I actually had written most of a post about today, and how I'm trying not to give in so much to the anniversary blues...Unfortunately it turned into exactly that, and I'm just tired of it. I'm in...a "rut" doesn't describe it, really; it's more like "a Chicago-area main-street pothole in March after a full winter of freeze-thaw cycles and a bi-weekly parade of semi trucks." I hate that JP is gone, and I hate that I'm alone, and blah, blah, blah, haven't we been through all this before? I actually did spend the day trying to do stuff to improve my outlook a little; I did all the laundry--you would think one person wouldn't generate much laundry, but then again the person you're thinking of probably does her laundry more than once every six weeks or so--and I took apart my bedroom and vacuumed all the fluffy corners and dusted all the dusty stuff. My environment looks great; my attitude, not so much (though part of that has nothing to do with the anniversary and everything to do with The Godforsaken Itch. TGI has improved, yes--except for my back, and my shoulders, and behind my knees, and.... Finally today, I couldn't stand it anymore and called the allergist my doc referred me to; she said, and I quote, "No antihistamines for three days before your appointment, please." My appointment is Tuesday. Technically, I COULD take some tomorrow, but since I'm now out of Benadryl anyway, there doesn't seem to be much point. I hope I don't go completely insane by Tuesday morning--judging from today's scratch marks, it's a very real possibility.)
I'm tired of my rut, tired of my outlook, tired of my misery. I want to be happy. I want to feel normal--like I'm part of the human race for a change. I would like to have SOME hope that I could possibly attract a partner someday; that, maybe, most of all. I want to be able to look at all my wonderful options and all the great ideas I have, and actually FEEL something--excitement, hope, optimism, ANYTHING. Right now my life puts me to sleep, and I don't even know how to make that better. I know how fortunate I am, how blessed, how lucky--whatever you want to call it--but that knowledge doesn't really do me any good; sometimes, in fact, it makes it even worse. I've got all these things going for me, and I've been given so much...so why, again, am I so miserable?
Mostly I'm lonely, and tonight, at least, that makes sense. I can't believe it's thirteen years since I lost JP; it seems like a billion years, maybe, or maybe just a day or two. I'm amazed at how meaningless those thirteen years have been, how little I have to show for them--not materially, but emotionally. I try not to think about the next thirteen years, or the next. It scares me to think that this is really it--that the rest of my life is set up before me, no surprises--just more of the same. I don't think I could stand knowing that for certain.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Fortuitous Itchiness
Maybe the main thing I need to get through my late-October doldrums is to find some way to render my entire body a giant, itching, writhing mass of nerve-endings and unhappy skin-cells. (Yes, the Itch is still here. I thought it was getting better, and I suppose on one level it sorta is--but it's certainly not 100% better! I finally caved and made an appointment with the allergist for next week; I was told "no antihistamines for three days before the appointment (Tues morning) so the next few days could be a bit....unpleasant.))
Anyhow, unlike in most years, this anniversary has crept up almost imperceptibly, owing to the upheaval of work and the crazy-making-ness of The Itch. I'm amazed that thirteen years have passed since I lost my beloved JP; I'm amazed at how insignificant those years have been, how little I've accomplished, how little of these thirteen years I remember as compared to the four years that I knew him. I'm amazed that I've done nothing of consequence, that I'm in the same sort of rut I would have expected to find myself in if I'd never even known JP.
Needless to say, I'm fairly unhappy with my life as it currently stands. I have a lot of changes I need to make, and not a lot of drive right now. More drive than I've had in the past, perhaps, but still not quite enough to overcome the inertia of my massive gravitational field.
More to the point: I'm scared.
There are so many things I could do right now, things that could potentially change my life for the better, but two fears stop me from pursuing those life-changing possiblities:
1) What if I fail? and
2) What if I DON'T fail??
On some level, as much as I hate the rut I'm in, I think I'm also a little bit afraid to leave it. I'm not sure whether that knowledge is a good thing or not; all I know is that I have not only slowed down on doing things that interest me, in many cases I've slammed the brakes down to the floorboards and come to a wrenching STOP. There are days--the bad ones, obviously--where I feel like I'm just sitting still and waiting for my clock to stop.
That's not me, though. That's not who I am. (An aside, apropos of nothing: I'm fundamentally amazed at how many people think they know who and what I am, and how many of those people are completely wrong. The other night, when Tim was here, talk turned to religion, and he told me this: "You know, it really bothers me a lot that you're an atheist." He went into great detail about it, how he really cares about me, but he can't agree with my beliefs here, and so on and so forth...and he even refused to allow me to interrupt to tell him the fact of the matter: um, Tim? I'm not an atheist. Agnostic, sure; pissed off and confused at the celestial "plan", damn skippy; but no, not an atheist. "Ohh, yes you are," he said. "You've said many times that you don't believe in anything." (Okay, no I haven't. Where did this COME from???) I'm not sure where being angry at whatever god/gods/system you believe in can now be conflated with disbelief--though I'm thinking this is just more of the current fundamentalism sweeping the country and the world--but in order to be angry at someone/something, one first has to believe it exists. Try to explain that to Tim, though.)
Now, where was I? Ah--yes. The rut.
I'm trying to put a positive spin on it. I have a good job, for starters (please ignore the quiet mumbling in the background; I try to remind myself that every job, even the best, has its irritants--but unlike most places, the irritants are increasing every week, and it's getting harder and harder to ignore them, though I'm still doing pretty well at it). I have a great place to live; I've been frustrated lately by the degree of clutter and mess (not much storage space, lots of things to store) and so today I undertook two of the more-vexing projects I'd been putting off: first, the laundry mountain, and second, a full dismantle-and-clean of the entire bedroom. The dust factor has dropped substantially, thanks to that, and the bedroom looks like a sane person lives there, for a change. I've still got three dryers-full of laundry in the works, but the worst of THAT task is over as well. In short, I've spent the day trying to attend to the good things I have; trying to concentrate on where I am and how far I've come, instead of what I've lost.
But in the back of my mind, I also know: in thirteen years, I haven't yet been able to create, or even to imagine, a life as full or as happy as the one I had with JP. I could do everything right for the rest of my days on earth, and I doubt it would do me any good. Most of the time I can ignore that truth enough to be okay with it; most of the time I can distract myself. That, at least, is progress. It makes of life a fairly pointless exercise, of course; it's difficult to work toward a goal with any sort of enthusiasm when you realize that even when you reach that goal, there won't be anyone to share it with. It's twistedly funny, when you think about it: I am now in a situation where I am pretty much capable of creating exactly the life I want, in terms of material things, goals, etc--but no matter what I choose or choose not to do, whether I choose Perfectly Good Life #1 or Perfectly Good Life #2; no matter which of many wonderful and desirable outcomes I could bring about in my life, no matter which of my own happily-ever-afters I decide to make...it will be happily-ever-after and alone.
And that? Sucks. It sucks, it sucks, it sucks, and nothing is going to make it not suck; and the even BETTER thing about it is, I know this nearly for a fact: If I was pretty, I wouldn't have to worry about being alone, not for a minute. I'm one of those women who a certain kind of guy would go crazy for--I'm smart, funny, weird, adventurous--but because my exterior doesn't measure up, all those traits are pretty much worthless. I seem to be harping on that notion quite a bit these days, but it's a pretty big realization to come to--that the only thing really "wrong" with me is how I look. (Not to say that I'm otherwise perfect, understand; but nobody even gets to find out what my personality issues might or might not be, because they look at the exterior and don't bother to look deeper.)
I'm trying to learn to shrug it off; to look at the good things in my life and be happy for them, and for the fact that I can bring other good things into my life as well.
Anyhow, unlike in most years, this anniversary has crept up almost imperceptibly, owing to the upheaval of work and the crazy-making-ness of The Itch. I'm amazed that thirteen years have passed since I lost my beloved JP; I'm amazed at how insignificant those years have been, how little I've accomplished, how little of these thirteen years I remember as compared to the four years that I knew him. I'm amazed that I've done nothing of consequence, that I'm in the same sort of rut I would have expected to find myself in if I'd never even known JP.
Needless to say, I'm fairly unhappy with my life as it currently stands. I have a lot of changes I need to make, and not a lot of drive right now. More drive than I've had in the past, perhaps, but still not quite enough to overcome the inertia of my massive gravitational field.
More to the point: I'm scared.
There are so many things I could do right now, things that could potentially change my life for the better, but two fears stop me from pursuing those life-changing possiblities:
1) What if I fail? and
2) What if I DON'T fail??
On some level, as much as I hate the rut I'm in, I think I'm also a little bit afraid to leave it. I'm not sure whether that knowledge is a good thing or not; all I know is that I have not only slowed down on doing things that interest me, in many cases I've slammed the brakes down to the floorboards and come to a wrenching STOP. There are days--the bad ones, obviously--where I feel like I'm just sitting still and waiting for my clock to stop.
