sometimes it's a bitch.

Well, I'm still here today. I've survived a lot of chaos, and I've muddled through with a lot of more recent health problems. Some of my health problems may be related to anxiety about other health problems, and they still don't know what might be the underlying cause of those. I took a break from doctors and trying to figure it out, but I got back on the train yesterday. I feel more hopeful than I did--I have a new doctor and she's much more helpful than my old one. She's truthful, which can be scary, but as I learned yesterday, also an absolute must when it comes to my health.

She was truthful enough to tell me that based on my records, the Lyme disease test that my old doctor told me they had already performed, wasn't actually performed.

Today that leaves me in a waiting game once again for more blood work results for that, and a slew of other things. On one hand, while you're waiting it feels like you'd be glad to have some answers. I mean, no one wants Lyme disease. So on the other hand, while you're waiting, you're shitting yourself hoping you don't have something horrible that requires a whole lot of medical treatment over the next several months. And that horrible 'C' word. Let's just forget about that for the moment.

What I'm trying to do while I wait, is think good thoughts. Thoughts about the days that I've felt better. Thoughts about how much worse I felt six months ago, and how some of the initial symptoms have subsided. Thoughts about how effective positive thinking can be.

I've become frustrated with the comings and goings of my symptoms. Sometimes, when I'm feeling good, I make plans to do things. The next week comes along, and I'm not feeling good, so I have to break them. This just feeds the anxiety. I feel like I've let people down. Like I've let myself down because I'm not strong enough to break the cycle. I keep trying, because sometimes it feels like I'm fighting for my life. Not in the literal sense, but fighting to maintain some kind of normalcy during this somewhat uncomfortable time. I also have to stop fighting sometimes and remember that I can't always win. Sometimes I have to call a truce with this stuff and save my energy for doing some regular, everyday things. The dishes, some cooking, and a load of laundry or two. Sometimes I have to remind myself that my friends are there for me, too, and that they care enough to know that I'm in the middle of a struggle. That they're not unsympathetic to my plight. I put a lot of pressure on myself, and it's really about something over which I have no control. I have to remember this.

So it's Tuesday morning, and I'm waiting to find out if my blood tests are normal again. I'm waiting to find out whether or not I have Lyme disease, or possibly TB. The goal is Thursday. I have to stay sane until Thursday.

And I'm throwing it out there into the universe, 'C' word stay the fuck away.

HappyThankYouMorePlease.

Life is just like the movies. Not like what happens in movies. Life is like the part where you think you're going to get one thing based on the trailers, and then maybe you've just seen all of the funny parts and the rest of the movie is very, very serious. Or sometimes it's the other way around.

I've tried to train myself not to expect anything in particular, but to try really, really hard to make things come out all right. I don't know if that's the right thing to do, but it's still what I do. It probably always will be. I can't help but notice that sometimes you can try really hard, and things still come out shit, or at least someone else will think they're shit, and well, I just can't always make everyone happy. I had a friend once mistake me for someone who would try really hard to do things their way--if I succeeded, they would be happy and like me. It took me about 20 years to realize that we weren't meant to be friends. That was about three years after she realized that we weren't meant to be friends. Does it bother me sometimes? A ton.

Even without her, I guess I just try to be the best possible version of me. Nothing less. If it's like the movies, one day that might mean it's not as good as you'd have expected, and sometimes it's better. I had one of my better days last week, which helped me during a telephone interview, and I'm happy to say that they emailed me today (on Sunday!) to schedule an in person interview for this week. So, if anyone really did send those positive thoughts I had asked for in my previous post, it worked! Thank you, and please keep more of the same coming. I've been feeling more under the weather than usual...I think it's just post-cold residual, so any encouragement and positive reinforcement goes a long way.

An aside, four months of unemployment goes by very, very fast. I know I'm going to look back and kick myself for not making more of the time.

possibly, maybe.

I may survive this cold/flu season yet. And maybe I'll survive this mystery illness that's been hacking away at me since last March. 

I've been unemployed now for four months as of tomorrow. We've adjusted our lifestyle to fit my new and improved budget. I say improved, because we've fixed it so that we have less of what we think we want and more of what we need. The food's better, because we have to plan our meals, and have adjusted our diet accordingly. We spend more on the food, but I spend much less on gas. Currently I'm running through one tank a month. I refinanced my car around September, knowing in advance that it may come down to this, so I earned a better interest rate and a lower payment. We had a lean, but meaningful Christmas. I buy toothpaste at the dollar store, and we finish our leftovers more often, which means I'm even more creative with the food we have instead of being lazy and ordering out. I exercise for fun sometimes, which has the side effect of getting me more healthy. We moved, and with the "no more smoking in the house" rule, the cold outside has effectively cut down my cigarette intake by half. I'd say unemployment has lead me down a better path. Better for my health, better for the environment, and oddly enough, better for my finances.

Having made these adjustments is leading me to a place whereby I can go back to work part-time, and possibly manage to start something to--after 20 years away--continue my education. And having finally met the guy that's completely behind my sometimes unconventional approaches to life and work, I can say with confidence that I'm more than content, if not happy. The wheels are finally in motion. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for a long-awaited interview that might place me in just this kind of position. I can only hope that my health continues to improve as I try to get a running start. I'm also hoping my friends, new and old, can send some positive thoughts my way to help keep me moving toward this new chapter. Who knows, maybe it will lead to a bunch of new chapters. The kind I can bind together and hopefully find in a store window someday. And yes, you'll all be obliged to buy a copy, even if it's rubbish. That's what friends are for, right? 


