The Recent Omission of My Truth

I recently removed several of my posts because I’m job hunting and applying to graduate school. I know that this blog will cause great detriment to my chances of being admitted to my graduate program of choice and receiving the necessary funding as well as being offered employment. I’ve had so much taken from me over the years that I can’t bear the thought of loosing more so I gave in to the -isms of the world and removed my reality with the hopes of moving forward. I’m now on my third week of mind numbing pain that has now kick started my depression and I say “fuck it”! This is who I am and this is my life and if an employer or graduate school is too blinded by their own ableism to see my intelligence, dedication, and worth then it’s simply not a place I want to be. My previous posts are going back up.

Another note, I’m now seeing a Rheumatologist. My hands and wrists have decided join the chronic pain party. As a result of this and other health issues several of my doctors suspect that I may have an autoimmune disease. Yippee. One more obstacle to overcome. As if I needed more.

In the meantime I’m searching for part-time, temporary jobs, studying for the GRE because my scores from my previous test are now invalid, applying to policy grad programs and funding streams, am an Organizer for an anti-racist group, and am now on a programming committee for a local abortion doula organization and am half-way through my doula training.

I’m fighting like hell to keep going as if my life isn’t over, but there are some days when the pain is so intense that it’s impossible to find a shred of hope. I suppose that continuing to write openly and honestly is one of the ways in which I do that. No one will take that away from me.

I will not omit my truth for you

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Pulling the Plug Before It’s Too Late

May and June are very emotionally charged and gut wrenching months for me. Mother’s Day, the anniversary of my very close friend’s suicide, the last time I tried to kill myself, my mom’s birthday, my Degee’s (my maternal grandma who meant/s the world to me) birthday, my birthday, Father’s day, my father’s birthday, and a few other painful memories to boot. I don’t think even the healthiest of people could make it through two months of those horrible days and their associated miseries without contemplating their death. Since I have chronic health problems-my mortality, short, and long term well being are always on my mind, but it’s especially prevalent right now.

It hit me just a few moments ago that if I don’t kill myself at the right moment in time then I could easily end up a shell of a person. Not only would I be dependent upon someone to completely care for me right down to wiping my ass that I might also not even be able to speak. That last bit never even occurred to me until now. What if I was just a person stuck in a body that didn’t function in any real livable way, but it never died? What if I had to suffer literally unspeakable abuse for countless more years?

I’m loosing my body with every minute of every day, but I’m doing all that I can to keep my mind. All I have left is my mind and my spirit which has been ripped away from me bit by bit. The fucking drugs I take are eroding away my intelligence. My memory is a joke and my focus is shit. Of course none of my doctors want to own up to this. I’m not an idiot though. I know that some of the same meds that keep me going are the same meds that are making me fall apart. I accidentally stumbled upon the fact that the 175mg of Wellbutrin I was prescribed on top of all of my other meds was on were contributing to my sleeplessness (not getting to sleep until at least 5am), my DAILY migraines, and depression. If anyone doesn’t need any of these issues made worse it’s me.

I (I say “I” with emphasis) weened myself off of Wellbutrin and I’m doing better as a result. I’m far from good, but I’m better. My 36th birthday is next week on the 12th and I’m a mess though. I’ll spare all of my sadness, anger, disappointments, and so forth with where I am in my life and just say that I shouldn’t be worrying about when and how to end my life. At (almost) 36 my concern should be how to keep my life going and how to do it with the most joy possible. Instead I’m hedging bets about whether or not my mother will even send a card or a text (Forget calling. That takes effort she’d never put forward) and am terrified about when my body will be so dilapidated that I won’t be able to kill myself for relief from all of my life’s pain.

Happy fucking birthday to me.

Starving for Relief

I’m keeping this short, sweet, and to the point.

I have a lot to write about, but I’m not yet ready to share it. It’s highly painful, infuriating, disempowering, oppressive, and so on. I’m hoping that next month I can share it with the world, but for now it’s my painful burden to carry on my own.