That's not me, though. That's not who I am. (An aside, apropos of nothing: I'm fundamentally amazed at how many people think they know who and what I am, and how many of those people are completely wrong. The other night, when Tim was here, talk turned to religion, and he told me this: "You know, it really bothers me a lot that you're an atheist." He went into great detail about it, how he really cares about me, but he can't agree with my beliefs here, and so on and so forth...and he even refused to allow me to interrupt to tell him the fact of the matter: um, Tim? I'm not an atheist. Agnostic, sure; pissed off and confused at the celestial "plan", damn skippy; but no, not an atheist. "Ohh, yes you are," he said. "You've said many times that you don't believe in anything." (Okay, no I haven't. Where did this COME from???) I'm not sure where being angry at whatever god/gods/system you believe in can now be conflated with disbelief--though I'm thinking this is just more of the current fundamentalism sweeping the country and the world--but in order to be angry at someone/something, one first has to believe it exists. Try to explain that to Tim, though.)
Now, where was I? Ah--yes. The rut.
I'm trying to put a positive spin on it. I have a good job, for starters (please ignore the quiet mumbling in the background; I try to remind myself that every job, even the best, has its irritants--but unlike most places, the irritants are increasing every week, and it's getting harder and harder to ignore them, though I'm still doing pretty well at it). I have a great place to live; I've been frustrated lately by the degree of clutter and mess (not much storage space, lots of things to store) and so today I undertook two of the more-vexing projects I'd been putting off: first, the laundry mountain, and second, a full dismantle-and-clean of the entire bedroom. The dust factor has dropped substantially, thanks to that, and the bedroom looks like a sane person lives there, for a change. I've still got three dryers-full of laundry in the works, but the worst of THAT task is over as well. In short, I've spent the day trying to attend to the good things I have; trying to concentrate on where I am and how far I've come, instead of what I've lost.
But in the back of my mind, I also know: in thirteen years, I haven't yet been able to create, or even to imagine, a life as full or as happy as the one I had with JP. I could do everything right for the rest of my days on earth, and I doubt it would do me any good. Most of the time I can ignore that truth enough to be okay with it; most of the time I can distract myself. That, at least, is progress. It makes of life a fairly pointless exercise, of course; it's difficult to work toward a goal with any sort of enthusiasm when you realize that even when you reach that goal, there won't be anyone to share it with. It's twistedly funny, when you think about it: I am now in a situation where I am pretty much capable of creating exactly the life I want, in terms of material things, goals, etc--but no matter what I choose or choose not to do, whether I choose Perfectly Good Life #1 or Perfectly Good Life #2; no matter which of many wonderful and desirable outcomes I could bring about in my life, no matter which of my own happily-ever-afters I decide to make...it will be happily-ever-after and alone.
And that? Sucks. It sucks, it sucks, it sucks, and nothing is going to make it not suck; and the even BETTER thing about it is, I know this nearly for a fact: If I was pretty, I wouldn't have to worry about being alone, not for a minute. I'm one of those women who a certain kind of guy would go crazy for--I'm smart, funny, weird, adventurous--but because my exterior doesn't measure up, all those traits are pretty much worthless. I seem to be harping on that notion quite a bit these days, but it's a pretty big realization to come to--that the only thing really "wrong" with me is how I look. (Not to say that I'm otherwise perfect, understand; but nobody even gets to find out what my personality issues might or might not be, because they look at the exterior and don't bother to look deeper.)
I'm trying to learn to shrug it off; to look at the good things in my life and be happy for them, and for the fact that I can bring other good things into my life as well.
Monday, October 27, 2008
Update: The Itchy and Scratchy Gladys Show
Thank heavens, the rash is leaving me.
This is probably due in part to the THREE major prescriptions I have been taking, plus handfuls of Benadryl and the occasional Advil just for kicks. I'm taking prednisone, Zantac (apparently there are histamines generated in the digestive tract? Who knew?), and some super-duper anti-itch medicine which doesn't seem to do much at all. I'm also completely off the Lexapro, and I have a referral to a dermatologist and one to an allergist as well. There are still a few itchy bits--mostly on my back where I absolutely CANNOT reach them without sacrificing every bit of dignity I've got--and on my belly, where also I cannot scratch with dignity. My legs look like I fought a table-saw and lost; my arms look like kindergarteners with red Magic Markers used them for a lesson in pointillism. But at least I can sit still for five minutes at a stretch, a blessing indeed.
I still don't believe for sure that it was the Lexapro, although I looked up "Lexapro side effects" and discovered that yes, "itchy rash" was on the list, along with almost every other physical complaint of mankind, and including lots of minor physical annoyances that I'd attributed to "tiredness" or "weight" or "drinking too much". So there's that... I hope whatever I end up on next won't have too many goofy outcomes associated with it. I certainly don't plan to go through THIS again!
This is probably due in part to the THREE major prescriptions I have been taking, plus handfuls of Benadryl and the occasional Advil just for kicks. I'm taking prednisone, Zantac (apparently there are histamines generated in the digestive tract? Who knew?), and some super-duper anti-itch medicine which doesn't seem to do much at all. I'm also completely off the Lexapro, and I have a referral to a dermatologist and one to an allergist as well. There are still a few itchy bits--mostly on my back where I absolutely CANNOT reach them without sacrificing every bit of dignity I've got--and on my belly, where also I cannot scratch with dignity. My legs look like I fought a table-saw and lost; my arms look like kindergarteners with red Magic Markers used them for a lesson in pointillism. But at least I can sit still for five minutes at a stretch, a blessing indeed.
I still don't believe for sure that it was the Lexapro, although I looked up "Lexapro side effects" and discovered that yes, "itchy rash" was on the list, along with almost every other physical complaint of mankind, and including lots of minor physical annoyances that I'd attributed to "tiredness" or "weight" or "drinking too much". So there's that... I hope whatever I end up on next won't have too many goofy outcomes associated with it. I certainly don't plan to go through THIS again!
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
Rash Acts
Have I mentioned AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUGGGGGHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! ?
It's taken over. Everywhere EXCEPT my face, my hands, my head, and my girlybits are covered in hives. Little bitty grainy-looking hives, but hives. And holy FUCK, the itch.
Tuesday morning I just couldn't take it anymore and walked over to the Emergency Room. They fed me a couple of Benadryl, took my history, fed me a prednisone pill, and then spied on me from the other side of the curtain. After I had scratched myself silly for about ten minutes, an intern came in with a big whompin' needle and gave me a shot of Benadryl.
Let me tell you, intramuscular Benadryl? Has way more of a kick then heroin, my friends. I started feeling a little tingly, and within about two minutes I actually had to lay down on the gurney because the head-rush was so outrageous. I seriously thought I was going to pass out. But the itching had come to a FULL STOP.
Unfortunately, the de-itchification only lasted a couple of hours; the woozy groggy stoned feeling, on the other hand, lasted long enough for me to get to work and get told by my co-worker that I should go home. Normally that's not a suggestion I would take, and if it wouldn't have been for her watching me for the next three hours, I might have tried to stick it out, but: nah. I called the boss and left, and went home and slept like a rock.
Oh, yeah. The "diagnosis"? The ER doc seemed to think it was a drug reaction. I asked him which of my two meds was the culprit--methadone or Lexapro? He said "Methadone is basically non-allergenic, so I highly doubt that's it." Then he suggested I taper off on the Lexapro, told me to keep taking the Benadryl, and prescribed a week's worth of prednisone. Since my doc has already broached the subject of trying a different medication, I'm not heartbroken about the Lexapro--but I am confused. First off, I've been taking it for four months, and only NOW do I break out? And then, this rash seems to be in all the places my clothing comes in contact with skin, and none of the ones where it doesn't. I'm going to double-wash my clothes tomorrow, with no soap in the second go-around, and see if that helps. And Friday I'll go talk to my regular doc. (I also, while I was in the ER, ran past the doctor and nurses all the Really Bad Possibilities--diabetes, hypertension, liver failure, etc--and all of them said "HIGHLY unlikely." So there's that--we've at least narrowed down the problem somewhat.
But I still wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy. I REALLY hope it goes away soon.
More soon--right now there's some Benadryl with my name on it. (I should buy stock in the company--I'm certainly making them rich enough.)
It's taken over. Everywhere EXCEPT my face, my hands, my head, and my girlybits are covered in hives. Little bitty grainy-looking hives, but hives. And holy FUCK, the itch.
Tuesday morning I just couldn't take it anymore and walked over to the Emergency Room. They fed me a couple of Benadryl, took my history, fed me a prednisone pill, and then spied on me from the other side of the curtain. After I had scratched myself silly for about ten minutes, an intern came in with a big whompin' needle and gave me a shot of Benadryl.
Let me tell you, intramuscular Benadryl? Has way more of a kick then heroin, my friends. I started feeling a little tingly, and within about two minutes I actually had to lay down on the gurney because the head-rush was so outrageous. I seriously thought I was going to pass out. But the itching had come to a FULL STOP.
Unfortunately, the de-itchification only lasted a couple of hours; the woozy groggy stoned feeling, on the other hand, lasted long enough for me to get to work and get told by my co-worker that I should go home. Normally that's not a suggestion I would take, and if it wouldn't have been for her watching me for the next three hours, I might have tried to stick it out, but: nah. I called the boss and left, and went home and slept like a rock.
