For the past few days—probably because it’s been close to the anniversary of the dumpage—my ex has been on my mind.
Don’t worry, I’m OK, nothing drastic is about to happen nor is it in any way shape or form risky. What’s been on my mind are the things about me that probably would have gotten me out of the “relationship” even without the circumstances that there were.
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.
This is my Confession 2: Comforts.
There are things I will compromise on, but in the winter there is one thing I will not compromise on, and that is the chance to have at least one nog on the rocks.
No rum. There is only one kind of rum I liked and all I can remember is that it was kind of weak.
I’m not supposed to be consuming alcoholic things right now, anyway.
This is my brand. I’m going to enjoy it while I can.
A nog on the rocks a night. A nice thing I can have at night… With a digestive aid of course. This isn’t lactose free.
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.
I’m self taught.
Yet, I have the audacity to call myself a photographer.
I started from the bottom. Mom’s old film camera and B&W film and things in the backyard. When things went digital I experimented with the things she taught me using an entry level digital camera. It was like going back to class—which is a funny story. The primer she gave me over the years was so thorough that I was summarily booted from one intro class. I already knew the material inside and out. Unfortunately, the class I needed was two hundred dollars above my pay grade.
So I turned to books, articles, and the good old street beat. From instant Polaroid, to Kodak point and shoot, to now, I’ve gone from simply trying to catch what is in front of me to actively trying to blur the line between record and art.
But it didn’t happen overnight. I had to start somewhere.
So This is a Hangover. Not a fan.
At Dad’s place with a cup of his “Hangover Coffee.”
I’m not doing so hot on my first booze hangover.
The first mistake was to drink four beers an hour in response to the flashbacks. You fix that shit with BENADRYL, dammit!
The second was the Michelob. That stuff is terrible. Starts off promising and turns into Dr. Bronner’s Tea Tree Oil Castile Soap on the finish—you can brush your teeth with it but don’t drink it.
(Note: DON’T DO THIS. This entire thing is a cautionary tale.)
I vacated the place a day later and hung over. It’s my first alcohol hangover… And that is why I made the Third Mistake of being hung over: I drank a glass of plain water.
…The reason they give people coffee for hangovers in the movies isn’t because it’s going to sober up people sooner. It’s because water hits the stomach like ice gravel and it’s coming right back up. LITERALLY DRINK ANYTHING BUT PLAIN WATER. Dr. Bronner’s Tea Tree Oil Castile Soap would be a better experience.
Did you know that if you don’t eat the next day that hangover isn’t going away? Yeah, neither did I. That’s why the Hangover Coffee. I STILL haven’t eaten… Not counting the meclizine tablets.
Stuff retrieval is imminent. Not sure about money or anything yet… Dad has suggested a certain nausea remedy, since the coffees aren’t killing it. I’ll take it.
…it occurs to me that I’ve not explained. Soon.
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…