Diary of a Mad Woman

See these spiral-bound journals? Five of them 300 pages each? Full. I’ve written 1500+ pages in five years. That’s at least five books (or one Infinite Jest-length tome). I don’t dare read them. I know what I’ll find. Despair, hate, sadness, loneliness, and anger, peppered with lyrics, quotes, entreaties, pleas, and promises to let go, move on, forgive, forget, live, love, and write–to write being the most important. For me, writing is a means of letting go, moving one, forgiveness, forgetting, living, and loving myself, then all others. I can’t imagine telling someone that their 1500+ pages don’t count because they’re not published! Why do we treat ourselves so badly?

I beat myself up everyday. Call myself a fat, lazy fuck. Procrastinator. Horrid word. The world’s population could line up and, one by one, call me a cunt and spit in my face. I’d laugh at them. Call or treat me like worthless waste of space, however, and “Hello, psych ward.” The worst bit is that I care what you think of me. Everyday I must re-learn not giving a shit what you think of me, or what I think you think of me. It’s exhausting to care so much about the wrong things.

I won’t rehash the reasons behind my lifelong war to like and love myself. I’m sick of writing about them, reliving them, and allowing them power over me. Sovereignty. I came across that word yesterday while re-reading Thich Nhat Hanh’s How to Relax. How easily I’ve gifted my sovereignty to others. No wonder I feel out of control, panicky, and overwhelmed. Teetering on madness. I risk losing the hard-earned patience and inner peace I gained such a short time ago. It scares me and I won’t stand for it.

Today, I, a writer of many books, write in my journal and here. For nobody else but me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Return of the Klonopin Junkie

My response to a recent article on a study that showed the resilience of twins who had suffered trauma. Perhaps you’ll understand why I wasn’t impressed by the study upon reading it (link and comment below).

http://www.psypost.org/2016/01/people-bounce-back-after-traumatic-experiences-twin-study-says-40231

This is a misleading article title as the author notes the major weaknesses of the study. I was physically and emotionally abused and neglected as a child. Five-plus years of weekly therapy (2010-14) and powerful antidepressant and anxiety meds, though certainly helpful (the meds, for a few years but now don’t help; in the process of weaning off them; difficult), hasn’t rid me of the traumatic memories and the frustrating and useless bouts of anger and irrational behavior (verbally lashing out at abuser).

I’m reading a book that’s making a lot of sense to me, The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma, by Bessel Van Der Kolk, M.D. I should add that since childhood I have developed several auto-immune disorders–ezcema, allergies, hyper- and hypothyroidism, Rheumatoid Arthritis, Sjogren’s Syndrome, as well as being diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder, Generalized Anxiety Disorder and Chronic Suicidal Ideation. What all of these illnesses have in common? Chronic inflammation as a major cause. And what’s a major cause of chronic inflammation? Chronic stress, something I’ve lived with my entire life.

Do I think my childhood trauma is behind these health issues? Yes. I suffer from PTSD, not the mental disorders listed above. And the very activities I’ve been drawn to from childhood to now–acting, writing, dance, yoga, meditation, a vegan lifestyle (before drug weaning I doubled my dark, leafy greens intake after reading about certain foods positive effect on mood and mine vastly improved within 24 hours which means the drugs had me baseline functioning in life)–all of which made me flourish and played a part in the happiest times of my life, were and continue to be looked down upon by already unsupportive family members.

I’m not eschewing all Western medicine but I’ve grown wary of what are now called “psychopharmacologists,” shrinks who write scripts for powerful, dangerous (in regards to side effects on them and through weaning process), ineffective drugs to millions of people, many of whom have suffered trauma that don’t heal through mainstream APA methods (that make the APA and BigPharma very wealthy, coincidentally). I highly recommend Van Der Kolk’s book for anyone who’s suffered trauma and struggling to maintain a semblance of a healthy, vibrant life.