So. What's everyone else planning for the rest of their life?

and upward.

It's morning. The cats, starting with the smallest one woke me up at 5 a.m. The door to our bedroom was shut, and she was locked out. From what I could gather by her tiny, desperate mews was she missed and wanted to snuggle with our next oldest cat, the black one. When he heard her, he knew his go-to guy, the one willing to get out of bed and let him out to see her, which was not me. That was that. I was awake (again) at 5 a.m. Once the black one was out of the room, and his liberator and I had snuggled back down into the covers, the white one jumped up and onto the bed, walked over both of our still sleepy bodies--this usually includes at least half of his startling body weight stepping on my full bladder--then curled up along side me, effectively sealing me into the already heavy covers. I went back to sleep.

Could this routine be the source of the feeling of heaviness I feel at two in the afternoon to take an hour-long nap on the couch? Maybe. This has, in fact, occurred every morning for at least a month. We all have our routines. Some parts of them are good, some are annoying, or at very least boring, and some are a detriment to progress.

At 6:30 a.m., a new routine begins. I don't get up until 7, after I slip my sweatshirt over my head, put my socks and slippers on, and step out of the bedroom. My coffee's waiting, and we head out onto the porch to start the day. The cold air feels good, because once the cat's got you sealed into the bed, it gets pretty hot under the covers. Occasionally he's close enough to my head to allow me a leg out.  I sleep better those mornings. Anyway.

Flash forward to 7:30 a.m. I'm alone in the house again. I check my bank account online. I look for a job. Or I look at jobs. I'm qualified for very few, or often, none. Hmph.

And now this. I'm making every effort to add this to the routine. I'll also make more effort to make it sound less routine. Blogging. It's not really writing, but it's not not writing. For me, it's like a diary. For others, it's like a game show. Sometimes it's just a bunch of ads and a picture of somebody's feet in the sand. But there's no wrong way to do it. I like it, and I don't. It's undisciplined and I don't have a copy editor. Yet I don't need either. Not for this.

I write about what I know. Or at least how I perceive what I know. My imagination, either fortunately or unfortunately, doesn't work any other way.  I do sometimes wish it did, if escaping into some fantasy world might help me with some of the real life things I face every day. Perhaps I prefer the routine, and most of all the disturbing little breaks in it that give me things to write about. To think about.

8:28 a.m. 

It's time to eat some toast. Whole grain.

how to avoid writing at all.

I've been an idiot. I've had more than enough free time for writing--five or six years ago I would have sold my left arm to be where I am today, minus the illness. I'm much better physically than I was, albeit still a long way from 100 percent. I'm good enough for this, and more of that, and yet here I've been avoiding it at every turn. The words are inside. They've just been shaken up, and I think it's high time I started reorganizing them in a fashion both you and I can understand.

Instead I've been using my "good days" to do the cleaning, to rearrange the furniture in my new apartment at least two or three times, cook almost elaborate meals, and "rest", if resting means watch the stupid Biography channel and fall asleep on the couch for an hour a day. None of this is getting the job done. At first, I thought I needed the rest to feel better. Now I think the rest and the idea behind it has its hold on me. So I'm going to limit that. I'm going to reassess this writing thing and remind myself that every day I have something to say.

I know, I know. I've said this before. It's been a struggle, but when my doctor suggested that I have suppressed anxiety, then tried to feed me little pink pills so that I'd begin to suppress it in a more healthy way, it made me think. Even as I started the pills, I thought perhaps if I try to dig a little deeper, and began to face my fears rather than suppressing them, well maybe, just maybe they'll go flying out the windows and disappear for a long, long time, if not for good. Because really, very few fears are rational ones. I'm sure I'm smart enough to know the difference if I were to look at them straight on. I also know that what happens in my head and heart is of value, and not to be medicated away. So I stopped taking them after a week, some nausea, and a panic attack that made my chest feel like it was going to explode.

Finally, 12 days after the new year began, here I am. Fears and all. In the spirit of de-suppressing, I'll name a few.

I'm afraid that my parents are unhappy, and I'm afraid that one day either I or someone I love will have a fatal wreck. I fear the doctors, because I don't think they work for me anymore. I'm afraid that people think I'm inherently evil, which makes me wonder and sometimes fear that they're correct. I can trace this to the source(s). I'm afraid that I'm in the wrong place at the wrong time, yet I'm afraid if I changed any of it I'd be throwing away the best thing I'll ever experience, and the closest thing to true love I'll ever know. I'm afraid that it's not a true love, but a nice one, and I'm afraid that it really is true, but I just don't know it. I fear that I'll never play music again. I fear that I'm a writer who doesn't write, and that nothing will ever come of it, even if I try. Even though it already has, and then sometimes hasn't. Some days I'm afraid I'll have trouble sleeping at night. Other days I'm afraid that I feel sick because I have some undetected, life-threatening illness. And then I start to fear that I've brought it on myself simply by way of fearing it.

Today is just the beginning. In fact, every day is just another day to begin again. No amount of rearranging the furniture could have helped me see it as much as this past twenty minutes of rearranging the words. How could I have put this off for so long?