Oh, yeah. The "diagnosis"? The ER doc seemed to think it was a drug reaction. I asked him which of my two meds was the culprit--methadone or Lexapro? He said "Methadone is basically non-allergenic, so I highly doubt that's it." Then he suggested I taper off on the Lexapro, told me to keep taking the Benadryl, and prescribed a week's worth of prednisone. Since my doc has already broached the subject of trying a different medication, I'm not heartbroken about the Lexapro--but I am confused. First off, I've been taking it for four months, and only NOW do I break out? And then, this rash seems to be in all the places my clothing comes in contact with skin, and none of the ones where it doesn't. I'm going to double-wash my clothes tomorrow, with no soap in the second go-around, and see if that helps. And Friday I'll go talk to my regular doc. (I also, while I was in the ER, ran past the doctor and nurses all the Really Bad Possibilities--diabetes, hypertension, liver failure, etc--and all of them said "HIGHLY unlikely." So there's that--we've at least narrowed down the problem somewhat.
But I still wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy. I REALLY hope it goes away soon.
More soon--right now there's some Benadryl with my name on it. (I should buy stock in the company--I'm certainly making them rich enough.)
Saturday, October 18, 2008
AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Friends, I am in serious trouble here.
I am about one nanosecond from a full-fledged attack of the Screaming Meemees.
You see, I have An Itch.
A couple of days ago...okay, closer now to a week, really...I noticed that my ankles and my lower calves were itchy. You know how, if you tie your shoes too tight and the socks kinda squish into your skin and when you take the shoes and socks off at the end of the day, the top of your foot itches like crazy for like, a minute?
Like that. Except to about midway up my calf, and not going away.
So I tried some lotion. Didn't help. Tried some other lotion. Didn't help. Tried not to scratch and fail, fail, FAAAAIIILLLED. In not-too-long a time, it looked like I was wearing reddish-purple mid-calf socks.
Then the itch started creeping northward.
I bought some hypoallergenic Eucerin lotion. I bought some hydrocortisone cream. I bought some Bactine, because by now I'd scratched a few spots so badly that Bactine seemed like a good idea. Ditto Neosporin. Nothing helped. Now the reddish-purple socks were at the knees, and my legs and ankles were swollen from the scratching.
That went on for a couple of days. Last night I noticed that the backs of my knees were itchy now. I took some Advil and some Benadryl, one or the other of which seemed to help. Today at work, though, EVERYTHING started itching. Legs, torso, arms, pits, back, EVERYTHING, the works. The parts not in the reddish-purple-knee-socks area look...distinctly...BITE-like.
I don't think I have bedbugs--where would I have got them? I haven't slept anywhere except my own bed for practically forever.
I don't think it's spiders....oh, fuck, I HOPE it isn't spiders! or ants, or mites, or....You know, I don't like this train of thought.
Fleas, maybe? except the kitterz aren't scratching, only me.
I haven't changed my soap or my detergent or my lotion or my shampoo or my ANYTHING. (Though I did buy some Ivory soap today, in case it's the Irish Spring that's doing it--but I've been using V05 shampoo for a hundred years and have never had any problems.) Seriously--there is NO REASON this should be happening right now.
And then I went to WebMD, and let me tell you: if you're ever faced with a seemingly-minor issue? DON'T go to WebMD. They will scare the undawares RIGHT OFF you. According to them, I could have diabetes, hypertension, any number of nasty subcutaneous critters, MRSA, impending death, and/or hysterical pregnancy. (Okay, those last two I made up, but aren't the rest of them just SPECIAL?) So basically I have Unexplained Total Body Itching Leading To Insanity. That's the diagnosis, I think.
I made a doctor's appointment, but she can't take me til Friday. I should live so long.
If anyone needs me, I will be sitting on my hands and trying valiantly not to scratch. (And failing. Failing MISERABLY, in fact. AAAAAAAUUUUUGGGHHHHH :::scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritch
scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritch
scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritch
scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritch
scritchscritchscritchscritch:::
AAhhhhhh. That's better.
No....wait.....scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritch.....)
I am about one nanosecond from a full-fledged attack of the Screaming Meemees.
You see, I have An Itch.
A couple of days ago...okay, closer now to a week, really...I noticed that my ankles and my lower calves were itchy. You know how, if you tie your shoes too tight and the socks kinda squish into your skin and when you take the shoes and socks off at the end of the day, the top of your foot itches like crazy for like, a minute?
Like that. Except to about midway up my calf, and not going away.
So I tried some lotion. Didn't help. Tried some other lotion. Didn't help. Tried not to scratch and fail, fail, FAAAAIIILLLED. In not-too-long a time, it looked like I was wearing reddish-purple mid-calf socks.
Then the itch started creeping northward.
I bought some hypoallergenic Eucerin lotion. I bought some hydrocortisone cream. I bought some Bactine, because by now I'd scratched a few spots so badly that Bactine seemed like a good idea. Ditto Neosporin. Nothing helped. Now the reddish-purple socks were at the knees, and my legs and ankles were swollen from the scratching.
That went on for a couple of days. Last night I noticed that the backs of my knees were itchy now. I took some Advil and some Benadryl, one or the other of which seemed to help. Today at work, though, EVERYTHING started itching. Legs, torso, arms, pits, back, EVERYTHING, the works. The parts not in the reddish-purple-knee-socks area look...distinctly...BITE-like.
I don't think I have bedbugs--where would I have got them? I haven't slept anywhere except my own bed for practically forever.
I don't think it's spiders....oh, fuck, I HOPE it isn't spiders! or ants, or mites, or....You know, I don't like this train of thought.
Fleas, maybe? except the kitterz aren't scratching, only me.
I haven't changed my soap or my detergent or my lotion or my shampoo or my ANYTHING. (Though I did buy some Ivory soap today, in case it's the Irish Spring that's doing it--but I've been using V05 shampoo for a hundred years and have never had any problems.) Seriously--there is NO REASON this should be happening right now.
And then I went to WebMD, and let me tell you: if you're ever faced with a seemingly-minor issue? DON'T go to WebMD. They will scare the undawares RIGHT OFF you. According to them, I could have diabetes, hypertension, any number of nasty subcutaneous critters, MRSA, impending death, and/or hysterical pregnancy. (Okay, those last two I made up, but aren't the rest of them just SPECIAL?) So basically I have Unexplained Total Body Itching Leading To Insanity. That's the diagnosis, I think.
I made a doctor's appointment, but she can't take me til Friday. I should live so long.
If anyone needs me, I will be sitting on my hands and trying valiantly not to scratch. (And failing. Failing MISERABLY, in fact. AAAAAAAUUUUUGGGHHHHH :::scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritch
scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritch
scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritch
scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritch
scritchscritchscritchscritch:::
AAhhhhhh. That's better.
No....wait.....scritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritchscritch.....)
A Logic Problem For You
If I sent you the following in an e-mail on Wednesday afternoon....
"...Please make sure George Blow's computer gets checked over AS SOON AS IT GETS THERE and please get it back to him tomorrow; this is hugely important because he's been waiting for it for a long time and I told him he'd have it Thursday at the latest..."
Would anything in that message lead you, when asked on Thursday afternoon, "Is there any hurry for checking out George Blow's computer?" to answer, "No, not really..."???
I was working on a computer from my regular building, which I'd brought to the downtown building so I could finish it. It took longer than I thought, and so on Wednesday, when I packed it up to send back to the main building, I sent my boss (Joe) an e-mail containing the sentences above. I made it a point to emphasize that I wanted him to get the computer to George on Thursday because I'm off on Thursdays and I knew I was in no position to check up on him til Friday afternoon at the earliest.
I got to work Friday, and the ticket was still in my queue. I called Joe and left a message for him to call me; when no call was forthcoming, I called twice more, then called the help desk to see if he was even in the office. "He's in a meeting," I was told.
Around 5 PM--you know, when reasonable people on a 9-5 shift are pretty much ready to go home--I got a call from Carl, one of the other techs. (Carl actually used to be our boss, but due to office politics he was "reassigned"--translation: demoted--and his job was given to Joe. Carl was EASILY the best manager I'd ever had, and I was so mad when he got shafted like that...) Anyway, Carl called me to ask me a question....about George Blow's computer.
"That's not DONE?" I squeaked. "I TOTALLY e-mailed Joe on Wednesday to tell him that needed to be done YESTERDAY!"
"Well then how come he told me, when I asked him 'Is there any rush on the George Blow machine?' he told me 'No, not really,'?" Carl asked.
"Carl, I have NO idea. I told Joe that George should get that computer back on Thursday."
"Well why didn't you tell ME that?" Carl asked.
"Dude, I had NO IDEA that you were going to be the one who got it. I figured Joe would have assigned it to one of the new guys..."
And of course, by that point in the day, George had long ago left for home, so by this time there really WAS no point in hurrying. But steam was coming out my ears. Talking--or e-mailing--to Joe is like talking to a brick wall, I swear. There is literally no point in telling him ANYTHING, because he will ignore it, forget about it, override it, or otherwise discard it, and then leave US to clean up the mess when it comes.
--done venting now.
:::deep breath:::
Okay. Goodnight, all.