CAN WE TAWKIFY? IT’S RAINING MEN WAS IN A “CONE OF UNCERTAINTY” THAT ALL CAME TO NOTHING

Did you see that on weather.com? Erika, a recent “hurricane to be,” was in a “Cone of Uncertainty.” Have you heard of a more ridiculous way of saying, “We’ve no idea what she’s gonna do?” I wrote it down in my journal so I wouldn’t forget it (how could you forget that?) ’cause I knew I’d use it in a blog post someday. And that day’s today!

Why raining men? Well, R, my matchmaker, thought she’d found a real winner for me. Then I heard from the guy in Bangkok. Tweets are exchanged: yes, I worried when I heard about the bombing, I’m fine, you look happy and healthy, indeed, I do think of you, let’s Skype, yes, let’s. Then a vegan guy in my vegan meet up group who’s local (obviously), VEGAN (ditto), into advocacy, runs marathons (it’s a thing I have), enjoys YOGA, very attractive (another thing I have), and the piece de resistance…French (not really a thing but a cool twist), reached out to me about helping him with a first draft of his second short film and offering his help with my long-ago shelved documentary.

It’s raining men, right?

Wrong-o. The real winner got cold feet about the whole matchmaker thing. The guy in Bangkok and I haven’t Skyped and won’t Skype. The hot French, vegan, local, running, yoga-practicing guy? Girlfriend, consultant constantly on the move, and girlfriend. Now we’ve entered what we in the dating world call the “cone of dying alone.”

OK, it wasn’t the end of the world, but tell that to my hair-brained, uh, brain on meds that are obviously nothing more than sugar pills ’cause down the well I fell. Not the best time to email friend or foe so of course I wrote my matchmaker:

Hey R,

Hope you’re enjoying this holiday weekend. I woke up too early again this morning but journaled, made my “want to” list, tea yoga’d (waiting for my tea to steep), and completed Day 14’s 135 squats in my third such 30-Day Challenge (this one with plank challenge too; 90 seconds today–yikes!). Dishwasher’s running, Ziggy threw up for some reason (he’s not a thrower-upper), and breakfast needs to happen soon 😉

I don’t know how many guys you’ve talked to since the “backer-outer” (can you tell I watched a lot of Seinfeld?), or if you’ve talked to any. Half of me is perfectly fine with it as I don’t have any expectations or confidence in meeting “a one” or “the one” here in DC. I love living here but have found a distinct lack in substance or authenticity in DC men. No amount of good looks, degrees, or expensive tailored suits can remedy that.

I find them lazy (at relationships), predictable, and dull. There’s no passion emanating from them, or even in couples I see each day. I spent 13 years with a man who stared at a TV or iPhone screen more than he did me. People spend an inordinate amount of time doing that here. I’m not the least bit interested in that.

So no worries if you don’t find me a match. I’ve gone so long without a man in my life; perhaps the universe is telling me something and I’m just now listening to it.

Peace \/

Pretty pitiful, right? But wait–there’s more!

Oh, I said, “half of me,” didn’t I? Apologies. I grew sleepy as I typed 😉 The other half, well, I don’t think there’s another half. I know you’re supposed to work diligently at picking the best possible matches, but you needn’t bother in my case. I’m way too good for the men in this town. I don’t think you’d find anyone who comes close to wanting the deep, meaningful relationship I long for. Or did. I know, keep an open mind, 43YOV. Just have fun with it. And I will. I’ll be myself, and I’m pretty terrific, and I’ll never hear from them again. 😉 Yes, I go forward with what I’ve learned from Bachelor #1!

There’s plenty in this world that scares me but I’m no coward. And it’s people who scare me the most. People think of DC as a very liberal town; they may vote blue, but they rarely take a stand for anything. This secular calling of mine to get religious leaders to rethink what unconditional love, compassion, and mercy really mean and how they cherry pick who’s worthy of it? If there is a G-d, He’d be appalled by this cowardly, lackadaisical, half-assed interpretation of His gospel. I have a Presbyterian minister so afraid to talk to me in person he lies about offering just that–if I wanted to hear what some of his convictions were and how they at times made their way into his job mission he’d be happy to tell me in person–when I have every email the man and I have exchanged. And when I show him where he stated it, he reinterprets his own writing to squirm out of it yet again.

