I feel like maybe I need to get out of the house more because I’m becoming a hypochondriac. I’ve always had hypochondriatic tendencies, but now without a real job to be annoyed with I have too much time to marinate of wether or not the twinge I felt in my finger means I will have imminent joint collapse in my old age.
I did get out of the house one evening in July to see one of my favorite authors, Neil Gaiman, speak at the opera house downtown. He didn’t sing operatic arias, which was a bit of false advertising given the venue, but he was English as fuck and told the most spectacular stories. It made me jealous of his children. How I would have loved to listen to the bedtime stories they must have grown up being told.
Neil was great, but the best part was getting to the show. On the way downtown my mom and I stopped at a jewish deli, which is hard to find in Texas, and gorged on cured meats and strudel. Then we got stuck in traffic and the most wondrous thing happened. Mom points out the car window and starts laughing the snorty kind of laugh she does when something really tickles her. I look over and see:
I mean really, that’s just ancillary signage. You have to respect the land lord that allowed his building to be turned into a giant phallus. I also adore my mother for being the first person in the car to point and laugh at it. She’s my hero.
So yeah, I should probably get out more. I would worry less and perhaps find more X-rated architecture, if I’m lucky.
Waiting is hard. Over the years I have developed a several coping mechanisms for your normal, average, everyday waiting. For instance, I never leave home without a sock to knit shoved into my purse. That takes care of those DMV lines or a wait at the nail salon. You get a few strange looks as you juggle five needles while appearing to be crafting a tube out of yarn, but other than that sock knitting is a proven winner for many waits.
Sometimes larger weapons, such as books, are deployed. Books are super because they keep my brain from thinking all the anxious thoughts for a while. Thus when waiting for something that may be painful such as a full body wax or a doctor’s appointment they are ideal. Books are even more handy dandy now that they fit inside my phone. As an added bonus no one stares anymore because now they can’t see the cover of the hobbit filled, world on the back of a turtle shell, modern day wizarding, or dragon and fairy based fiction I choose to read. Win. Win.
Not all waiting is dispensed with so easily though. Right now I am waiting for some test results. You know the kind. The ole, you could be just fine, or you could be harboring a hideous and fatal disease, kind of test results. Of course they are also the kind of results that take entirely too much time to come in. The worst part is once the results are in you have to wait again to get an appointment to come in to have said results revealed to you by the every busy and time crunched doctor. There is no book or sock for this kind of waiting.
Instead I peel the skin from my fingers until they are bloody, or graze on food all day long. I binge watch television in the background, and force myself to clean the house. But despite all that I can still feel a festering anxiety in my gut reminding me that none of my tactics are really working. I’m still nervous. No way around it this time.
I suffer from chronic foot in mouth disease, which is basically an affliction causing me to vigorously shove my own foot into my mouth using only my words. It afflicts me more than I would like to admit.
I find myself constantly saying shit and then realizing I have inadvertently insulted someone. Or worse, I give an opinion only to recognize that I have horrified everyone in the room, or I instantly look foolish as said opinion is promptly ruled ridiculous by the party at large. This leads me to believe I should never, ever say what I am thinking because somehow it is always wrong. It is also the reason I don’t like leaving my house; when I am sent into the wild there is no telling what will spew from my lips. Probably a foot, actually, as chances are I have already managed to shove it in there.
It seems safer just to shut up and never say anything out loud. Once I have shoved my foot in my mouth I feel so terrible that I want to crawl in a hole and die. This ins and outs of interpersonal communication baffle me. Just when I think I’m doing ok I say some shit and then commence the sleepless night replaying it in my head and cringing. Nothing I can say can make anything better. It totally blows.
I just want to be a good person, but it is really hard to exist with my mouth taped shut.
Yesterday I went on an adventure and had a craniosacral therapy session. I went thinking it was going to be a regular old “rub me down until I am loose like cooked spaghetti” massage. It was not. Apparently it is a kind of massage where the therapists manipulates the synarthrodial joints of the cranium. This is supposed to flush your body of the toxins in your cerebrospinal fluid. Now my pervious understanding was that all you had to do to flush the toxins was to sleep and your body would woosh away all the bio-trash. According to the therapist that is true but stress and inflammation can cause your systems to struggle to do this on their own. This was all news to me. But ever the curious patient I let her have a go and treat me.
Instead of rubbing down my muscles Swedish style, the therapist moved my head about and pressed her fingers around on my face. It was not unlike what you see blind people do when meeting a new person in the movies. Then she fussed with my lower back. At one point she was cradling me on the table like a giant baby with one hand under my head and the other positioned precariously under my bum-ish area. I managed to stifle my laughter at the bizarreness of it all and surprisingly the session did seem to clear my sinuses. And to be totally honest I felt a little taller when I stood up at the end.
Then when I got home I looked craniosacral therapy up on Wikipedia. It unfortunately falls into the category of pseudo-medicine and its benefits are labeled as placebo. Oops! It was relaxing, but I think I prefer plain old massage to having my cerebrospinal fluid cleared. Live and learn…live and learn.
My husband has had a cold for three days, and I think I am going to die. I am trying to be patient, but he doesn’t even look sick. I haven’t heard a sniffle or a cough. Instead I just hear whining about how awful he feels. I frequently walk into a room to find him wrapped like a granny in blankets laying listlessly in the fetal position staring at a flashing television screen. It’s pitiful.
Perhaps I would have more patience for him were I not on day 42 of a never ending period. Yup, it seems my uterus has thrown in the towel, said “fuck it”, and decided on her own accord to shrivel up and die.