"...Please make sure George Blow's computer gets checked over AS SOON AS IT GETS THERE and please get it back to him tomorrow; this is hugely important because he's been waiting for it for a long time and I told him he'd have it Thursday at the latest..."
Would anything in that message lead you, when asked on Thursday afternoon, "Is there any hurry for checking out George Blow's computer?" to answer, "No, not really..."???
I was working on a computer from my regular building, which I'd brought to the downtown building so I could finish it. It took longer than I thought, and so on Wednesday, when I packed it up to send back to the main building, I sent my boss (Joe) an e-mail containing the sentences above. I made it a point to emphasize that I wanted him to get the computer to George on Thursday because I'm off on Thursdays and I knew I was in no position to check up on him til Friday afternoon at the earliest.
I got to work Friday, and the ticket was still in my queue. I called Joe and left a message for him to call me; when no call was forthcoming, I called twice more, then called the help desk to see if he was even in the office. "He's in a meeting," I was told.
Around 5 PM--you know, when reasonable people on a 9-5 shift are pretty much ready to go home--I got a call from Carl, one of the other techs. (Carl actually used to be our boss, but due to office politics he was "reassigned"--translation: demoted--and his job was given to Joe. Carl was EASILY the best manager I'd ever had, and I was so mad when he got shafted like that...) Anyway, Carl called me to ask me a question....about George Blow's computer.
"That's not DONE?" I squeaked. "I TOTALLY e-mailed Joe on Wednesday to tell him that needed to be done YESTERDAY!"
"Well then how come he told me, when I asked him 'Is there any rush on the George Blow machine?' he told me 'No, not really,'?" Carl asked.
"Carl, I have NO idea. I told Joe that George should get that computer back on Thursday."
"Well why didn't you tell ME that?" Carl asked.
"Dude, I had NO IDEA that you were going to be the one who got it. I figured Joe would have assigned it to one of the new guys..."
And of course, by that point in the day, George had long ago left for home, so by this time there really WAS no point in hurrying. But steam was coming out my ears. Talking--or e-mailing--to Joe is like talking to a brick wall, I swear. There is literally no point in telling him ANYTHING, because he will ignore it, forget about it, override it, or otherwise discard it, and then leave US to clean up the mess when it comes.
--done venting now.
:::deep breath:::
Okay. Goodnight, all.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
More
Thank you all for all the hugs and good advice. It's always good to have like-minded people around; it helps me feel like I'm not standing alone in shallow water with a great big wave heading dead at me....
...like that.
There are so many things I want and need to do to finally build the life I want to have; I'm overwhelmed, a little, but I'm also excited. I wish there were more hours in the day; I wish I didn't have to do silly things like sleep and work and...well, okay, work isn't silly. Right now, though, it's more time-consuming than usual; I've been moved to our downtown facility and switched to the evening shift for a couple of weeks, since Frack is on vacation. So I leave here at noon and I get home around 10:30, and by the time I get the kitters fed and wind down sufficiently, it's time to go to sleep so I can start the whole process over. I'm spoiled by living five minutes from the office.
This, however: not the point.
I am trying to visualize what my ideal day would look like: what I would do, what I wouldn't have to do; where I'd be living, what my living space would look like, things like that. It's an ongoing task, but I'm learning a lot about what really matters to me. I'm also learning that for a long time now, I've been pushing those things off to the side in favor of what I "should" be doing--or, even worse, avoiding the "really-oughtta" tasks--the laundry, the dishes, whatever--and then not doing the things I enjoy as some sort of "punishment" for my frivolousness.
If I learn nothing else from this time of inner turmoil, I have learned the most important lesson already: I am easily my own worst enemy, critic, saboteur and censor. I am far harder on myself, in almost every realm, than anyone else could possibly be....and if I want to have anything even close to the life I'm visualizing, I have to stop beating up on myself.
More later; it's way past bedtime. But again, thank you to all for the encouragement.
...like that.
There are so many things I want and need to do to finally build the life I want to have; I'm overwhelmed, a little, but I'm also excited. I wish there were more hours in the day; I wish I didn't have to do silly things like sleep and work and...well, okay, work isn't silly. Right now, though, it's more time-consuming than usual; I've been moved to our downtown facility and switched to the evening shift for a couple of weeks, since Frack is on vacation. So I leave here at noon and I get home around 10:30, and by the time I get the kitters fed and wind down sufficiently, it's time to go to sleep so I can start the whole process over. I'm spoiled by living five minutes from the office.
This, however: not the point.
I am trying to visualize what my ideal day would look like: what I would do, what I wouldn't have to do; where I'd be living, what my living space would look like, things like that. It's an ongoing task, but I'm learning a lot about what really matters to me. I'm also learning that for a long time now, I've been pushing those things off to the side in favor of what I "should" be doing--or, even worse, avoiding the "really-oughtta" tasks--the laundry, the dishes, whatever--and then not doing the things I enjoy as some sort of "punishment" for my frivolousness.
If I learn nothing else from this time of inner turmoil, I have learned the most important lesson already: I am easily my own worst enemy, critic, saboteur and censor. I am far harder on myself, in almost every realm, than anyone else could possibly be....and if I want to have anything even close to the life I'm visualizing, I have to stop beating up on myself.
More later; it's way past bedtime. But again, thank you to all for the encouragement.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Very Interesting
So I've been reading all your responses to my last posts, and I've got to say, this is one heck of an intersting conversation for me.
Am I seeing a counselor? Yes. She's one of the main singers in the "have the surgery!" chorus; she's convinced that I'd be much less-depressed if I lost weight and thus, liked myself better. The problem with that, though, is what seems to be my underlying "logic": if I lose weight, others will find me more attractive, and therefore I will like myself better. That's a perfectly accurate statement of my thought processes, and it overlooks the elephant in the room:
Why, exactly, do I base my opinion of myself on what others think of me? Particularly potential partners? Why the hell does that even MATTER??
But it does. That's the bitch of it; since I have been able to remember, the opinion of potential love interests has absolutely superseded my own opinions in nearly every way. I'm talking five, six, ten years old: my self-esteem was absolutely entangled with whatever my latest crush thought of me, or if he thought of me at all.
First of all: Yes, I know that's sick. Well-aware of that, thanks. :)
Secondly--and much more interesting to me--WHERE DID THAT COME FROM??? (There are times I feel like, if I could answer that question, I would be able to understand every stupid decision I've made in my entire life--especially the financial ones, but there have been plenty of others as well.) What, exactly, happened in the first four or five or six years of my life that taught me:
--it is more important what some little boy thinks of you, than what you think/know about yourself
--your accomplishments are only valid if some male thinks they are valid
--anything you can do, or be, or think, unless it is given the proper degree of recognition and approval by a male, is invisible and beneath even your own notice?
And it can't even be just some random guy, or even a guy in a position of authority: even a teacher or a boss or a supervisor, people whose judgement of me should have an effect on how I perceive myself and my accomplishments, even THEY don't matter in this Bizarro Gladys World. Only the opinions of potential Princes Charming; only the judgements of men in whom I feel a romantic/sexual interest--those are the only ones that count. Average Joe need not apply.
The intelligent, logical, rational, well-read and well-educated feminist Gladys knows that every single one of those beliefs I've listed above is bubbling, festering, noisome, malodorous bovine excreta of the purest form...
...but it's clear from situations past and present that intelligent, logical, rational, well-read well-educated feminist Gladys is NOT ruling the emotional roost here.
And yes, it would be VERY much worth my while to get rid of that ridiculous backwards belief system...and I would, too, if I had the slightest notion how to go about it. I think it may be the root of much of my unhappiness, my apathy, my inactivity...nearly everything. If a woman succeeds in the forest, and there's no man there to hear her, does she make a sound?
So: apparently I am carrying around some bad mental wiring, some old misconnection that tells me if no man wants me, I am worth nothing; if no man wants me, my accomplishments may as well not exist, and even if there IS a man who wants me, if he does not recognize those accomplishments as worthwhile, then they lose their worth to me as well.
What a fucked-up world-view. And I haven't the slightest notion of how to un-fuck it. If my mind was a computer, I would recommend a total rebuild--wipe the hard drive, reinstall a clean OS, andadd back all the data piece by piece, without the bad files. Unfortunately, that's not an option here... as this makes quite clear, science doesn't fix everything. Instead I'm left with the disquieting knowledge that I may actually be one of the most screwed-up people I know, and not in that cool, interesting screwed-up sense--I mean, in the sense of "Wow, that's seriously, seriously lame."
Lameness aside, though, it's easy to follow the rest of the road all the way straight down: if the only view that matters is the view of the guy who's interested, and there's no guy who's interested, then I am basically invisible and in order to be a useful contributing member of society, I must attract a male. Barring a fluke like JP, that will be impossible given my current appearance and weight; ergo, a)my current physical attributes render me worthless; b)I will only become worthwhile again once I lose some weight.
Again: what a fucked-up world view. I'm gonna call it a night. Thank you, all, for helping me think this whole thing through.