Obviously, I expected resistance, but this “worthy of a politician” schtick of his does little to strengthen any respect I had for him. And he’s one of four leaders of a 1500+ member Protestant church. He actually admitted that his was a church that took few positions on “issues” like his or mine (creating a faith embracing all creatures): climate change, mental illness, human trafficking, gun violence, “issues” strongly linked to each other. I mean, violence begets violence. I’m not part of a big animal rights/vegan organization who’s got my back. I jumped into this monumental task alone and this doctor of divinity is afraid of me! Christianity may have a stronghold on this country–persecuted, my ass–but it hasn’t a leg to stand on if you dust off the stained glass.

I’m afraid I took a left turn somewhere but I was trying to make a point. If religious leaders in this town won’t teach their congregants to stand against injustice, how many male Tawkify clients will? I think this was what my friend, L, meant when she said I needed a vegan partner. That and being an advocate are a big part of who I am. I’m willing to remain open-minded about meeting non-vegans but it’s often the latter who don’t want to date a vegan.

Are you calling your boss to find a replacement matchmaker for me? LOL. I wouldn’t blame you. I had to get this off my chest come what may 😉 Good luck with me!

It’s at this point I believed I may have indeed gone mad. I was going to Google “madness definition” but got sidetracked by a reply from R:

43YOV!! No! Haha. I love working with you. I’m not going to find a replacement matchmaker unless of course you request one, in which case I will totally respect your decision. I know that it’s easy to get discouraged on a day to day basis particularly with the dating landscape of DC. The funny thing is, I have several clients there and they all say the same thing–that a lot of people get focused on where you went to school, status, that sort of thing, and get locked into repeating patterns. I think also that although D.C. thinks of itself as very liberal–there is much of it that is buttoned up and conservative or more to the middle than it would like to believe. This is of course challenging, but nothing is impossible. I know you’re keeping an open mind–so definitely keep that up! It’s the toughest thing to ride the balance between thinking of possibilities in the world without getting too focused or hung up on a certain set of ideals. You’ve got this though! 🙂

I screened another guy last week who I thought to be a great possibility but ruled him out because although he respects vegan lifestyles, he grew up with his dad teaching him about guns, and has some as family heirlooms, and doesn’t rule out the possibility of using them for hunting later on, and I don’t think you two will mesh well based on that.

I did, however screen a guy yesterday who I’m vibing pretty well with who I think could be a great possibility for your next date. Let’s have a call soon and I’ll tell you about him. 🙂

D.C. may be particularly tough for dating, but I also think much of the world is tough, particularly if you’re a strong, capable woman who knows what you want in life. That is certainly intimidating for a lot of men, and it’s a tough thing to contend with, going out there and dating. I think a big challenge is knowing how to be confident in that while also giving someone else room to be themselves too, and letting them teach you something about life or about yourself as you do the same with them, whether or not they realize it!

We’re going to see a movie today I’m really excited about, it’s inspired by the book the Prophet by Khalil Gibran. Have you read it? Let’s discuss next time I talk to you. I have to go now and have a shower and get ready for the movie–my mother is really excited about it too.

I’ve also been brainstorming what would be a good match for you because you’re so much like me–but the men I tend to be the most crazy about are nothing like me. I seek out friends who are like me, but lovers are different from me. This may or may not apply to you at all, but it’s certainly food for thought.

We shall talk soon.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lwQbMxDcRGE

-R

Before I wrote this poor girl one last time, the well of despair deepened to the point where I texted my poor mother this:

Bad depression strikes again. I’m fighting it but I’m so tired. No one’s ever going to love me and want to be with me again. I’m going to spend the rest of my life alone. All this love in my my heart wasted. I love you. Don’t call but don’t worry, I’m not going to off myself. Love you muchly.

Of course she texted me and as soon as I read it (dismissing her well-meant but never going to happen suggestion I get a roommate), my feet left the well floor and I began ascending to an “I’m definitely not going to off myself; in fact, the love for my mother’s warming my heart right up there, but let me just write this last email” frame of mind:

Thank goodness you laughed. I can’t believe I sent you those emails! I thought I must’ve gone mad. And bringing up my AR and Christianity “project” and that Reverend–ugh–just cementing my issues with religion, him being so resistant to change, not wanting to upset the status quo. I think it upsets me so because I spent much of my life silent and scared, too, and it hits me that I’m probably not going to change a damn thing; and yet I can’t give up.

