Posts Tagged ‘Psycho Is The New Black’

So, I have been struggling recently.

Being sick sucks. Most of the time I manage to accept the fact that I am sick, that it is permanent, and this is my normal. But sometimes, I don’t.

Then I get frustrated, that even though I do all the stuff I am supposed to do, it doesn’t get any better. I don’t get any better. And the reality of the situation is, I will never get any better. Between the mental illness, the kidney failure, the rheumatoid arthritis: that stuff is all permanent. It can be managed, but it is never going away. I never get to go back to the way my life was before my kidneys failed.

And then it’s like I’m 13 again, and I get all rebellious, and decide that I’m not going to do stuff, especially not the stuff that is currently saving my life. Stupid, but there it is.

See, this acceptance stuff, it’s a process. There is no finish line, just a constant attempt to accept the reality that this is the way my life is and I need to make the best of it. This is my normal.

And mostly my life is good. I have friends, and family, I do fun stuff. Most days, I love my life. Most days, I am happy.

Not at the moment, though. I’m still kind of pissed about the whole being sick thing.

My niece, Eldest, asked me if I was sicker than I was supposed to be. I’m not, I’m just sicker than I want to be. And I need to continue working on being ok with that.

At least until I can replace most of my body parts with cybertronic equivalents.

So, two days ago I ran out of dry cat food, and Los Gatos have been acting like they have NEVER BEEN FED IN THEIR ENTIRE LIVES.

I fed them wet food twice a day, but they still howled and sat in the kitchen all day. In the morning, they circled me on the bed like loud, furry sharks, smacking me with their paws, and trying to sit on my head.

Then I got their dry food, put it out in bowls and they promptly ignored it.

I do not always like my cats.

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So, I sold my books, and got a great price for some of them, and a not very good at all price for the rest. And I am totally fine with that, because the point was to get rid of stuff. The money is just a bonus. You know, for tacos.

I like tacos.

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Grant sent me healing popcorn this week, because I read on WebMD that the cure for all my illnesses was bacon and cheddar popcorn, and everyone knows that they don’t put stuff on the internet that isn’t true.

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In other news, I have decided that my totally inability to be healthy in any sense of the word is no longer going to prevent me from dating. There are a lot of people in this world, fully half of them are men, and of those there is bound to be at least one who can not only handle my freakshow of medical issues but love me because of that.

I mean, statistically, it should work, right?

So I finally did my paperwork today. I suffer from serious procrastination and am the despair of the Northwest Kidney Centers Accounting Department. This particular paperwork was for last month. It’s a miracle they don’t send out a hit squad.

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I appreciate the many offers of baked goods, but I need to confess that, when I post shit to the internets, I don’t REALLY expect people to appease me.  I just don’t really ever think about the consequences of my actions, mostly because I have the attention span of a squirrel on meth but also because I never remember that the seven awesome people that are my loyal readers tend to want me to have whatever I want. You guys spoil me.You have ruined me for all other readers.

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My awesome handmade Swedish Stitcher bag is arriving on Monday. I AM SO EXCITED. My friend Tammie makes these lovely bags, each more a usable work of art than a mere accessory, and my bag is finally coming.

It initially was absconded with by the Post Office. Those bastards wrecked the strap, but Tammie got it back and fixed it and dudes, I am so looking forward to this bag, my head may very well implode.

There will be pictures, oh yes.

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I would like to wish Chris Walton a very happy birthday. Hey, cool guy. I like you.

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So, I am selling most all of my books this week. My entire Terry Pratchett collection and all. I realized the other day that I really only read shit on the Kindle that you guys got me. It’s just too hard to hold onto a regular paperback, much less a hardcover, and if I can’t read them, why do I have them? Just to have? THAT, my friends, is the mindset that led me to keeping giant pots of dirt in my cupboards, and I refuse to repeat THAT little object lesson on letting go.

Plus, the money is needed. Isn’t it always?

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OK, NAPTIME. Woot.

So, this morning I got up, got ready for my doctor appointment, took my meds and had a coke. Then I realized that I had taken my night time meds, a potent cocktail of psych meds and stuff that makes me sleepy, instead of my morning meds, which do not so much with the sleepy.

This is the first time that I have ever done that.

Because, really, the two doses are nothing alike. The morning dose is, like, five pills while the night dose is a fucking fistful of drugs. And so I felt stupid because I had actually done something stupid.

So I went to the drs, stopping at UPS and the grocery store because the milk is not going to buy itself, damnit, and then came home, where I fell down on the couch and promptly fell asleep.

I woke up two hours later, ate three slices of cheese, then fell asleep on the couch again.

I have been repeating this pattern, except for the cheese, all fucking day. God only knows if I will be able to sleep tonight. If I can’t, Tim will be getting an assload of late night texts, for serious.

Made the fucking cats happy, anyway. They like me best when I don’t move around.

So today I get to have my boobs squeezed between a variety of metal plates while some tech takes radiation pictures that may or with my luck, may not make me sterile.

Being 42 is awesome.

Actually, being 42 IS awesome. I realized yesterday that I am having way more fun these days than I did in my twenties, and that’s even taking into consideration the fact that I barely remember my 20′s on account of the massive quantities of booze, pills and other illegal and yet highly available substances I ingested.

I spent most of my life in the grip of anxiety and the panoply of mental illnesses I am afflicted with. I didn’t have many friends, or much of a typical childhood and my teen years, what I remember of them, are mostly me wracked with social anxiety. And drugs, lots of drugs.

We also moved A LOT, which kind of made everything else much more challenging.

These days, most of that is under control. Not gone, because I’m not sure that such an integral part of me can ever be gone, but I manage that shit. I learned, over time, that while fear ran my life, I was not going to be happy or have fun.

Fuck that shit.

So now, no matter how I feel, I take my meds. I go to meetings. I make plans with people and most of those people become friends.

Even when I am having a bad day, a day when I feel worthless or hopeless, I can recognize that it’s just a feeling. Feelings aren’t facts, and they will pass if I just keep doing the things I need to do.

That, my friends, is a fucking miracle. And is directly responsible for the really great life I now have.

Ok, enough if this feelings stuff. So over it, dudes. Let’s talk about something else. Without feelings.