Am I seeing a counselor? Yes. She's one of the main singers in the "have the surgery!" chorus; she's convinced that I'd be much less-depressed if I lost weight and thus, liked myself better. The problem with that, though, is what seems to be my underlying "logic": if I lose weight, others will find me more attractive, and therefore I will like myself better. That's a perfectly accurate statement of my thought processes, and it overlooks the elephant in the room:
Why, exactly, do I base my opinion of myself on what others think of me? Particularly potential partners? Why the hell does that even MATTER??
But it does. That's the bitch of it; since I have been able to remember, the opinion of potential love interests has absolutely superseded my own opinions in nearly every way. I'm talking five, six, ten years old: my self-esteem was absolutely entangled with whatever my latest crush thought of me, or if he thought of me at all.
First of all: Yes, I know that's sick. Well-aware of that, thanks. :)
Secondly--and much more interesting to me--WHERE DID THAT COME FROM??? (There are times I feel like, if I could answer that question, I would be able to understand every stupid decision I've made in my entire life--especially the financial ones, but there have been plenty of others as well.) What, exactly, happened in the first four or five or six years of my life that taught me:
--it is more important what some little boy thinks of you, than what you think/know about yourself
--your accomplishments are only valid if some male thinks they are valid
--anything you can do, or be, or think, unless it is given the proper degree of recognition and approval by a male, is invisible and beneath even your own notice?
And it can't even be just some random guy, or even a guy in a position of authority: even a teacher or a boss or a supervisor, people whose judgement of me should have an effect on how I perceive myself and my accomplishments, even THEY don't matter in this Bizarro Gladys World. Only the opinions of potential Princes Charming; only the judgements of men in whom I feel a romantic/sexual interest--those are the only ones that count. Average Joe need not apply.
The intelligent, logical, rational, well-read and well-educated feminist Gladys knows that every single one of those beliefs I've listed above is bubbling, festering, noisome, malodorous bovine excreta of the purest form...
...but it's clear from situations past and present that intelligent, logical, rational, well-read well-educated feminist Gladys is NOT ruling the emotional roost here.
And yes, it would be VERY much worth my while to get rid of that ridiculous backwards belief system...and I would, too, if I had the slightest notion how to go about it. I think it may be the root of much of my unhappiness, my apathy, my inactivity...nearly everything. If a woman succeeds in the forest, and there's no man there to hear her, does she make a sound?
So: apparently I am carrying around some bad mental wiring, some old misconnection that tells me if no man wants me, I am worth nothing; if no man wants me, my accomplishments may as well not exist, and even if there IS a man who wants me, if he does not recognize those accomplishments as worthwhile, then they lose their worth to me as well.
What a fucked-up world-view. And I haven't the slightest notion of how to un-fuck it. If my mind was a computer, I would recommend a total rebuild--wipe the hard drive, reinstall a clean OS, andadd back all the data piece by piece, without the bad files. Unfortunately, that's not an option here... as this makes quite clear, science doesn't fix everything. Instead I'm left with the disquieting knowledge that I may actually be one of the most screwed-up people I know, and not in that cool, interesting screwed-up sense--I mean, in the sense of "Wow, that's seriously, seriously lame."
Lameness aside, though, it's easy to follow the rest of the road all the way straight down: if the only view that matters is the view of the guy who's interested, and there's no guy who's interested, then I am basically invisible and in order to be a useful contributing member of society, I must attract a male. Barring a fluke like JP, that will be impossible given my current appearance and weight; ergo, a)my current physical attributes render me worthless; b)I will only become worthwhile again once I lose some weight.
Again: what a fucked-up world view. I'm gonna call it a night. Thank you, all, for helping me think this whole thing through.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Continuation
So: back to my rant.
The story thus far: When I was young, all I heard about from my mom was how I needed to watch my weight. How I was already too heavy. How I shouldn't eat X, Y, or Z--regardless of the fact that those were foods she had chosen, portioned, and prepared. Vegetables--in fact, anything vaguely wholesome--were a source of battle--and anyone who's read my writing for very long knows what happens when I'm faced with a battle! And yet despite all this, I didn't really GET fat til I was 22. But all my life--and my friends can tell you this--I always believed I was fat. ("We kept trying to tell you different," Firefly said one time, "but you didn't believe us." But how could I? Mothers don't lie, do they? And they're not....you know, WRONG...)
An aside: how is it that I can reject NEARLY EVERY OTHER THING MY MOM BELIEVES, yet the one thing I can't toss out is the one that affects me most profoundly? Because it plays into my fears, that's why. I can reject, say, her brand of religion because I have never thought I believed the things she does; but because I have always been afraid of being thought of as ugly, I can easily accept the thought that it might be true.
Anyway. From the time I was 22, my weight has fluctuated pretty widely. I was in the low 140's when JP died; however, the minute I quit heroin the weight started coming back. I was a solid size 12 in November of 1995; by the time I came back from Charlotte I was a size 18. (Right now I am a 24; the lowest I've been in the last 6 years was a brief stay at 20 before settling in for a long back-and-forth between 22 and 24.) Part of the reason I got back on heroin was that I wanted to be a size 12 again, so I could be pretty. It didn't work; apparently the weight-loss is specific to the first experiences with the drug, and in the end I found that it was actually stimulating my appetite. Just my luck.
That was when my sweet tooth took off, as well. I could drink vast expanses of Pepsi, shovel down anything sugary-sweet--candy, ice cream, cake and cookies; and I DID, because there was no one there to stop me. This went on for quite a few years...and slowly, slowly, my weight climbed.
Which brings me to the here and now. I look in the mirror and I don't like what I see. With very few exceptions I don't even ENJOY food anymore; what I eat is often based on what's quickest to make, cheapest to buy, and easiest to clean up. Much of the time it's noodle-based, sometimes just exactly that: plain noodles, with a bit of butter and parmesan. And sugar, of course (no, not on the noodles--ewwwww!--but after food, there's always something sweet.)
I talked to Debbi today--having sent her the link I'd discovered to our old mutual friend--and she said the following: "I hope he DOES e-mail you back, and you can tell him I said hello and to e-mail me so I can send him a picture. Because you know what? I want ALL those fools to know what I look like now. I'm 163 pounds, I'm damn cute, and my ass looks FABULOUS in a pair of jeans." (As you may have guessed, I hadn't said anything to her about my current emotional state; all the same, that was not an enjoyable piece of the conversation for me.) I can see her point, I guess; however, I also happen to know that she's only switched addictions, and though I'm surely not enough of a hypocrite to judge her for that, it does kinda give the lie to her whole "I'm skinny now, happily-ever-after" story. During our talk on the way back from NASCAR, she said something to the effect of "What they don't tell you, when you have the surgery, is that they're taking your crutch away. You literally CAN'T use food as a crutch anymore, because it will make you sick, and they're not taking away the problems you were using food to escape from--so you just find something else to use instead."
I've been encouraged to have the surgery, at least the lap-band kind (though Debbi says "if you're gonna do it, you might as well do the whole damn thing--the complication risks are pretty much the same and the band has a few other dangers as well.") After seeing what she went through, though, I have steadfastly stood against it. She had complications, a second surgery, weeks of healing time, oozing surgical sites, infections; she lived on fluids for weeks, semi-solids for more weeks, and at one point she was malnourished enough to be experiencing hair loss. And this surgery has been done for such a short time, scientifically speaking, that no one can say for sure whether or not there are any long-term dangers, 20 or 30 or 50 years later. It would suck to have the surgery, be thin enough and pretty enough to actually attract someone, put together this awesome perfect life, and then--20 years from now, as I'm approaching my "golden years"--die from some long-term side effect nobody knew about at the time the surgery was done. That would suck.
And furthermore--#2 on the list of "Why I Don't Want Gastric Bypass Surgery" (#1 being "because I really fear pain")--I don't want to do it because--to me, at least--it seems like cheating, somehow. I'm not saying that I think the people who DO have the surgery are making the wrong choice, or judging them for how they chose to do things--but if I'm going to do something, I'm going to do it with consciousness of the process. If I'm going to do something that requires hard work, then, so be it.
If you sense, reading this, that I'm forming some sort of resolve here, you're not far from the truth. I don't plan to make it a big dramatic crusade, announcing some grand majestic goal and then subjecting everyone to the endless minutiae of food diaries, calorie counts, and the rest. For one--BO-ring!--and further, I don't operate well under such circumstances. The fewer people I tell about a goal, the more likely I am to actually achieve it. (I've been told that's not how most people succeed, but that's just how I work best.) So, without turning it into a big announcement, I will only say: Yes, I am forming some sort of resolve here.
I sort of HAVE to, really, because otherwise I'm going to hate myself into an early grave.
The story thus far: When I was young, all I heard about from my mom was how I needed to watch my weight. How I was already too heavy. How I shouldn't eat X, Y, or Z--regardless of the fact that those were foods she had chosen, portioned, and prepared. Vegetables--in fact, anything vaguely wholesome--were a source of battle--and anyone who's read my writing for very long knows what happens when I'm faced with a battle! And yet despite all this, I didn't really GET fat til I was 22. But all my life--and my friends can tell you this--I always believed I was fat. ("We kept trying to tell you different," Firefly said one time, "but you didn't believe us." But how could I? Mothers don't lie, do they? And they're not....you know, WRONG...)