And that’s pretty much how I feel about dating. It’s so frustrating that something that I never worried about–finding a guy who liked me–worries the hell out of me now. I’m not 25 and life speeds by so quickly and I’ve been alone, lonely, for such a long time. Then I move to the worst dating city in the US knowing deep down, like you wrote, that this place is swarming with a much more conservative populace–and they’re not aware enough to see it! I’m never going to find love in this town.

I throw out all these traits I think I want in a man but what do I know? I’ve had two serious relationships. What did they see in me that nobody else has? Have I really changed at all? And now I’m overthinking everything and I’m miserable and it’s not going to happen here and I’m looking at books with titles like, How To Be Alone and Solitude and pinning knitting patterns; plus start attending this church to covertly spread the true Christian message to 1500 rich nitwits–me, a Bible-bashing agnostic vegan peacenik agitator who gets this zany idea from reading a couple books and now thinks a little knowledge is a dangerous thing.

Anyway, if you think this guy’s Bachelor #2 just call me to tell me where and when. I’ve a new outfit ready and waiting and I’ll be on my best first date behavior (but I’m not touching the bill). 😉

I’ve heard great things about Khalil Gibran. The animation’s lovely. I hope you and your mom loved it. Maybe that should be my next date idea, seeing a movie together. I can’t talk too much, I can see if we laugh at the same scenes, we’re side by side which is where I’d want a guy anyway. Sitting across from each other as strangers and it’s like a debate or competition. Maybe it’s not good to see too much of the other first thing. Maybe checking out one side is better, less stressful, less to process or label or assume, which leaves a little mystery for the so far elusive second date.

Just throwing it out there…sometimes old school works. LOL.

Peace, R \/

Lots of laughter, yeah, right, but I wrote 2216 words today. 2216. 

HEY, ERIC BOLLING: “BOOBS ON THE GROUND,” YOU SAY? HOW ABOUT “A DICK ON THE AIR?”

Jon Stewart is ripping new a**holes left and right as his tenure on The Daily Show draws to a close. Here’s a classic. It’s fucking brilliant .

http://www.dailykos.com/story/2014/09/26/1332519/-Jon-Stewart-to-Eric-Bolling-F-you-and-all-your-false-patriotism?detail=emailclassic

WHAT A COINKYDINK!

I happened upon this “scary but we knew it all along” segment from Last Week Tonight with John Oliver while searching for Sookie and Eric love scenes from True Blood on YouTube. Hey, it’s not porn. It’s HBO porn. And the only men, oh, and one woman, who’ve touched my naked flesh or stuck something in me these last five years were surgeons and radiologists. Shoot, did Dr. Liz or Brian, the other P.A. (incredibly attractive, of course; I swear they get these guys from Central Casting), insert the catheter this time?

Hell, I don’t care. I love my body even if it keeps breaking down on me. Even if I’m the only one. OK, before I belly flop into a pool of pity, my reason behind posting this. I’ll keep it brief now ’cause I feel sick. The timely topic fits in with my and my roomie’s experience in hospital. I, for lung surgery; she, for constipation. I’m discharged with one script for Valtrex that my mom kindly dropped off but I didn’t pick up. Yes, I got a cold sore the day after surgery and they offered it. (FYI–it doesn’t work any better then the lip balm I’ve used for years that my dad picked up at CVS for me that day.) My constipation-free (more on that later; trust me) roomie’s discharged with scripts closing in on double digits, on top of the drugs she’s already taking.

More on all of this later. I need a Motrin.

DOCTORS ARE SERIOUSLY GETTING ON MY TITS

(I’ve wanted to use that English phrase for so long. Score!)

