Three in the godsdamn AM.

Current music 🎶 : Avenue of Shapes— Robin Guthrie and Harold Budd

I can’t sleep.

Today at the doctor’s office, I walked in looking for an answer to the narcolepsy and blood sugar episodes that have been growing more and more frequent and disruptive. When I described just a few of them, and exactly how they manifested — the ones that came on when I was feeling at my most wide awake especially bugged me — I saw a look of intense concern flash across my doctor’s face.

It’s never a good thing when your doctor loses his poker face.

He broke out his stethoscope then, and instructed me to do the deep breathing thing.

After this, he told me that this did not sound like narcolepsy OR blood sugar — though yes, my hypoglycemia is being a problematic little bitch. (My words.)

This is cardiac.

“… oh.”

Everything between that and “You’ll need to call the hospital to arrange to pick up a monitor to wear for a few days” is a complete fucking blank. I’ve been in shock since 4:30.

I’m supposed to be up for work in two hours.


Ack Bats.

One of the more interesting symptoms of my mental illness is that I have hallucinations.

Well, had—my meds were finally adjusted to keep those in check.

But the interesting thing about them was that they were…just like, bats.


They didn’t really do much besides… well, be bats. They just hung around. Everywhere. Sometimes one would get too close to my face and I’d flinch. Try explaining that to Joe Passerby.

Adjusting to life without the bats was strange. I’d gotten to a point where I couldn’t remember life without bats. But they went, and I was free.

Peripheral vision was suddenly actually something useful, at least.

The BDD Demon.

Today, my BDD was out in full force.

Sitting on the bus, a voice in my head repeated: “Fattie. Fattie. What happened? You were so good last week. One piece of toast a day! You can do it again! Maybe half! Do you want to stay like this? Fattie? Look at yourself. Fattie.”

It was all I could do to not scream “SHUT UP!” at the voice in my head.

The trigger?

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in a shiny surface.

There is a reason why I don’t own a mirror big enough to see my body.

It took some mental wrangling to get myself to eat when I got home. Hell, I’m still hungry. But I’m also trying to shut that voice up again so I can eat in peace.

I mean, I was too sick to eat last week and the voice HEAPS PRAISE on that

It’s not easy. It’s not simple.

But it’s everyday.

… I better eat so I won’t get sick again.

Thank you based Science—anything but a convenience.

Temperature: 55°F. Weather: Mostly Clear.

As usual we begin with a rant

Again, thank you very much, Father, for going back off the deep end and showing me just how callous you can be about things. It’s really telling that you were literally the last person to ask how I was after my procedures.

He didn’t show up to provide a ride, as he’d promised he would; luckily, I had already planned for this eventuality. My aunt also had a total flake moment; she’d sided with his “science is just a convenience and we don’t really need it” remark, and took personal offense that I hadn’t taken her offer of being over her place after the procedures and being there ore. First off, if she’d been where I had gotten my “sit around” ride, she couldn’t have babysat as she’d been doing all day; second, I don’t know the layout of her house; third, most importantly, she doesn’t have a car. The place would not have performed the procedure if I had not had an actual ride.

Both of those would have put me out $200.

Having backup in place weeks in advance wasn’t distrust on my part. It was fucking smart.

Meanwhile in Nowhereland

The procedures went, from what I hear, smoothly. The doctor had me knocked completely the hell out for both of them. I remember a needle of stuff in my IV that made my legs very heavy, followed by being wheeled into the room where the procedures and told to turn on my left side, but hey, what the fuck is movement, and, you know this bed is really feeling like a marshmallow like now?

The next thing I’m aware of I’m back out in the first room, the first doctor asking me how I was feeling.

I had…a lot of nonsensical gibberish there. I had no idea what was going on.

“Need a Coke?”

THAT, I understood. Three minutes into the Coke I understood things again. It was time for the information…

And the Verdict Is—

That I don’t have anything lethal! …that we know of. The doctor calls me with pathology results in two weeks.

That’s the good news!

The bad news is that SOMEFUCKINGHOW, on top of lifelong IBS I’ve acquired a case of GERD that has progressed so far that it has not only inhibited nutritrient absorption and retention in my body (hence the ridiculous weight loss), but also progressed far enough that it’s started wrecking the lower half of my digestive system, which is why the painful brick acid sensation in my guts—and the back spasms I’ve been having have been quieted by the Bentyl because they had nothing to do with my back: yes, it is in fact more of my gut attacking me.

My entire digestive tract has been reduced to one raw, throbbing mass of meat. We can’t call it an ulcer because that would imply a single isolated location of bad. It has no protection and can’t heal on its own. For the next five months I’m going to be on ridiculously strong medications that are going to reduce my stomach to a very, very non-adventurous blob. It’ll take five days for THOSE to kick in.

So far, so good…at least for the next two weeks.