The horrific pain in my life that has swallowed me whole has come to a head. I know revel in physical pain that I can control. It’s so sick and disheartening to me yet I’ve lost almost all hope as to how to handle it all. I’ve barely eaten today and I’m so hungry that I feel horribly sick yet it’s a pain, emotionally and physically, that I have control over (unlike every other source of pain in my life) so I find some pleasure in it. I recognize all the various ways in which this is so unhealthy and fucked up, but years of asking for, pleading for help have led me nowhere. I’m truly beginning to wonder if I might be better off cycling off my psych meds and getting the hell out of therapy.

I came to terms years ago with my need for meds, but I’m so disgusted with the Western, white, male, patriarchal, racist, colonialistic, heternormative/sexist, ableistic, elitist clinical model of psych care that I’m just done with it all. If one person tells me that I’m bi because I was raped or fetishizes me because I’m Native or ignores my medical needs as a disabled poor person, or threatens to institutionalize me because I have the audacity to talk about, and ask for help, regarding my PTSD, I might loose my mind! To hell with these oppressive assholes! They know not a damn thing about what’s best for me or anyone else!

I don’t know the answers to anything anymore nor do I have much hope in how to cope with my life. I just know that for now being so hungry that I’m in pain simply feels right.

A Little Sexual Healing for this (Disabled) Body

I’ve written about a wide array of personal topics on this blog that are often considered taboo, but I’ve yet to broach the topic of my sex life. It occurred to me tonight that it’s time for me to get on that, figuratively speaking of course.

I’d like to say that I haven’t allowed my health problems to alter my sex life, but that would be an out right lie. The extreme stress in my life, the constant doctors’ appointments, managing my meds, fighting with insurance companies and various healthcare providers all while feeling horrible hasn’t left me with a great deal of energy, or desire, to make the magic happen. My first problem being “where am I going to meet someone?” Perhaps I can flirt with my Gastroenterologist as we’re discussing the ongoing battle with gastrointestinal system. I don’t know about you, but nothing gets me hotter than talk of the side effects of a slow digesting stomach. I suppose I could always make the circuit through the patient waiting rooms. “Why hello there. I see you have a cane. Just what sort of naughty fun did you get up to need that?” That’s one way to kill the time while waiting for the doctor.

Now let’s assume that through some miracle I’ve found someone attractive that doesn’t make me want to gag them half-way through a first date cocktail. Now I need to find the mental, emotional, physical energy, and ability to trust and relate to this person enough to share myself with them. HA! These days I feel so skittish I’m afraid to look the grocery store checkout clerk in the eyes. Maybe I’m over doing it a tad, but I’m finding it more difficult to truly connect with people with every passing year. I seem to be unique and I have multiple identities that make conformity (not that I care to conform) impossible. I don’t fit in with most people unless I fake it. I can fake it well when necessary, but I refuse to spend my precious last bits of energy that I reserve for my personal life on people I can’t truly cherish and embrace, let alone with someone that spends their days supporting the imperialistic systems of oppression that make my life harder. As one can imagine I don’t go on a lot of second dates.

We’ll jump ahead and say that I found this great person that I can trust, blah, blah, blah. This then leads to other issues that have sprung up over the last several years. My body hurts everywhere! I can’t move like I used to. I have migraines all the time now. The miserable bag of bones I’m forced to exist in refuses to meet all of my desires!

Pull my hair too hard and BAM I have a migraine in 10 seconds or less.

Twist my neck to the left just to meet my shoulder and I’ll have horrible pain shooting through my neck, shoulder, and arm.

If I don’t have pillows positioned under my neck just so then laying on my back is hell.

Oh you want me on top you say? I love that! Too bad I have the knees of a 70-year-old and can’t last for very long.

You get the drift. I’ve managed to find ways to make it all work and still have an active and incredibly pleasurable sex life, but it just hasn’t felt free. Going beyond all of the issues of abuse, societal stigma, possible pregnancy and STI/STDs, and the difficulty finding the right connection I think it all comes down to me simply hating my body.