Each morning I fill three journal pages with “stream of consciousness” writing while savoring my first cup of coffee. I never know where my brain and pen will take me. This particular morning, February 4, I am shocked to find the humorous, “Why worry?” take on my upcoming biopsy hides not fear but anger:

“Up” up @ 4:05AM. Not bad except for bleeding shoulder pain. Why won’t anyone do anything about my pain? It hurts to dress, undress, shower, dry off, apply lotion, brush teeth, pick up coffee mug, fill filtered water pitcher, sleep, get out of bed, put on coat, remove coat, put on scarf, remove scarf, do you see where I’m going with this? I’ve lived with debilitating left shoulder pain for two-plus years, several months at a time. RA meds don’t help, four Advil help a little but I’m not supposed to take it. My first rheumy doctor wouldn’t prescribe me any more prescription strength Motrin after I finished off the first bottle. “I can give you a cortisone shot,” he tells me. First of all, I’ve only a 33% success rate with those shots; secondly, what is causing the pain? If we determine the ROOT cause maybe better treatment can be found.

“It’s probably bursitis.” That’s all I get from a doctor specializing in chronic joint pain. No Xray, nothing except one bottle of prescription Motrin (that I used it all rather quickly should’ve told him how debilitating I found the pain. “Crying out” pain, I call it). Only other times I suffered crying out pain were the 3-4 months before knee surgery and the first couple weeks of post-op pain. And I’ve lived with chronic pain for 15+ years.

Now the pain’s so bad it extends up the left side of my neck into my ear. I find that alarming. He didn’t. I’m a writer. A starving writer, but a writer. There are days when I can’t type for the pain. When I’d try and bang out a paragraph, I’d have to lift my left hand off the keyboard with my right. It’s either ice pick pain or a nausea-inducing heavy ache. Am I supposed to just suck it up and endure this “probably bursitis” the rest of my life? Believe me, I don’t want to take painkillers any more than you want to prescribe them (and I know doctors prescribe them less to women than men; oh yes, women are hypochondriacs and it’s probably PMS or depression (!!) or fatigue–I wish doctors knew the definition of fatigue, btw–the lame old double standard still exists well into the 21st century), but have I mentioned how DEBILITATING this pain is?

“Oh, but more people are addicted to prescription drugs than street drugs.” And whose fault is that? The same people who overprescribe Lipitor when it doesn’t work ’cause they’re pressured by BigPharma. Or Vitamin E supplements. Because in medical school they’re taught to put an expensive pharmaceutical band aid on the problem without determining the ROOT cause. And so because of faulty schooling and overprescribing drugs that don’t work or, oops, kill people, patients suffering from debilitating chronic pain that negatively affects every area of life must go without. Or be accused of being a junkie–twice. Within a month. Brilliant!

It took my pharmacist and I 5-6 days to get a refill for levothyroxine–hardly Percocet–from one of two doctors. It may come as a surprise but MY time is as valuable as yours. And as someone who also lives with Generalized Anxiety Disorder, the unnecessary stress and worry as to whether or when I’ll get my medication is unacceptable. I’m paying more to be treated worse. No wonder female friends with RA stopped taking their medications. I’m doing all the right things–not that my first RA doctor, any doctor, has ever discussed diet, exercise or stress management with me, and I’m the bad guy. The junkie. The pain in the ass.

P.S. I can’t recommend journaling enough. I can rant-write the anger away and get on with my day, which was rather nice. Sunny, almost mild, adding fuel to my Spring Fever, self-cared out the wazoo, lip-synched to my music, read with a second coffee and cat blanket, and splurged on cute Valentine’s Day cards for favorite people.

STICK THIS IN YOUR STOCKING, O’REILLY

I feel your pain, Jon. It’s a lot like cramps.

http://mediamatters.org/video/2014/12/17/bill-oreilly-african-americans-should-wear-dont/201937

Stick this in your stocking, O’Reilly–girls first menstruated at the average age of 18 at the beginning of the 20th century. Today the average age is 13 (and younger). Guess what 1900’s girls didn’t drink much? Milk. Guess what today’s girls drink? Milk. Cow’s breast milk specially made for baby cows to pack on about 400 lbs before weaning.