An aside: how is it that I can reject NEARLY EVERY OTHER THING MY MOM BELIEVES, yet the one thing I can't toss out is the one that affects me most profoundly? Because it plays into my fears, that's why. I can reject, say, her brand of religion because I have never thought I believed the things she does; but because I have always been afraid of being thought of as ugly, I can easily accept the thought that it might be true.
Anyway. From the time I was 22, my weight has fluctuated pretty widely. I was in the low 140's when JP died; however, the minute I quit heroin the weight started coming back. I was a solid size 12 in November of 1995; by the time I came back from Charlotte I was a size 18. (Right now I am a 24; the lowest I've been in the last 6 years was a brief stay at 20 before settling in for a long back-and-forth between 22 and 24.) Part of the reason I got back on heroin was that I wanted to be a size 12 again, so I could be pretty. It didn't work; apparently the weight-loss is specific to the first experiences with the drug, and in the end I found that it was actually stimulating my appetite. Just my luck.
That was when my sweet tooth took off, as well. I could drink vast expanses of Pepsi, shovel down anything sugary-sweet--candy, ice cream, cake and cookies; and I DID, because there was no one there to stop me. This went on for quite a few years...and slowly, slowly, my weight climbed.
Which brings me to the here and now. I look in the mirror and I don't like what I see. With very few exceptions I don't even ENJOY food anymore; what I eat is often based on what's quickest to make, cheapest to buy, and easiest to clean up. Much of the time it's noodle-based, sometimes just exactly that: plain noodles, with a bit of butter and parmesan. And sugar, of course (no, not on the noodles--ewwwww!--but after food, there's always something sweet.)
I talked to Debbi today--having sent her the link I'd discovered to our old mutual friend--and she said the following: "I hope he DOES e-mail you back, and you can tell him I said hello and to e-mail me so I can send him a picture. Because you know what? I want ALL those fools to know what I look like now. I'm 163 pounds, I'm damn cute, and my ass looks FABULOUS in a pair of jeans." (As you may have guessed, I hadn't said anything to her about my current emotional state; all the same, that was not an enjoyable piece of the conversation for me.) I can see her point, I guess; however, I also happen to know that she's only switched addictions, and though I'm surely not enough of a hypocrite to judge her for that, it does kinda give the lie to her whole "I'm skinny now, happily-ever-after" story. During our talk on the way back from NASCAR, she said something to the effect of "What they don't tell you, when you have the surgery, is that they're taking your crutch away. You literally CAN'T use food as a crutch anymore, because it will make you sick, and they're not taking away the problems you were using food to escape from--so you just find something else to use instead."
I've been encouraged to have the surgery, at least the lap-band kind (though Debbi says "if you're gonna do it, you might as well do the whole damn thing--the complication risks are pretty much the same and the band has a few other dangers as well.") After seeing what she went through, though, I have steadfastly stood against it. She had complications, a second surgery, weeks of healing time, oozing surgical sites, infections; she lived on fluids for weeks, semi-solids for more weeks, and at one point she was malnourished enough to be experiencing hair loss. And this surgery has been done for such a short time, scientifically speaking, that no one can say for sure whether or not there are any long-term dangers, 20 or 30 or 50 years later. It would suck to have the surgery, be thin enough and pretty enough to actually attract someone, put together this awesome perfect life, and then--20 years from now, as I'm approaching my "golden years"--die from some long-term side effect nobody knew about at the time the surgery was done. That would suck.
And furthermore--#2 on the list of "Why I Don't Want Gastric Bypass Surgery" (#1 being "because I really fear pain")--I don't want to do it because--to me, at least--it seems like cheating, somehow. I'm not saying that I think the people who DO have the surgery are making the wrong choice, or judging them for how they chose to do things--but if I'm going to do something, I'm going to do it with consciousness of the process. If I'm going to do something that requires hard work, then, so be it.
If you sense, reading this, that I'm forming some sort of resolve here, you're not far from the truth. I don't plan to make it a big dramatic crusade, announcing some grand majestic goal and then subjecting everyone to the endless minutiae of food diaries, calorie counts, and the rest. For one--BO-ring!--and further, I don't operate well under such circumstances. The fewer people I tell about a goal, the more likely I am to actually achieve it. (I've been told that's not how most people succeed, but that's just how I work best.) So, without turning it into a big announcement, I will only say: Yes, I am forming some sort of resolve here.
I sort of HAVE to, really, because otherwise I'm going to hate myself into an early grave.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Follow-up
So on the bus on the way home from downtown, I was thinking (or trying to--there was this trio of friends, two girls and a guy, and the girls had two of the WORST laughs I've ever heard in my life, and they were having one of those nights where EVERYTHING is funny)...Anyway, I was trying to figure out what, exactly, I think is wrong with me. I don't mean little details, like "I'm disorganized" or whatever; I mean the fundamental thing that makes me dislike myself so damn much.
You know what I came up with?
I dislike myself because I'm fat and ugly.
(Spins, stop snarling. I can hear you all the way in Chicago. I'll explain it.)
If I take a reasonably-realistic look at my inner self, I come out better than average. I'm intelligent, I'm creative, I'm funny, I care about other people, I'm not mean-spirited (much), I'm reasonably moral...Yeah, I have some flaws, but for the most part they're outweighed by the good qualities.
If I look in the mirror, though, everything goes directly to shit.
To begin with: There are large-sized women who still look good. They take the time and make an effort to look good, and many of them have a sense of style that enables them to do that. (Then there are the ones who wear super-tight t-shirts that don't all-the-way cover the belly...but I digress. Man, the things you see on the CTA--seriously. When you can see three inches of flesh between the bottom of the shirt and the waistband? You need to go a size up. Sorry....) Anyway. There are larger women who look good.
I am not one of these.
I have never, NEVER had a sense of style. When I was young, we had school uniforms, which choked out any sense of individuality (we weren't even allowed to wear striped socks.) Other than uniforms and jeans, though, my mom made many of my clothes, and bought the rest. And of course, she made, and bought, the clothes SHE wanted me to wear. They were sensible and serviceable; they were not attractive, by any means. As I got older, I would go shopping with my friends, but I always felt uncomfortable in wearing anything attention-getting. (We'll get to the "why" of that in just a moment.) On the rare occasions that I did want to buy something trendy, for the most part it was shot down by the clothing-buyer: Mom. I tried to balance what I liked with what was in style and with what my mom was willing to pay for; most of the time I came out looking like a damn train-wreck. And being an only child, with no older cousins or anyone else in my life to point me in a different direction, I had only my own likes and dislikes to follow--and again, I was always uncomfortable in clothes.
And why was that, you ask?
From the time I was three, I have fought against my weight.
Wait: no. There's more to that sentence.
From the time I was three, I have been urged by my mother to fight against my weight.
That's far more accurate. From my earliest days, I can remember being cautioned against taking second helpings, or eating anything I enjoyed. If I ignored her exhortations, I would be likely to hear the following: "Well, go ahead, but when you get older and you're fat, don't blame me!" (Would it be ridiculous to bring up the fact that SHE COOKED THE FOOD? She chose the menus; she chose how much to cook. But if I ate it, that was MY fault.)
But here's the thing, see--She talked about "when you get older" but it was very clear she thought I was too heavy from my very earliest days. And as I have said before--I have pictures of myself throughout my childhood. I had a little tummy, like many children do, but in no way could I have been considered "overweight", "obese", or even "chunky". I was at the high end of normal. I don't recall ever hearing a doctor say anything about losing weight, when I was a child.
And yet it was a constant theme. She bought me diet books when I was nine; took me to a dietician when I was 15. Hearing over and over and over that you have a weight problem--what do you think that's going to do to a child's mind?
I have a witness to all this, see. Debbi's family had the same issue, only worse; her little sister was the cutesy little skinny thing, and Debbi was the normal-sized child. And like me, all Debbi ever heard about was "fat fat fat". I have pictures of Debbi from this era as well; if I didn't care about my anonymity, in fact, I'd post one of them, a picture of the two of us standing together, taken when I was eleven and she was ten. We look like normal little girls.
Flash forward twenty-five years. Before her gastric bypass, Debbi weighed over 300 pounds. I currently weigh 260. That doesn't JUST HAPPEN. That's not just "the American diet". That, my friends, is the product of hearing the same drumbeat, pounded into your head, over and over and over. "You're fat," "you're fat," "you're fat," becomes, after the five-millionth repetition, a perfectly good justification for that second donut, or the fettucine Alfredo, or the pint of Heath Bar Crunch after a bad day. "What does it matter? I'm already fat." And eventually--eventually, yeah, you are. (Both Debbi and I have agreed that, especially beginning in about junior high, food became a rebellion for both of us. I remember sneaking off to the 7-Eleven and buying tons of candy, then going back to my room and snorking it all down while listening to the radio. Neither of us had a weight problem then, though; there are other pictures of us, at 16 and 17, and we still look perfectly normal.)
There's more to this--lots more--but I'm stopping here for now.
You know what I came up with?
I dislike myself because I'm fat and ugly.
