Well, I’m not dead

I wouldn’t turn down money though lol.
It’s  been hectic. Got rid of the bugs. My Outlook account is buggin’.
My doctor discontinued my gut medicine and it’s like $70/month for a month’s supply if he doesn’t fix it.
There is still a gaping gouge in my ceiling.
I dislocated my knee seven times last month. The good knee.
But I’m going to try to write again. I fell into this…hole, and I wasn’t writing. I haven’t been able to get it going. But I’m going to do it. I’m going to push forward and write again. Cooking, photography, and writing are the things that make me happy, and I haven’t been doing any of them. But I’m going to change that starting now.
It’s time to get moving.


…ps, if you want to feed the starving artist, feel free to toss a few at. $20 feeds me for a week with this injured esophagus.

Undiagnosed but Clear. 

Today, I read an article on the pain of fibromyalgia that I could have written myself. I knew the back pains, the jaw pains. I knew the truly bizarre things the muscles do. I knew the feeling of having had my body’s muscles go through a meat grinder, get salted, and then shoved back in as if they were supposed to be useful again.

I recognized the tales of budgeting against the next day if a work day was horrid. I saw myself in the stories of struggling to get a position that wasn’t approximately “wail like hit dog.”

I muttered, “This is a thing” on reading about fatigue attacks. It was both validation and horror.

I saw way too much of me in the stories about the head fog. I was actually coming out one when I began this entry. What did I fog on, you ask? WHERE I WAS. I didn’t know where I was.

Reading about budgeting leisure time, the feeling that friends may think one is dodging them, really hit. But how do you socialize when you cannot even roll over without making a noise that makes a cat’s mothering instincts go off? (It’s really sad when you know which meow is the “are you ok” meow for more than one cat…)

I tried to find the article again and couldn’t. I’m putting it off to fog, but I have concerns about it. I know it existed—there was an illustration that very vividly described my pain in it that stuck with me. I was going to use the article to show my doctor we need to rethink my pain treatment, that this most likely the Big F—Fibromyalgia. But he’s not the best listener, and the only response I got from my message was a (probably needed) doubling of a medicine usually prescribed for it. But he stops short of a diagnosis.

Right now I just want to rest. I’m not even interested in food. Only rest.

Cluster headache? Meet Zappy. 

I don’t know what this brain symbol means but boy howdy is this setting doing wonders on my pain. 
Today, I tried doing research on TENS machines and chronic pain. I could barely find anything newer than ten years ago, and a lot of it was speculation. It’s like they haven’t been doing any research at all. Maybe they haven’t. 
I can believe that. 
But what I know is that during physical therapy for my crap knee, I was connected to one of those giant versions of these for a different purpose — trying to get the muscles to get active and stop this silly wasting nonsense they’ve developed (they have not; I’m on a specific diet to help that now). Instead I got intense pain relief. So I got my own secondhand device. And now, this one. 
I’ve heard things like “the jury is still out,” or “we don’t know,” and even “that’s dangerous outside of the hospital.” It was actually the hospital that recommended this, when they saw this worked better than the NSAID that I was on a stomach-melting dose of. 
Today, instead of a recalcitrant leg, I’ve got electrodes glued to my face, fighting a cluster headache. It comes back on a schedule, but this keeps it back from rendering me nonfunctional — ridiculous though I may look. The machine is small but mighty. I would love to see more science, because I like knowing how cool things like this work. 
Right now though, I gotta reset my timer and intensity. I like not having a headache. 

Too early… 

Pain, Fever Dream…


It’s 3:10 AM. I lay down in the evening thinking that I was going to be out a mere half hour but the next thing I knew I’m waking up to the same pain I fell asleep to. I’ve slept through my meds, and the only reason my temperature is as low as it is sits in my grade fridge—a high quinine rasberry-cranberry tonic water I mixed myself.

…different reason. I like the bitter bite of tonic.

I woke with pain a few hits minutes ago. My pills are hours late.

I hope I don’t oversleep…

Herded By Cats

It appears to be a bad fatigue day. No pain threshold and my pills hit like a truck.

Also, every kitten has mom-meowed at me every time I’ve attempted to stand up and doesn’t let up until I give them an “I know, thanks” and a head scritch.

The “mom-meow” is an interesting thing. It seems to be the way a cat says “?” to humans. (No, seriously, the only way to describe this particular meow is a loud “?”) It comes with an obvious look of concern and is often followed by an “I need nothing but I’m going to follow you until I notice you aren’t trying to overdo it and are safely seated OK no questions” tailing. Ignore it and one is herded elsewhere by attempted group legtangling.

…This is the time for “in Soviet Russia, Cats herd you” jokes. Even though we can’t herd them.

They’re that good at this.

Well, staying down beats back/ab/quad spasms, so…

Grocery day is a very dangerous day

image

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.

At least the management got shook out.

And now, a tale of public housing. (I bear no responsibility if you hear this entire thing in the voice of Cecil from Welcome to Night Vale.)

It says something about the state of government housing that I have developed a sort of Spidey Sense for the common Cimex lectularius Linnaeus.

(SLOW YOUR ROLL. DO NOT GOOGLE.)

Building management, after two years of doing jack shit, has actually been ousted wholesale and replaced, and I have just treated the current linen so thoroughly with chems it would be working backwards for a week to swap. MINOR nosebleed from all the chemical in the air (or the fact that it took a bite to wake me this time and I am allergic)  but I’m tired of bugs.

Folks who have been in cheap motels, unfortunate Air BNB experiences, seen every other news report about pesticide resistance, noticed things moving on buses or movie theatre seats, or have followed me through this fight know what I’m talking about when I talk about this bitey bastard. Folks who are confounded by that Latin up there, DO NOT GOOGLE THAT WITH IMAGES ON. DO NOT. DO. NOT.

The sick irony of the struggle is that though the entire building had been reporting this since jump, WE’RE the ones that have to be trained how to spot them or face eviction. Um. Hi. Ten years hospitality, know the chems, just need the license to operate the giant heater thing that kills them. I THINK I’M GOOD.

To add insult to injury, the spot where I’ve been talking about the mold on the ceiling that totally blew, leaking and flooding my clothes and a TV, is turning an unsavory color. It continues to smell of old meat and paint and now has a jagged, small maw-like opening. It also looks vaguely like where Morpha spawns in Ocarina of Time and I don’t think I like that.  At least if it leaks again, it will go straight for the improvised bucket and not for the replacement television, which is just the one from when I first moved in. Thanks to growing up in one of those houses that had a garbage bag full of garbage bags, the garbage situation is no situation at all.

But, this one room, buggy, drippy, flood, faulty fridgey experience that so disproportionately affects PoC of low income (because really, why would you WANT this) costs thirty percent of what little bit one makes a month before food, meds, bills. If you’re lucky (?) you’re in bad enough shape that you might get help with one or two of those, but chances are if the meds are the thing you’re getting help with, you’re not going to be getting a lot of hours. And assets? Forget it. Too much of those and you’re outta there, without your income having gone up… So where can you go?

So you report bug after bug, construction failures after failures, until management is turned over, futilely treating your little one room for the biters as you go, making a mental note to save enough money for food and that one med that your healthcare coverage doesn’t cover, the one you were stuck without for two months because it’s been that slow.

And now… A nap. I don’t know if it’s the fumes or all the lifting I had to do to manually remove those red flats—same bug as cimex lectularis—but I am exhausted a mere hour from waking up and spraying the place, and the hernia area is in violent spasm. I can do laundry and yell at management in an hour.