up we go.

I'm not giving up. I'm about $2,000 in the co-pay hole, I still don't know why for the past four months my head feels like it's going to rocket off of my neck, and I'm not surprised. I'm blaming the nasty circle of defensive medicine, prescription selling, insurance reforming bullshit we all know is happening. We can't fight it, because we're sick, over-medicated, and poor. This is not news. The reason it's not news, is because they're paying people not to tell us.

I figure if they stop screening me for cancer long enough to listen to all of my symptoms at once instead of fixating on the ones that might be life-threatening but probably aren't, they might be able to give me a diagnosis and a treatment plan. Why this won't happen? Because they avoid diagnosing anything, not for fear of misdiagnosing me, but for the fear me suing them (we little people are actually part of this four-part disaster). Therefore, I'm in referral limbo. Also, they only get paid for 15 minutes no matter what, and giving my four month overall health history at every visit takes at least 30. At this point, I could probably sue them for radiation poisoning after four CT scans and three X-rays, but whatever. 

The only thing Prednisone has done thus far is give me enough of the jitters to give my house a thorough cleaning, and finally enough raw anger to make me get this down. And maybe alleviate just some of the pressure. Not much of a bargain, considering the side effects. I kind of like the vivid waking dreams, anyway.

Still not giving up.

That means I'm going to focus more on this, and other things that matter. I've moved into a great place, with great people, and when I'm down they pick me up. It's good, because I'm finding it harder to get out right now - I'm not really driving due to the random dizziness and hearing problems. 

I'm hoping in the meantime, that wherever I've left off with the people I haven't been able to visit again, or as much, we can pick it up again. I do feel my relationships suffer for all of this, in that I feel disconnected much of the time because of the pressure. I can't read, speak, or process information as well as I know I can, or have in the past, and it's a huge source of frustration. All I've been able to say, at least to my family and closest friends, is that even if I seem absent, I'm still in here and I'm trying like an angry monkey to get out.

No exaggeration. And I'm so grateful to everyone who refuses to let me forget that I'm in here. Please keep it up.

and me, without my raincoat

I used to be able to do this. When I write, I want it to be honest. I used to be more optimistic, but that part of me is on hiatus, or maybe its left for good. I'm afraid to write, because I don't know if it can be good and terrible at the same time. And if it's terrible, does it need to be out there? 

The emotional pressure I put upon myself is enormous, and at this stage, I think I may have buried me. The physical pressure has been another ride I didn't expect, nor have I welcomed it. As of late, I can't tell the difference between the two. Four months ago, the dizzy spells started, then ear pain and popping, pressure in my face and head, and finally the head rushes while I tried to fall asleep. Swollen lymph nodes remain, old and new, and every day I wonder what the hell could be wrong with me.

 There have been terrible times. Blood tests, then wait. Cat scans, then wait. A one month round of antibiotics, and now, Prednisone. Holy side effects, Batman. 

And what do I worry about most through all of it? How my work, my loved ones, and my life are suffering for it. Sometimes I'm too dizzy to drive. Other times the computer screen looks like it's swaying back and forth, and a lot of times, I finally just cry.

I'm still toughing it out. Maybe I can find some optimism here if I really try. If I could just see the bright side, maybe all of these symptoms would just magically disappear. And maybe I could ignore the it when my co-worker rolls her eyes because I'm leaving work at 3:00 instead of 4:30 because the Prednisone makes me feel manic and pukey. As if I'm having a grand time not having the energy to cook dinner when I finally get home, or go for a walk, or sometimes just do the laundry. Or when I'm pulling over on Route 2 with a panic attack so severe that all color fades from my lips and my body turns into an earthquake so shaky that I can't even dial the phone.  I conserve my energy for fighting the panic attacks at work, so she can do less. And she does, believe me. Last I knew GFA home banking isn't an insurance Web site. Neither is Facebook, nor is your hotmail account.

That said, compassion only goes so far. My optimism is leaving. In these crappy financial times, people just get crappier. Compassion leaves the moment people realize that they might have to actually back someone up, like actually do something.

I've been apologizing for all of it. Hundreds of times a day, and if you ask me, it's become a problem. It's come down to apologizing for my very existence, and with that I'm done. It will never be enough - could never be enough. Expecting that it would was the very reason I wasn't sorry enough. Sometimes you can only be one thing to someone ever after. I can forgive, but I can only do that for me, and by doing so I can still continue to be someone that does better every day.

The days that I do come home and manage to cook dinner despite it all, well, those are the good days. For all of the weeks that I have been at work all day everyday, and have managed to help my co-worker finish the work she's let pile up while she was busy surfing the internet, those are good days, too. What makes me do that? Compassion. Not the fake kind, either. She's overwhelmed, and I feel her pain.

