train schedule and realized that the earliest I could go home was on an 11:20 train, but only if I made the 11:00 shuttle.

I made it through library training from 8-10, I did the practice patient interview at 10:30 and then I ran (another TERRIBLE decision) and caught the 11:00 bus and subsequently the 11:20 train.

I’ve had a lot of miserable train rides, but that was the worst. I had chills so badly that I was noticeably shaking. My headache was worse than it had ever been before, ever. I mean literally, it was the worst headache I’ve ever had (when you cough, you increase your intracranial pressure, and increasing mine (even if I don’t have the pseudotumor) is hard on my brain) and I just wanted to go to sleep.

And of course they added a stop on my route (the fair is in town?) so it took even longer to get home. I was home by 12:30 and fell into bed without taking off anything but my shoes. I slept like a rock until 3:30. I felt better when I got up, but not good. I did some work (from bed) and went to bed. And slept until 10:30, which, as God is my witness, is the latest I remember sleeping ever. I think I ate like 500 calories yesterday at best, I just don’t feel like eating anything. Even cake doesn’t sound good.

Yes, the was the earth coming to a screeching halt.

And I’ve been lying in bed all day and trying to decide whether or not to go to the big football game today. Slappy was stuck at work (because staying home from work when sick is what REASONABLE people do) for 34 hours and in the end, we just shouldn’t be at the game. For both our sakes. And I know that. And yet, I’m a weepy mess. It’s a fucking football game. Not a championship game, just a game. But my rational side seems to be pushed down by this low grade fever and I’m struggling to rise above it.

How ridiculous do you have to be to cry over a football game? I say VERY.

So I’m sitting on my couch (Slappy is asleep in bed), sipping tea, watching tv and studying.

And feeling sorry for myself. And maybe crying. Definitely crying.

I know. I thought I couldn’t outdo the wrong bus event. But, it’s me we’re talking about and at least in terms of public humiliation, I did.

Monday morning, my first morning of grad school, started off well. I got up at the ass crack of dawn, got to the train station and waited for my 6:08 train. I boarded and began eating my breakfast. I assume I’m not really supposed to eat on the train, but there are no signs indicating such and plenty of people do it. And frankly, I’m getting up at 5:40 so I just don’t have the time to fool around with things like breakfast.

So I ate my muffin (which, p.s. the recipe for these muffins is up here and they are AWESOME) and got out my baggy of grapes. Okay, frozen grapes. I love love love frozen grapes and I’ve been eating them as a part of my breakfast for weeks now. I have a grape infatuation.

I ate a few grapes and then started nodding off. It was early. I didn’t sleep all that well (more about why another day) and just as I really started grasping at unconsciousness, I felt something. In fact, I felt a lot of things. I felt my entire bag of grapes spill on the ground. And then start rolling.

And rolling and rolling.

I got most of them, but when I got off the train, I spotted one down the stairs at the back wall. I didn’t pick it up. I just couldn’t.

And I know what you’re thinking. This doesn’t sound all that bad, does it? That’s because this wasn’t the really embarrassing part. This was the warm up.

At the end of the day I had like 3 minutes to buy a ticket for my train home and a friend was waiting for me. I had my debit card out and ready. I decided to buy a 10 trip pass because it just seemed wise. I put all my information in and then inserted my debit card.

The screen said “card not accepted” and offered me a choice to continue. So I did. And I tried my card again. Same error message. I knew I wasn’t out of funds, so I assumed it didn’t take mastercard, so I grabbed a Visa. I stuck it in and pulled it back out quickly (that’s what she said) and again, “card not accepted.”

So I tried my very last credit card 3 times and was just about to burst into tears as a HUGE line had formed behind me when I realized my error. I was putting my card in upside down. UPSIDE DOWN.

I tried to be as quick as possible about putting it in correctly and getting my ticket, but apparently, there were enough people that avoiding a scene was impossible. The man behind me, obviously not noticing how red my ears had already turned decided to SHOUT at the top of his lungs, “Oh look, isn’t it amazing how well it works when you put it in correctly? That’s like a miracle! Good luck finding your train. I think you’ll need it.”

I died a little inside.

I ignored him, got my ticket validated and walked to my train, red with a combination of sheer embarrassment and anger.

And my brand new friend watched the whole thing. So now every time I say that I know how to do something, she asks me if I’m sure. Because those debit cards? They are TRICKY.

Okay, maybe not ALL of you.

Yesterday a dear friend of mine linked an article on Facebook and I think that it has profoundly impacted my opinion of the human race.  Because some of you are fucking stupid.  I’m sorry, but you are.

“One poll question indicative of how difficult it is to gain public understanding on a complicated issue asked if respondents thought the government should ‘stay out of Medicare,’ something inherently impossible. 39% said yes.”

Oh. my. God.

Keeping the government out of Medicare, a FEDERALLY RUN PROGRAM (hey, Federal means run by the national government.  Just FYI), would be REALLY difficult to do, I imagine.  But hey, if that’s what y’all want, then why the hell not?  Maybe we SHOULD see what would happen when the system burns itself to the ground.  Yes.  That would be SO much more reasonable than involving government in your health care.  OF COURSE.

But wait, there’s more.  At the end of the article, there’s a post-script.

“The poll also finds that only 62 percent of respondents believe that President Obama was born in America. Of the 38 percent who either don’t believe or are unsure, some think he was born in Indonesia, Kenya, the Philippines, or France.”

Okay, I’m just going to put this one out there.  Does it seem curious that 61% of people polled knew that the government ran Medicare and 62% know that Obama was born in the United States?  It’s almost like 38-39% of the people surveyed were uneducated fucking stupid.

I’m not even done.

“Six percent of the total poll respondents also don’t think Hawaii is a U.S. state.”

…

I don’t know how to deal with that sentence.  I mean, do they not think Hawaii is a state because they don’t like it?  (Those Hawaiians are unAmerican hippies.  I declare them terrorists foreigners.)  Or, is it because they are STUPID?  Seriously.  Come on.  Hawaii?  Really?

There you have it.  Please understand if I say that I’m still a little hesitant to believe all of the “educated” opinions about health care reform.  I think some of you are confusing educated with stupid.