Who promotes milk (which is also polluted with antibiotics/pesticides/GMO unnatural diet/mastitis pus and is a carcinogen)? BigAg, the USDA, the FDA, doctors, schools, parents, church leaders…now if today’s girls weren’t drinking polluted, carcinogenic cow baby milk and still getting their first periods around 18, there’d be a lot less teen pregnancy (no matter their skin color, Mr. “Racist” O’Reilly), wouldn’t you think?

Oh, that’s right. Thinking’s not one of your strong points.

I AM NOT A JUNKIE, DAMMIT

(I don’t usually name call but after yesterday, well…)

Guess who’s suspected of being a junkie again?

Yesterday afternoon I drop off my empty bottle of anti-depressant at CVS. The kind pharmacist says it’ll take ten minutes or so. I’m on my way to the coffee shop so tell her I’ll pick it up in a few hours.

A few hours later I walk back to the pharmacy and in the “Pick Up” line am told there’s no refill for me. As I try to explain the above, this pharmacist’s assistant repeatedly tells me to wait a few minutes and take a seat, refusing to let me speak. The kind pharmacist sees me and says she left me a voicemail that it’s too early to refill the prescription.

Apologies for the deja vu when I say you’re not supposed to abruptly stop taking this anti-depressant (any for that matter). She says I have to wait until the 7th, four days. I’d picked up this refill 10/17 (like I remember or care) and my insurance won’t OK more until the 7th. I’m flummoxed, baffled, pissed, but remain moderately calm.

I took my last pill this morning, I tell her. You know how I wait till the last minute to get refills, I say. Do you still have my empty bottle? She does and soon realizes that the refill I picked up 10/17 only contained 30 of the 60 pills I’m supposed to get. Unlike the male doctor, she apologizes profusely as she hands me a new bottle of the other 30. It’s OK, I say. No worries. We figured it out, that’s the important thing. I want to suggest an attitude adjustment to the rude pharmacist assistant, but I also just want to get the hell out of there.

I’m COUNTING the days until I’m a patient at PCRM’s new medical center, where they’ll do their best to get me off these toxic drugs.

GREETINGS FROM YOUR FRIENDLY NEIGHBORHOOD KLONOPIN JUNKIE

(Highly recommended 1989–OMG, I saw this that long ago?–Gus Van Sant-directed film with Matt Dillon and Kelly Lynch; they’re both so gorgeous it almost makes being a junkie look like a good idea)

COMMENTS AFTER AWFUL EXPERIENCE WITH DOCTOR IN WHICH HE ACCUSES ME OF BEING A JUNKIE

Doctors, male doctors (it has been my experience, including and especially the male doctor I spoke with this afternoon) are MOTHER FUCKING CUNT BAG ASSHOLES. I wish them peace and love but they are MOTHER FUCKING CUNT BAG ASSHOLES just the same.
That is all. xoxoxo**

**My pharmacy and I called my new doctor’s office to get refills for my anxiety meds, Klonopin. Four days elapsed with no response. The resident who saw me during my first visit (instead of the doctor with whom I made the appointment) called with my lab results–great numbers, no vitamin/mineral deficiencies, oh and HIV negative and syphilis free (another post on why I think they tested me). Woo hoo! Bad news–only a psychiatrist can call in more Klonopin refills (no luck finding one since moving here; what does it say that nobody’s taking new patients in this town?).

WTF? I can’t (no one can) stop taking Klonopin abruptly. It’s a controlled substance, originally an anti-seizure drug. I know I’m dependent on it (dependent’s supposedly different from addicted); I’ve taken it for almost five years. I went without it for one day. It was a very bad day. She, then the above “mother fucking cunt bag asshole” doctor told me (in a horrible conversation I describe below) I had to go without it for however long it took to find, make an appointment with, and see a psychiatrist. Enjoy the list of abrupt withdrawal symptoms courtesy of Wikipedia:

“An abrupt or over-rapid discontinuation of benzodiazepines may result in a more serious and very unpleasant withdrawal syndrome that may additionally result in:

Catatonia, which may result in death
Confusion
Convulsions, which may result in death
Coma (rare)
Delirium tremens
Delusions
Hallucinations
Hyperthermia
Homicide ideations
Mania
Neuroleptic malignant syndrome-like event (rare)
Organic brain syndrome
Post-traumatic stress disorder
Psychosis
Suicidal ideation
Suicide
Urges to shout, throw, break things or harm someone
Violence”

HAPPY EARLY FESTIVUS! MY AIRING OF GRIEVANCES

I reported that doctor’s terrible treatment of me to his supervisor yesterday and feel vindicated. She said he’d approached her earlier in the day to say she might get a call from “someone” (that’s rich; I’d only left him two messages Friday and Monday to contact me).

