Quicksand

I've been trying as hard as I can. I keep sinking. Pain pulls me down. Depressive tendencies don't help at all. I don't have a hand to grab onto. Every time I find some solidity, I take another step forward and there it is: more quicksand. It's exhausting. The urge the let myself sink until I've hit bottom is great. Maybe that's where I need to be. I thought I had hit bottom. Now, I know I don't know anything. I suppose that's better than thinking one is sure of it all.

Ha. I can see some good in something after all.

The rest of this post is pure complaints. You can skip them if you want. I don't blame you. For others, mostly those who struggle with similar things, maybe it'll help you 'cause it seems to help when others speak one's truth. For you stoics, for those who are healthy, for those who are sick of Julie's pain, yeah, skip it. I was going to keep quiet until things passed once again (and I'll repeat this intent here again, for I wrote this later and don't edit). All I know is that not speaking my truth is not healthy, and it's about the only thing I can do today.

I've been doing "everything right." My pain levels receded. I started to have some energy, feel some hope. Then, on Monday night, my left ear and a small part of my scalp went totally numb. It was the same feeling (or lack thereof) as novicaine. It scared me. I rubbed my ear until it was red and warm, assuring myself that it was getting some circulation in spite of my perception.

I woke up yesterday morning feeling just plain ol' sick. I figured I'd picked something up while spending most of a day in the ER. Last night, I went to bed early, and hoped to feel better enough to go to work today. Tomorrow, I have a lace knitting workshop to teach. I care about that greatly. I want to be there.

Unfortunately, this body is not complying with my needs. I woke up nearly every hour last night in pain. Upon each awakening, I'd do some doctor-approved yoga for the back, some yogic breathing, and would fall back asleep. The night was long. All that effort to get through a night is exhausting. When I woke up to the alarm clock, I knew I could not find the energy to drive to work, never mind actually working, and the idea of calling in sick yet again was too depressing. I could have forced myself to go, but I care more about the class tomorrow. Can I nurse myself well enough today to be pain-free enough to teach? I will not cancel that class, not unless I'm forced to.

I called the doctor who had prescribed the TENS unit I use to manage pain. I'd put that off, because they usually have a six-month waiting list (seriously), and calling when in distress only to find that out is always a bit upsetting. I was informed that I was a "discharged patient." Huh? Yeah, last time I was there I said that things were under control and "thank you very much", but I didn't know I had been cured. Hallelujah! "We'll call you back", said the receptionist. I know how that's gone before. I should probably here from them in a few weeks, by form letter. This is one of the few cases where the docs are great but the staff is impossible.

I should be doing something like going for a walk, but I'm not. I can't even imagine walking down the slippery slope of my driveway, and the only destination is the General Store, where I've been informed that the John Birch Society has been recruiting. I love the guy who runs the store. We've had the most heartfelt conversations. He says he never heard of the John Birch Society, which fairly blew my mind since the guy is so into politics and is not a young fellow. But then, I've got a history with them. When I was a very young kid, my neighbors were members, and they organized the local kids to throw rocks at my house (the house where the Jew Commies lived). It was one reason we moved. So, I have some personal fear around this group. I don't feel like going to the store much. It was bad enough when there were pics of Obama with a Hitler mustache. I didn't care that much that they were defacing the president's picture (hey, I would have defaced a pic of Bush in a heartbeat), but the Hitler mustache? Some of the folks at the store don't believe there was a Holocaust. Some of them believe Hitler was a great guy who didn't get the job done.

Seems like this is stretch from writing about my personal health issues. No, it's not. It's part of why I'm not leaving the house, which is quite bad for me. My last post made it sound like I was feeling much better (and I was), but what if I'm not? What if I barely have enough energy to make it from one room to the other? That's how I'm feeling. Making a healthy breakfast (at almost noon) was a lot of effort.

I wrote that I had been crazy. Well, I'm not crazy. I'm simply (simply?) very depressed. I had a few days in which I felt I could beat all of this stuff. A few nights of lousy sleep, a complete lack of energy, no one to turn to in the real world, and I'm reduced once again to a deep depression.

No one wants to read this kind of thing. One person wrote "depression is contagious." I want to be upbeat, of course I do. I figured I'd just shut up until this passed.

That's not honest. How many other people are feeling the same way right now? Lots.

I think of what's going on in Haiti and say to myself that I simply must shut up about my pathetic little problems. But, y'know what? That's just guilting myself into being quiet. Kids who get slapped around should feel lucky they haven't been chained in a closet or beaten with a belt. American poor people should feel lucky they're not living in Africa. Have one leg? Be grateful one haven't lost both of 'em. Paraplegic? Hey. There's quadraplegics out there. You feel bad? Other people have it worse. Other people have it worse and do fine. Other people have it worse and are joyful. Other people have it worse and help others who have it worse. The list of reasons to feel guilty and stop complaining is endless. They aren't helpful. Want to make a depressed, abused, or sick person feel worse? Tell 'em to think of people less fortunate than themselves. Tell 'em to get off their asses and help. You try helping when just getting out of bed is work. Yeah, in the long run, it'll help, yes it will, but first, before you judge, think of trying a little tenderness. It goes a long way. Compassion should always be the first option. Always.

I woke up early and went back to sleep after asking someone else to call in sick for me. I just couldn't do it. I thought I might weep, but couldn't. I knew I'd probably be asleep, anyway, at the time I was supposed to be there. I care a lot about this underpaying part time job. I enjoy it. I'm pretty sure that my calling in sick four times in a row while one person is on vacation probably has made me no friends. The last time I was there I was snipped at all day, and finally said something. I broke the unspoken rule at this most dysfunctional workplace: don't speak directly to the person who's doing something you are bothered by. One should only gripe to others. I've seen grown women roll their eyes when the object of their resentment turns their back for a second. There are people there whom I'm fairly sure would stick a knife into the boss just to shut her up, if they could get away with it. I'm asked over and over again, "How can you work for her?!" Y'know what? She's easier for me to deal with than the sniping women. She only has crazy rules because she's nuts and doesn't know it. She isn't mean.

I'm just spilling this stuff today. That's all. I might lose my job at this silly place. I don't take the drama personally. I love the customers, need the lousy pay, and need to get out of the house. We'll see what happens. I'm sure all the "girls" will complain about how I let them down recently. It would have been nice if someone inquired what the hell is going on with me, but no one has. I'm just another nuisance.

I'm feeling like everyone's nuisance. It is times like these when I think about how much I despise Dr. Kevorkian. I wonder how many other people who live with chronic pain and/or illness feel as I do: his kind of euthanasia advocacy did nothing to help with palliative care. It gave a bad message to folks who chose to live instead of die: you are wasting space and resources. In some of his patients, I saw people who were more depressed than sick, focused on dying, and in need of love, support, and care. Instead, they had the advocacy of a man who would be happy to help them die. Fuck that. Yes. No nice words would suffice.

Fuck all the people who think it was "time to die" for so many who had plenty of life left in them, but couldn't get the help and support they needed. This morning, I could have used some tenderness, some caring, but I didn't get any. I don't expect it. I'm not supposed to need or want these things. A person who's been sick a long time should not. Well, screw that. We're all terminal.

Painting note: Claude Monet, "Camille on Her Death Bed", 1879