(Spins, stop snarling. I can hear you all the way in Chicago. I'll explain it.)
If I take a reasonably-realistic look at my inner self, I come out better than average. I'm intelligent, I'm creative, I'm funny, I care about other people, I'm not mean-spirited (much), I'm reasonably moral...Yeah, I have some flaws, but for the most part they're outweighed by the good qualities.
If I look in the mirror, though, everything goes directly to shit.
To begin with: There are large-sized women who still look good. They take the time and make an effort to look good, and many of them have a sense of style that enables them to do that. (Then there are the ones who wear super-tight t-shirts that don't all-the-way cover the belly...but I digress. Man, the things you see on the CTA--seriously. When you can see three inches of flesh between the bottom of the shirt and the waistband? You need to go a size up. Sorry....) Anyway. There are larger women who look good.
I am not one of these.
I have never, NEVER had a sense of style. When I was young, we had school uniforms, which choked out any sense of individuality (we weren't even allowed to wear striped socks.) Other than uniforms and jeans, though, my mom made many of my clothes, and bought the rest. And of course, she made, and bought, the clothes SHE wanted me to wear. They were sensible and serviceable; they were not attractive, by any means. As I got older, I would go shopping with my friends, but I always felt uncomfortable in wearing anything attention-getting. (We'll get to the "why" of that in just a moment.) On the rare occasions that I did want to buy something trendy, for the most part it was shot down by the clothing-buyer: Mom. I tried to balance what I liked with what was in style and with what my mom was willing to pay for; most of the time I came out looking like a damn train-wreck. And being an only child, with no older cousins or anyone else in my life to point me in a different direction, I had only my own likes and dislikes to follow--and again, I was always uncomfortable in clothes.
And why was that, you ask?
From the time I was three, I have fought against my weight.
Wait: no. There's more to that sentence.
From the time I was three, I have been urged by my mother to fight against my weight.
That's far more accurate. From my earliest days, I can remember being cautioned against taking second helpings, or eating anything I enjoyed. If I ignored her exhortations, I would be likely to hear the following: "Well, go ahead, but when you get older and you're fat, don't blame me!" (Would it be ridiculous to bring up the fact that SHE COOKED THE FOOD? She chose the menus; she chose how much to cook. But if I ate it, that was MY fault.)
But here's the thing, see--She talked about "when you get older" but it was very clear she thought I was too heavy from my very earliest days. And as I have said before--I have pictures of myself throughout my childhood. I had a little tummy, like many children do, but in no way could I have been considered "overweight", "obese", or even "chunky". I was at the high end of normal. I don't recall ever hearing a doctor say anything about losing weight, when I was a child.
And yet it was a constant theme. She bought me diet books when I was nine; took me to a dietician when I was 15. Hearing over and over and over that you have a weight problem--what do you think that's going to do to a child's mind?
I have a witness to all this, see. Debbi's family had the same issue, only worse; her little sister was the cutesy little skinny thing, and Debbi was the normal-sized child. And like me, all Debbi ever heard about was "fat fat fat". I have pictures of Debbi from this era as well; if I didn't care about my anonymity, in fact, I'd post one of them, a picture of the two of us standing together, taken when I was eleven and she was ten. We look like normal little girls.
Flash forward twenty-five years. Before her gastric bypass, Debbi weighed over 300 pounds. I currently weigh 260. That doesn't JUST HAPPEN. That's not just "the American diet". That, my friends, is the product of hearing the same drumbeat, pounded into your head, over and over and over. "You're fat," "you're fat," "you're fat," becomes, after the five-millionth repetition, a perfectly good justification for that second donut, or the fettucine Alfredo, or the pint of Heath Bar Crunch after a bad day. "What does it matter? I'm already fat." And eventually--eventually, yeah, you are. (Both Debbi and I have agreed that, especially beginning in about junior high, food became a rebellion for both of us. I remember sneaking off to the 7-Eleven and buying tons of candy, then going back to my room and snorking it all down while listening to the radio. Neither of us had a weight problem then, though; there are other pictures of us, at 16 and 17, and we still look perfectly normal.)
There's more to this--lots more--but I'm stopping here for now.
Untitled
I'm having a bad night.
My work schedule has been shifted for the next couple of weeks, and so I'm downtown every evening til late. The city at night is different than the city in the daytime. During the day you know people are on business, or for the most part you can at least convince yourself of that. But very few people, especially on a Friday night, come downtown for any businesslike purpose. They come to hold hands and walk down Michigan Avenue, or take their kids to see plays, or go to bars and restaurants and there is nothing in the world like walking unnoticed through all those connected, happy people to make me realize how completely, crushingly insignificant and alone I am. Even here at work, there are pictures on all the walls of people who have done something with their lives, people who have made something of themselves--won Nobel prizes or gotten books upon books published or founded entire philosophies, and here's fat little old me in a t-shirt and jeans, walking through the hallways pushing a cart filled with paper to stuff in the printers. On a Friday night, in Chicago, at 38 years old.
I found a friend online tonight. I've mentioned him here before; he's from a long time ago and he was significant in pretty much everything that went on. He's in California now; I think he's living under another name, and if his MySpace is any indication I can sorta understand why. Now, as then, he's fucking gorgeous; unlike when I knew him, though, he's got (it seems) a lot of friends. A lot, a LOT of friends. On my MySpace page, I have seven friends; he has 958. I wonder what JP would say about that.
And here's the thing: when we were in school together he and I were just alike. We were both these smart, nerdy writer kids. We both had friends, mostly the same friends: nerdy writer kids, theater kids, math kids. Of all the people I went to high school with, I would have never imagined that mine would have been the life that would turn out like this. I always thought my life would have some...you know, LIVING in it.
This is not what I wanted. This is not who I wanted to be, where I wanted to be, what I wanted to be doing.
I really don't know where to turn anymore. All the things I tell myself to make it better, they've all stopped working. It gets harder and harder to hold back the...the what? Fear, maybe--despair, somewhat--complete fucking bewilderment at the wreckage of what started out so promising? Yeah, that too. There are people in my life who would offer me an easy answer to "how did I get here?"--people like my mom, who (and this is just a tangent) has had more to do with it than anyone else, including those who she feels are responsible for screwing up my life--but although I've made mistakes, THOSE are the things I've done that have made me feel MOST like a normal human being. It's times like this, when I'm doing all the "right" things and all it does is make me numb and make me hate myself, that I start hoping there's a new mistake around the corner. At least if there's a little drama, I know I'm alive...
I wonder who I would be if I didn't have to answer to anyone but myself.
My work schedule has been shifted for the next couple of weeks, and so I'm downtown every evening til late. The city at night is different than the city in the daytime. During the day you know people are on business, or for the most part you can at least convince yourself of that. But very few people, especially on a Friday night, come downtown for any businesslike purpose. They come to hold hands and walk down Michigan Avenue, or take their kids to see plays, or go to bars and restaurants and there is nothing in the world like walking unnoticed through all those connected, happy people to make me realize how completely, crushingly insignificant and alone I am. Even here at work, there are pictures on all the walls of people who have done something with their lives, people who have made something of themselves--won Nobel prizes or gotten books upon books published or founded entire philosophies, and here's fat little old me in a t-shirt and jeans, walking through the hallways pushing a cart filled with paper to stuff in the printers. On a Friday night, in Chicago, at 38 years old.
I found a friend online tonight. I've mentioned him here before; he's from a long time ago and he was significant in pretty much everything that went on. He's in California now; I think he's living under another name, and if his MySpace is any indication I can sorta understand why. Now, as then, he's fucking gorgeous; unlike when I knew him, though, he's got (it seems) a lot of friends. A lot, a LOT of friends. On my MySpace page, I have seven friends; he has 958. I wonder what JP would say about that.
And here's the thing: when we were in school together he and I were just alike. We were both these smart, nerdy writer kids. We both had friends, mostly the same friends: nerdy writer kids, theater kids, math kids. Of all the people I went to high school with, I would have never imagined that mine would have been the life that would turn out like this. I always thought my life would have some...you know, LIVING in it.
This is not what I wanted. This is not who I wanted to be, where I wanted to be, what I wanted to be doing.
I really don't know where to turn anymore. All the things I tell myself to make it better, they've all stopped working. It gets harder and harder to hold back the...the what? Fear, maybe--despair, somewhat--complete fucking bewilderment at the wreckage of what started out so promising? Yeah, that too. There are people in my life who would offer me an easy answer to "how did I get here?"--people like my mom, who (and this is just a tangent) has had more to do with it than anyone else, including those who she feels are responsible for screwing up my life--but although I've made mistakes, THOSE are the things I've done that have made me feel MOST like a normal human being. It's times like this, when I'm doing all the "right" things and all it does is make me numb and make me hate myself, that I start hoping there's a new mistake around the corner. At least if there's a little drama, I know I'm alive...
I wonder who I would be if I didn't have to answer to anyone but myself.
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
October
This is my least-favorite month.