Life can be unkind; how cliche. Like the semi-colon. I can still stand, even if I have to do it alone in my little muffled world, for now. What a freaking metaphor.

in case of emergency, break glass

I don’t know if I feel liberated, or stupid. I sat through an all day insurance class today, at the end of which I was likely going to pass a test that would secure the third of five passing scores to complete my CISR designation. Which only means I’ve been appointed a Certified Insurance Service Representative, which in the end as far as education is concerned means next to nothing, except on paper. And I thought, I’ve got my class credits, and that’s really all I need to maintain my insurance license for another three years.

 

I had planned also to go to a wake tonight for a fellow alumni of the high school from which I graduated, and at which I only spent two years. But he was a good guy, we have a lot of mutual friends, and he committed suicide. I'm not unfamiliar with this kind of loss, unfortunately. This may seem like a non sequitur, but it's not. Stay with me.

 

So at 3:15 p.m., I thought, “Fuck the CISR designation,” and walked out at the end of the session without taking the stupid test. I think I was right. My current boss could care less about it, and my next boss will hopefully be me. Because I don’t want to end up like all of the middle-aged, feathered hair, office politics savvy, throw your coworkers under the bus to get ahead other CISR designated stick up their but morons also in attendance. That’s not to leave out the 55 plus-ers.  I’m never getting the old lady, easy to maintain, every hair frozen in place to aqua-net perfection, shiny gold watch to match hair-do. Uh uh. Never.

 

I don’t want to sell insurance for the rest of my life. Period. I want a book deal. Because I deserve it. I have things to say. I have experience, and because living is the thing I’m best at. Not surviving. Living. And writing.

 

I’ve been losing an uphill battle out here, at least as far as doing what’s really right for me, as opposed to what’s good for my boss, my friends, my family. All of it. And in the end I’ve been a nervous wreck, which doesn’t look good on me. I need and want to change this, effective 3 p.m. Thursday afternoon.

 

Work – I give it two more years max. I’m going to save money, and either leave here, buy a house of my own, or take a year off and write, write, write. Or all of the above. I’m not made to work at a place like I have been, with people who don’t care about anything important, serving customers who make every mistake they make someone else’s problem, etc. etc. An example: lady calls about her cancelled insurance after failing to pay her monthly bill for three months. I say the company will take a money order and signed “no loss” today to reinstate. Her reply, “I can’t get out of work to pay my insurance....you’re...you’re USELESS!” and promptly hangs up. Which brings me back to suicide. What if I were someone else (someone weaker)? What if I were going through a divorce, and missed my kids, and I were running out of money because gas is $4.07 a gallon? And I think we’re all killing each other to live, and it has to stop. And I can’t tell her this because she’s a sad, compassionless human being. And I think maybe she could be that other person, too.

 

I just wonder why we’re all doing this to each other, and how in the world we can stop.

 

I'd like to think all of my friends are my friends for life. I also know this can never happen. The most important thing of all is that we're here now. Me and you (and everyone we know).

 

creactivity.

I don't have many answers. The answers I do have are shaky, at best. I make room for this. I breathe. 

I'm not sure what to say about creativity that hasn't been said before. You either have it, or you don't. Or maybe you're one of those people that has a button collection. In the end, all of the buttons make up a collage of colors and texture, and while button collecting doesn't seem very creative, it sure is something to look at. So what makes people tick?

That's what I loved about writing for a newspaper. Finding out what makes people tick, and using what makes me tick to write about it. I miss it terribly, but at the same time, I've had this gnawing feeling that tells me I'm on to something else. Maybe something bigger. Like a novel, or a collection of stories, or an illustrated book of poetry. O.K., probably not the poetry thing. I'm just not all that good at it.

So maybe the thing about creativity, is that whatever it is, creative people just need to make things happen. Even if they don't make any money, or if it's harder than spending their time decompressing after they've done their 40 hours already. Even if it means sacrificing family time, or holidays, or having a bigger, cleaner home than your neighbor. Even if it means sacrificing what's left of all of your time.

As for me, I'd skip three meals a week to have a little bit more time to do all of this. If only the "this" would present itself in such a way that the little voice in my head that tells me I'm all washed up shrivels up and dies. I hate that voice.

I have so much more respect for people when they let creativity rule their universe, even when the odds and their day job and the laundry are all stacked up against them. Sometimes I dream about having enough money to forget all about that and reach the point at which I use all of my creativity all of the time. But then, I'm afraid if that happened, I'd forget what makes it so important in the first place.

verti-gone.