He told HER he’d handled our conversation poorly and been mistaken in his assumptions about me–he accused me of being a junkie; worse, he thinks junkies don’t deserve to be treated with compassion and empathy; told me I shouldn’t experience side effects from abruptly stopping a drug that specifically states you should not abruptly stop taking it as serious, life-threatening side effects can occur, including death (as life-threatening as you can get); “maybe you should think twice about how this medicine makes you act,” as if people with mental illness can’t feel authentic emotions (anger, for example), but that everything we express is a manifestation of mental illness and therefore unsound, not to be taken seriously or respected; tried to lecture me about more people being addicted to prescription drugs than street drugs, to which I replied, “No shit, Sherlock. The “War on Drugs” is a travesty. The government keeps the real drug problem a secret ’cause they’re in cahoots with BigPharma. And just who’s prescribing all these drugs to dependent patients?”

In a perfect world he would’ve had the balls to apologize to me himself (or been made to); alas, it seems to be my fate that the men I cross paths with in life are spared the consequences of their actions. And people wonder why we live in a world such as this.

Peace \/ from your friendly “Klonopin Junkie”

LIAR! LIAR! LIAR! FLU AND/OR PNEUMONIA SHOTS MYTH DEBUNKED!

My mom texted me last night:

“Almost time for bed. Having a good time. Almost finished sewing on quilt binding. Tomorrow I will be piecing a new quilt. xoxoxo”

My response:

“Me too. Oh, did I mention I’m probably dying of double pneumonia? Yeah. The vaccines that don’t make you sick? HA! LIES LIES LIES! I love you. Remember me well. xoxoxo”

And further ruminations on said topic from my journal:

“Almost 9PM. Boiling water for hot tea that promotes tranquility. Even the tea bag offers sympathy. Its tag reads, “Be proud of who you are.” Bless you, tea bag tag. Hot. Cold. Almost sneezed three times riding the elevator to my floor and when I blew my nose stuff came out. I’m dying.

Hear this, flu and pneumonia shots: no more. I’ve had it with drugs and “protective” vaccines that make me sick. Sick, I say! I actually sneezed on the fourth try. My proboscis requires constant attention and continues to expel stuff. I sense the onset of intestinal distress. Again! Chronic sinus pain-fine. Frozen shoulder-picnic. This current state-unacceptable.

Off I go–upbeat and with a song in my heart–down the road (seriously, it was like a mile from the metro stop) to meet the “top doc” who’ll help me gain optimal health. Now I’m dying. Isolating at home sounds less loony every minute. I wonder if Amazon sells germ-free bubble rooms, say 500 square feet?

And now that I’m somewhat relaxed, dare I say tranquil, my phone vibrates on the bed (oh, the irony) and I remember I haven’t taken my PM meds. That’s it. I’m placing a moratorium on friends saying, “This is your year!” You are 0-3, at least, dear hearts. I had my “day” this year and am grateful for it. I will knit and read and write and clean litter boxes and nurse this double pneumonia until the disco ball drops, ringing in 2015.

Achoo!

(From now on I’ll take these flu shots, thank you.)

P.S. UPDATE: Fell into a feverish sleep, my skin hot and dry as Death Valley. Awoke 1:30ishAM to pee. Within an hour I awoke drenched and shivering. I toweled off and changed into clean, dry jammies–a momentary thrill not unlike the guy you like asking you out–but remained cold. I zombie-walked into the closet to don my favorite green knit cap. Still missing something. Once I post, it’s fingerless gloves time.