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.
Until now I have refrained from commenting on the state of American politics. It isn’t because I don’t have a position (I do).
It’s because I’m completely terrified of where it’s going.
The nation managed to elect a wholly inexperienced, morally and multiply financially self-proclaimed billionaire to the highest office in the land, a man who bragged on national television about the enormity of his sexual member and bragged (on a hot mic) about how his fame and fortune lets him do anything that he wants to women, up to “grab[ing] them by the pussy” if the notion struck him. There have been incidents of this happening around the nation now, with the only excuse given that “this is Trump’s America now, we can do that.”
As someone who is equipped at present with the aforementioned anatomy, that’s terrifying.
Further, all of his picks for cabinet positions all are unqualified for the positions he’s put them in—it’s like he’s playing a matching game and the only matching he’s doing is to match the least qualified to the office position. But that’s not even the scariest thing about it. There’s a pattern and until recently, it went unnoticed.
Enter Jeff Sessions, a Dominionist Christian who doesn’t believe in the separation of church and state and wants to bring the church’s system into every decision that is brought down. Suddenly, everything is on the table. The governnent is in the bedrooms again, the operating room, the OB-GYN clinic…and this man is even worse than the usual of this sort because he’s been on the side of racists before, having been caught saying he was ok with the KKK until he found out they smoked weed. I don’t care if he said it as a joke…that isn’t a joke that you make in today’s America, when half of America is looking over its shoulder for someone wanting them dead for the color of their skin or the god they pray to.
The next four years will be truly terrifying for me and other People of Color, gender minorities, the disabled, the infirm—and those like me who lie on the border of all of these axes.
All we can do is raise our voices and march, give this new government the “hell no” it needs to hear while we still can.
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.
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 have serious trouble detecting sarcasm in written word. As a result I tend to use the emoticons/emoji in written communications when I engage. It makes conveying tone in text difficult. Studies—albeit small ones—have shown that ending a sentence with a period conveys a hostile tone—something I rarely intend to do.
My “proper” structure, therefore, comes across as hostile without meaning to.
I therefore use emoticons/emoji to ensure that the proper tone comes through in my written text. But I have received push back for this as well. I was dismissed as “just some memeing girl.”
There are several things wrong with that statement but that’s for another time.
If anyone has a problem with this, it’s on them… Not me. I know me weaknesses. I know how to compensate.
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.
”If that triggered you then you must have a hard time leaving the house because it’s everywhere”
Yes. I do.
Your flip, assumed-cutesy dismissal is right.
It’s everywhere, and it took years of therapy, more than one trip to the loony bin, and a daily cocktail of drugs to help me even get out of the house. It, as you said is everywhere.
Do you, o flippant one, have the right to know what precisely It is? I think no. You’ve really enough today—Including an attempted game of oneupsmanship bordering on the “not-all” and “splaining” playbooks.
Your input was unneeded and unhelpful.
And you should do better.