I'm not complaining about anything today. It's 8:00 in the morning, it's sunny and beautiful outside, and I have coffee. 

Working backwards, the last three weeks have been terrible. I had vertigo for three weeks, and if you've never had it, it feels awful. Not only is it very uncomfortable, but scary. Vertigo isn't really a condition, but a symptom, and if you Google vertigo and headache it becomes even more scary. Especially if you've been to the ear, nose and throat specialist and they come up with nothing. The next thing that comes up is cancer, which is pretty much the only thing that comes up when you consult with Dr. Google for any combination of symptoms. 

The effect of all this, is that I didn't feel like myself - it's like walking around in a haze, and I was exhausted by all of the work my body and mind had to do to keep me upright. I had trouble talking as well, and I couldn't read. Literally. If I tried to read my eyes would skip some words, and replace others. It's a real strain on your eyes when the world is spinning. 

And yesterday, after three weeks of walking around on what felt like some other planet, something gave. My ears burned, my sinuses felt like someone had a vice on my head, and even my jaw ached. All at once. I felt this for about 20 minutes, had a panic attack, and then...poof. The dizziness left.

After that, I still had dull aching pains where the dizziness once lived, but I survived. Today, I can read and write, and nothing feels terrible. I'm still a little achy, but I'm guessing whatever was in there expanded everything, and now it's shrinking back to normal size.


That said, the ear, nose, and throat specialist looked at my ears and throat, but had neglected to consider my nose. By process of elimination, that leaves only my nose and sinuses. And I can't believe that they could be the source of such a terrible feeling.

So I'm writing today, courtesy the explosion in my head. Not only has it cleared the vertigo, but I think it's cleared the path to a lot more of this, and a lot less of that other thing that was making me feel like a lost, lonely alien.

Makes me wonder how much of it was all in my head.

Thanks, Hank.

Oh, my. It's a long time between posts. Where have I been? I subscribed to Netflix, including the instant play feature. Over the last few months, I thought it had done nothing for productivity, or creativity, or any activity for that matter. Until now.

Last night, I watched Bukowski: Born Into This. I heard this, cried a little, and fell asleep. And I think it's time I put my big girl pants on and start writing again.

from memory.

He tried to choke me once. Twice actually, but the second time seemed, for about 30 seconds, that it was real. It wasn't in anger, but it might have been in hate. In fact, if he were choking me any other way, I would have been much, much more afraid. But it was in the most loving way possible, in that he didn't kill me, and the look on his face reflected far more pain than I felt, even in the moment.

And there were others. They didn't choke me literally, but metaphorically I can't say that they didn't.

I had forgotten this story, but sometimes, in the night, I remember things. Important things. Like how I used to become involved with men who both loved me and wanted to kill me. Why? Because I didn't think it was true. Even now, I don't know if it's true.

That said, no matter what I say or write, everyone will decide their own reality based on what they can stomach, and that's o.k. for them, the same as it is for me. Maybe that's why I felt so much for someone who wasn't afraid to show me what was on the inside, when really it was so disgusting and inconvenient. It felt at very least like I'd discovered an undeniable truth. It made me so sad, not for me, but for all of the awful burdens the people all around us have to bear quietly.

I'm not afraid of people finding out who I really am. I'm terrified, however, of people deciding in their comfortable reality that I'm something I'm not. I know this isn't a healthy fear, and I know that I need to change this. Fear comes out in anger, and anger makes for all kinds of ugly, inconvenient displays--like choking people in the night, at least for that guy I once loved. But this is not a resolution. After all, there is no resolve for the past. It remains, regardless of what I change, and regardless still of who I've become. No, this isn't a resolution. It's acceptance.

I've found the strength and the will to pry all of those dirty fingers from around my neck. I've found a way to believe that regardless of how much love I have to offer, there are times when I should be afraid and many times that I shouldn't. And that I may not always know the difference. But being afraid of what is, and being afraid of what people think of me are two different things. I should probably work on fixing the latter, no matter what day of the year it is.

This may or may not be a true story. I'll never know, so you'll never know, but it's not pretty.

"Do you have doubts about life? Are you unsure if it is really worth the trouble? Look at the sky: that is for you. Look at each person's face as you pass them on the street: those faces are for you. And the street itself, and the ground under the street, and the ball of fire underneath the ground: all these things are for you. They are as much for you as they are for other people. Remember this when you wake up in the morning and think you have nothing. Stand up and face the east. Now praise the sky and praise the light within each person under the sky. It's okay to be unsure. But praise, praise, praise."--Miranda July