To combat my offending lady bits I have been on massive doses of estrogen that the doctor hoped would fix the problem. Unfortunately all the hormone seems to have done is made my boobs feel like open flesh-wounds, cause unrelenting nausea, and washed away any inkling of patience I once possessed. So basically I am a grumpy, bleeding, bitch.
This does not bode well for a sick husband.
I already like 2017 better because my short ass fingers can type it easier on the keyboard because the 7 is like a whole space closer to the right than the 6 was. Yet another reason 2016 can die in a fire.
In other news, last night I was plagued by a cake frosting related injury. At least I am pretty sure that was the cause. After a day flinging the frosting I came home and became paralyzed. Ryan says I don’t understand what that word means, but I am pretty sure I am using it correctly. My entire upper right side was stiff and painfully reminded me it did not want to move. It even hurt to lay on a pillow for god’s sake! My neck, shoulders, and right arm seemed to be revolting to my new bakery life. I had a stern inner monologue with them and explained the need to chill out and get used to the extra usage. I think it worked. Sometimes you just have to show your own body who’s boss.
I over dosed a little on over the counter pain killers and I am happy to report this morning I can turn my head to the right without screaming. That’s progress! For those of you wondering, yes, I maintain my stance on bakery life—Still better than teaching!!!
I am getting older. So far it has been going ok, if you ignore the early onset arthritis I got at 29 and the missing body parts the doctors have had to remove. Other than that, I’ve been fine.
However, yesterday I was laying in bed and I was looking at my pasty white legs. I noticed a few more spider veins than usual. Ugh. Another side effect of aging.
That is about the time I got pissed. WTF! Why the hell don’t spider veins come with some sort of superpower. Spiderman gets to shoot webs from his wrists and swing around New York. I get nothing but the possibility of a massive bill from a dermatologist to correct things.
I cry sexism! If men got spider veins more than women, I bet there would naturally be some sort of super power attached. This is bullshit! If I am going to be turning into a spider from the legs down I deserve compensation. I want to be able to swing around on silk, or maybe climb walls, or even just have the ability to bite someone that pisses me off. I’m not picky.
I hate you. My face is swollen from the inside out. I am not positive, but I also think a tiny elephant may have moved in behind my eyes and is now trying to escape with a pick-axe. I blame you, ragweed!
Some parts are dripping while others seem to be completely sealed and stuffed up. For the love of god how can one stupid little plant reap such horrors.
Ragweed, I want you to know I have googled your ass and now I have your embarrassing photos. I’m talking nudie pics of you, all naked stalks and leaves. Pics of you looking all sorts of voluptuous flaunting your pollen. Go away or I am going to send them to your mom! Yeah, that’s right, how do you like them apples?
Ugh. I’m desperate.
I wish I weren’t rattled by the small things. Swear to god, you change one little thing in my world and I mentally flip into an inner panic reason cannot fight.
Recently I decided it would be a great idea to dog sit. My husband has been wanting to get a dog, and I figured this would be a great way for us to have a trial run. NEVER LET ME DO THIS AGAIN.
I spent the last five days in anxious turmoil. Everything was wrong. The house smelled different. The dog wanted attention. It made weird sounds. Food and water were spilled. I had to venture outside to let the dog pee. My cats were upset.
Those are all really small things. Rationally I knew that, but for the life of me I could not get the message to my head. Instead my brain produced constant tides of anxiety rocking back and forth inside me. My life went completely on hold while I simmered in an anxious sea. I was unable to concentrate on anything beyond the knot being thrown about by waves in my stomach. Writing was on hold, dishes piles up, laundry went undone, books unread, it was awful.
Last night the dog went home. Slowly the knot inside me is unravelling. As I start to feel better I can’t help but feel life shouldn’t have to be so hard. It seems like little things like a house smelling different shouldn’t throw me for such a giant loop. Having water spilled in the kitchen shouldn’t cause me to crawl onto the couch and sit in the fetal position.
I know anxiety was just the card I was dealt, but sometimes I want to cry mulligan call for another shuffle. But then again, if I didn’t have my anxiety I wouldn’t be me, and that makes me incredibly anxious too. So I guess anxiety and I are just stuck together.
I have always struggled with anxiety. It isn’t like I had a sad childhood; I was just kind of perpetually nervous. I remember spending Sunday evenings crying in bed because I was afraid of going to school the next day. I didn’t want to mess up on classwork, loose my lunch box, have no one to play with, I panicked when I did something wrong, and I had a horrific fear of having to go to the bathroom at school. You know typical kid stuff.
My worries just sort of always tagged along behind me like a beast on a leash. Occasionally they would hold me back from doing something like watching a movie. I have a double edged sward when it comes to movies. I tend to really get inside them when I watch. I loose myself if the story. It was wonderful because it was escapism at is best. It made me fall in love with visual storytelling so much that I majored in it in college.
But it was also a big problem. There were some movies that build up my ever-present anxiety to monstrous levels. You would think it would have been horror movies, but no for me it was movies like Planes, Trains, and Automobiles or Airplane. I realize both of these movies were intended to be comedies. To me they were anxiety provoking, panic inducing, hellish movies. I still struggle to watch them even as an adult.
I live in a mind that is constantly showing me pictures of the worst case scenario of things going dreadfully wrong. When I watch movies in which things are going to hell in a hand basket my anxiety level goes up exponentially. It is like feeding steroids to my anxiety beast. The beast gets so big that he squishes me by sitting on my chest and farting just to show me who’s the boss. It is decidedly unpleasant.
As an adult, I have learned to wiggle out from under the anxiety beast pretty well. Most of the time I can switch the channel or talk myself down. On occasion he still gets a hold of me before I realize what is happening. That is when my family and friends have to come in and pull me out from under the bastard, and yes, I still avoid those movies.