I hate that it is; it used to be one of my favorites, second only to May, but after thirteen years I haven't been able to shake my resentment of this month. It's beautiful, it's beautiful, it's beautiful and then it bites me in the ass, every single year. I wake up in the morning and the sun is shining and the air is crisp and the birds are singing and the leaves are glowing with their gorgeous colors in the morning light, and by nightfall I'm lost in a dream of a long-gone time, with songs in my head that only matter to me, and so I go home and drink more than I ought to, and try to forget...which never, never happens.
I miss the past so much.
It's worse, this year, than usual. Not as bad as three years ago, mind, but bad. Bad like recurring-dreams, sleep-the-day-away, no-really-I'm-fine bad; bad as in, I can remember the lyrics and the melody of every single song that was on the radio back then, but when you ask me something simple like my work extension, I have to peek. Bad as in, sitting in a fifth-floor office this afternoon and looking out the northward-facing window, I had to stop and shake myself because after all this time, still, STILL, there are moments when I question how any of this could possibly be real. How did this happen? I ask myself. There has to be some kind of mistake. He can't be dead, he just can't. There was so much left to do. You'd think that after thirteen years, at least THAT thought wouldn't sneak around behind you and yell BOO! You'd think that after thirteen years there'd be at least a modicum of peacefulness attached to all those memories; but there isn't. All there is is anger and sadness and longing, disbelief and hurt and a great big empty hole that nothing and nobody can fill.
I was watching some kids' show last weekend, and somewhere along the way I thought about growing up; about all the "lasts". I try to remember the ends of things: the last sleepover, the last time my friends and I rode our bikes to Venture together to look at makeup; the last time I spoke to Karen or Connie or any of the other people I lost touch with later on. I try to remember the last time I played--not the adult version, but with the abandon and unselfconsciousness of a child. The last time I made mud pies, or played chase at Debbi's house; the last time I roller-skated in my mother's basement, or made a silly tape-recording with a friend, or played with dolls. I don't remember ANY of these "last" times; I was a kid and then somehow, I wasn't one. I was a teenager and then suddenly I was an adult, and even then there were stages happening which I wasn't really aware of, because I remember being happy and being playful and being silly even later.
I miss those days. Mostly I miss JP. I don't know what to do about that anymore. My doc thinks maybe it's time to try some different meds; at this point, I'm certainly not against it. Sometimes, though, I think the only thing that would put me back together, make me even care again, hasn't been invented yet.
I want so badly to believe in heaven, you know? I want so badly to believe that someday, when I die, I will see him again and I will be able to tell him how horrible it was without him; about all the things he missed and all the things I wanted to share with him, all the things I wanted him to know about, for all the days of my life. But I can't bring myself to believe. I can't risk believing in something that logic tells me doesn't exist; and I can't make that leap of faith anymore, because the so-called "faithful" in my life so far have been so full of ulterior motives. None of the beliefs I can accept in any way lead to some eternal happiness; the ones that DO lead to eternal happiness are the ones I find most objectionable. Sometimes I wish I could just accept things, the way I see so many people do; just lean back into a set of beliefs and rules, like an old comfy chair, and follow along and question only little things. Instead I have to be this person, the one who reinvents every wheel and questions every dogma, and I know those are supposed to be GOOD qualities, but I'll tell you this: it gets very, very tiring. There are days I just want to believe that everything really WILL be okay in the end, despite all evidence to the contrary...but until I have some proof that there will be eternal compensation for these years of sadness, some afterlife that will make it all worthwhile, belief is not something I'm prepared to risk. It's like the celestial equivalent of being a Cubs fan; we say "wait til next year", and we WANT to believe it, but even when we put up a 97-64 season, we have this little doubt in our hearts because most of us KNOW what generally happens next. Some year it won't, and maybe some year I'll be able to believe too...but right now, my view of the afterlife is that it's an eternal Cubs post-seasom--great hopes, disappointing reality.
I miss him. I miss ME. I miss hope, maybe most of all; I miss hope.
I hate that it is; it used to be one of my favorites, second only to May, but after thirteen years I haven't been able to shake my resentment of this month. It's beautiful, it's beautiful, it's beautiful and then it bites me in the ass, every single year. I wake up in the morning and the sun is shining and the air is crisp and the birds are singing and the leaves are glowing with their gorgeous colors in the morning light, and by nightfall I'm lost in a dream of a long-gone time, with songs in my head that only matter to me, and so I go home and drink more than I ought to, and try to forget...which never, never happens.
I miss the past so much.
It's worse, this year, than usual. Not as bad as three years ago, mind, but bad. Bad like recurring-dreams, sleep-the-day-away, no-really-I'm-fine bad; bad as in, I can remember the lyrics and the melody of every single song that was on the radio back then, but when you ask me something simple like my work extension, I have to peek. Bad as in, sitting in a fifth-floor office this afternoon and looking out the northward-facing window, I had to stop and shake myself because after all this time, still, STILL, there are moments when I question how any of this could possibly be real. How did this happen? I ask myself. There has to be some kind of mistake. He can't be dead, he just can't. There was so much left to do. You'd think that after thirteen years, at least THAT thought wouldn't sneak around behind you and yell BOO! You'd think that after thirteen years there'd be at least a modicum of peacefulness attached to all those memories; but there isn't. All there is is anger and sadness and longing, disbelief and hurt and a great big empty hole that nothing and nobody can fill.
I was watching some kids' show last weekend, and somewhere along the way I thought about growing up; about all the "lasts". I try to remember the ends of things: the last sleepover, the last time my friends and I rode our bikes to Venture together to look at makeup; the last time I spoke to Karen or Connie or any of the other people I lost touch with later on. I try to remember the last time I played--not the adult version, but with the abandon and unselfconsciousness of a child. The last time I made mud pies, or played chase at Debbi's house; the last time I roller-skated in my mother's basement, or made a silly tape-recording with a friend, or played with dolls. I don't remember ANY of these "last" times; I was a kid and then somehow, I wasn't one. I was a teenager and then suddenly I was an adult, and even then there were stages happening which I wasn't really aware of, because I remember being happy and being playful and being silly even later.
I miss those days. Mostly I miss JP. I don't know what to do about that anymore. My doc thinks maybe it's time to try some different meds; at this point, I'm certainly not against it. Sometimes, though, I think the only thing that would put me back together, make me even care again, hasn't been invented yet.
I want so badly to believe in heaven, you know? I want so badly to believe that someday, when I die, I will see him again and I will be able to tell him how horrible it was without him; about all the things he missed and all the things I wanted to share with him, all the things I wanted him to know about, for all the days of my life. But I can't bring myself to believe. I can't risk believing in something that logic tells me doesn't exist; and I can't make that leap of faith anymore, because the so-called "faithful" in my life so far have been so full of ulterior motives. None of the beliefs I can accept in any way lead to some eternal happiness; the ones that DO lead to eternal happiness are the ones I find most objectionable. Sometimes I wish I could just accept things, the way I see so many people do; just lean back into a set of beliefs and rules, like an old comfy chair, and follow along and question only little things. Instead I have to be this person, the one who reinvents every wheel and questions every dogma, and I know those are supposed to be GOOD qualities, but I'll tell you this: it gets very, very tiring. There are days I just want to believe that everything really WILL be okay in the end, despite all evidence to the contrary...but until I have some proof that there will be eternal compensation for these years of sadness, some afterlife that will make it all worthwhile, belief is not something I'm prepared to risk. It's like the celestial equivalent of being a Cubs fan; we say "wait til next year", and we WANT to believe it, but even when we put up a 97-64 season, we have this little doubt in our hearts because most of us KNOW what generally happens next. Some year it won't, and maybe some year I'll be able to believe too...but right now, my view of the afterlife is that it's an eternal Cubs post-seasom--great hopes, disappointing reality.
I miss him. I miss ME. I miss hope, maybe most of all; I miss hope.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Chicago Has a Sad, Part Two
Yeah, I have to admit, I sorta saw this one coming. Or maybe it's just Chicago Post-Seasonal Baseball Neuropathy--we've all been kicked so hard and so often in October that we really don't feel it too much anymore.
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Chicago Has a Sad, Part One
It would have been so nice, to do it this year--the symmetry of it, the whole "Team of Destiny" motif finally carried to conclusion...
Of course, 101 is a nice number too.
Friday, October 3, 2008
The Bailout
Question on the news: When Congress gives the banks $700B of tax money, what will be the benefits to the average American?
The average American, says the news guy, will find that it's easier to qualify for a loan than it would have been without the bailout. Unless Congress passed the bailout, banks would only want to lend to the safest borrowers. WITH the bailout, banks will be more relaxed about their requirements as to who can qualify for a loan. (Newsman smiles complacently.)
Somewhere, a small voice clears its throat, and asks a question:
"Um, excuse me, but...
...weren't those more-relaxed qualifying standards the main reason we're in this trouble in the FIRST place?"
The average American, says the news guy, will find that it's easier to qualify for a loan than it would have been without the bailout. Unless Congress passed the bailout, banks would only want to lend to the safest borrowers. WITH the bailout, banks will be more relaxed about their requirements as to who can qualify for a loan. (Newsman smiles complacently.)
Somewhere, a small voice clears its throat, and asks a question:
"Um, excuse me, but...
...weren't those more-relaxed qualifying standards the main reason we're in this trouble in the FIRST place?"
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