I came to terms with my looks long ago and eventually even found myself sexy, but that’s all changed with the worsening of my health issues. I gained a lot of weight due to the steroids and other treatments the doctors’ had placed me on. I was no longer able to stay active so I couldn’t counteract the weight gain. I went from having flawless skin to having painful and ugly rosacea that I still constantly fight to keep under control. My nails became like paper, always splitting and tearing despite my efforts. My hair began to thin. After three knee surgeries I was left with several scars on both knees. You have to have one hell of an ego on you to feel beautiful when you’re watching your body fall apart before your eyes. It’s one thing to feel awful, but it’s an entirely different situation to look as awful as you feel.

Like many things in (my) life, finding the way towards a healthy and amazing sex life that wakes the entire block up has been a battle. I have moments of hope though. Like the incredible date that I had a few months back where he was so desirous of me that he picked up and put me on my kitchen counter. Now THAT was hot! I’m not a size 2 nor do I feel as beautiful as in the past, but I am still wanted and I can still have mind altering sex.

Another moment of hope came today when I had some quality me time. After I had fulfilled my needs I was left feeling completely relaxed and free of pain. A few tears escaped my eyes when I realized how good my body felt. I’ve become so accustomed to feeling wretched that I couldn’t remember-if I ever knew to begin with-what it was like to feel light, to feel free, to feel good. It was an incredible reminder/lesson that despite all of the litany of pain, stress, anxiety, and depression that I carry with me every day my body is still capable of feeling joy.

There Simply is No Catchy Title to Give

When I decided to create this blog I told myself that I would not use it as a forum to critique events, political or otherwise, unless I felt that they had a direct impact on me and my path to wellness. This has been difficult for me because I can see the impact on myself in many of life’s events, but I’ve tried to keep this blog in the direct state of I. These last few weeks, however, have left me in an emotional land of limbo where I’m simply not sure if this Alice will ever wake up.

I am still, one month later, in a state of disbelief that not one, but two bombs went off on Marathon Monday. It seems unreal to me that the city that I have always viewed as one of the cleanest and safest of the urban landscapes I’ve called home was also home to people that would cause such destruction and devastation. It’s no secret that there is no love lost between Boston and I, but overall I’ve felt much safer here than in other cities I’ve lived. The finish line area of the Boston Marathon is in a neighborhood that I love and the idea of peoples’ limbs flying through the air and lives taken there is just too ghastly to comprehend. I still have not visited the area.

April 19th was another shocking day for those of us in Boston. I awoke to find out that my neighborhood of Brighton, the neighboring areas, and the city of Watertown were on lockdown due to an early morning carjacking, a bomb throwing and gun fight with the suspected bombers, and the search for Dzhokhar Tsarnaev. This all led to the injury of MBTA Police Officer Richard Donahue, Jr. and the death of MIT Police Officer Sean Collier and suspected terrorist Tamerlan Tsarnaev.

The entire city of Boston was eventually placed on lock down with baited breath full of fear. For me this made the memories of 9-11 and the Oklahoma City bombing come rushing to the surface of my consciousness. I was living in Los Angeles when 9-11 occurred and the planes that struck the towers were bound for LA. I recall LA was rather still and quiet that day as well. I was 15 and living in Abilene, TX when the OKC bombing occurred. Being an Okie though it felt as if the bomb went off in my own backyard. Despite these personal links to such horrid acts of terrorism I had never been directly in the panic zone before. I spent most of the 19th watching the news and giving updates on Facebook. The one positive that came from this tragedy-what a trite, smug, and maddening descriptor to be left with-was that I heard from friends I hadn’t spoken to in ages. Their outreach of concern was a nice reminder that I’m loved.

Eventually the lockdown was lifted and the T-slang for the MBTA system- began to run again. I did not leave my apartment until much later that night.

Part Two to come.