Back Up Off My Splints

Shin splints, they are real, and I’m tired of people telling me they’re not. Given, I’ve been known, at times, to “imagine” afflictions (such as throat collapse and organ combustion), but shin splints—like cancer—are as legitimate as I am crazy.

And it’s not the gnawing pain in my lower legs on which I’m basing this conclusion. Nor is it my recently acquired limp that’s convinced me. I have all any person could ask for: acknowledgment from Wikipedia.

That’s right suckas! Lesson adjourned.

Speeding Down the Hill

In the words of my loving boyfriend:

“You’re a crazy anxiety nut job…”

…sadly, I must agree. This month has been a mental health mishap, that started with the pap smear from hell.

You see, where I come from, hospitals are impressive ten story buildings. They’re equipped with cafeterias and gift shops (and teenage candy stripers), and pharmacies the size of single family homes. They’re cold. Quiet. Impersonal. Clean.

Where I live now, hospitals look more like funeral homes, by which I mean they’re literally converted Victorian cottages. If they didn’t have large-lettered signs on their grassy front lawns, you’d never know they existed. And that’s all fine and dandy, bigger isn’t necessarily better, or so I thought before that fateful visit.

An aura of naivety must have radiated from every inch of my being as I wandered into the cozy waiting room, and then calmly followed the nurse in Christmas scrubs through the cramped hallways into one of the three examination rooms.

And although her fifteen minute diatribe on the shitty-ness of Christmas was comical—considering she was decked out in reindeer scrubs—I was happy to finally be alone on the tissue lined table when the elderly nurse left the room.

Laughing to myself about the irony, I exchanged my clothes for a backless, polka dot gown, when I suddenly noticed a bead of sweat stream down my forehead; the goddamn room must’ve been 110 degrees! But before I could curse the good lord for the extreme temperatures I was cruelly being subjected to, I noticed something on the floor: CARPET! Carpet in a fucking hospital room! I was beside myself. And that wasn’t all, where a sink should have been, for oh I don’t know hand washing, there was a 1980’s boom box blaring, of all things, country music. It was like I had been sucked into The Twilight Zone.

I won’t go into the details of the pap, but I will say in my seven years experience, it was the WORST I’ve EVER had. The procedure was an exorbitant thirty minutes of excruciating pain that left me bleeding for the rest of the afternoon, and singing this song...

Which brings me back to the point, bigger is definitely better. And that’s all I have to say about that.

Truth be Told

Do today's duty, fight today's temptation; do not weaken yourself by looking forward to things you cannot see, and could not understand if you saw them.
-Charles Kingsley

Where to Begin?

Oh, I know! (Cue heavenly background music)...

HAAAALLLLLLLELUJAHHHHH!
HAAAALLLLLLLELUJAHHHHH!
HALELUJAH! HALELUJAH!
HA-LE-LU-JAH!

The Beast and my brother have departed after an eight day visit. (I never thought I would say those words).

It was an eight day visit that started with a bang as I spotted The Beast in baggage claim and cheerfully strolled over to her, “You look great!” I exclaimed, lying of course, but making an effort to be cordial, “You’ve lost so much weight!” “I have,” she replied, nose snarled in true Beast fashion, “but what’s wrong with you? I’ve never seen you at this weight. Are you okay? Are you sick? When’s the last time you saw the doctor?”

Um, yeah, I love you too mom. It was about there that I peeled the phony smile off my face and succumbed to what I was in for: eight days of torment.

That night was disastrous. She had apparently started drinking that morning on the plane and by the time we sat down for dinner and finished our fourth bottle of wine she was a belligerent, raging drunk. Squishing her pasta in her hands at the dinner table, breaking wine glasses, making uncalled for and hostile remarks towards Rey. When we sat down to watch The Simpsons Movie she was uncontainable. Screaming profanities, kicking her feet and shaking her head, parroting the movie lines. It was like we were in a bad movie, instead of watching one, (only The Simpsons wasn’t a bad movie, it was actually pretty awesome).

And so the rest of the visit went. She forced me to go shopping on the busiest shopping day of the year, where she proceeded to talk to any willing individual in the stores. She let my cat outside on Christmas Eve who subsequently went missing for the next four hours. She shook her head and scoffed every time I dared to eat. She was restless and repeatedly asked what we were going to do next.

But all that being said, and although I’ve developed an eating disorder and feel like I’ve been beat with a baseball bat, the visit wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. Now, that being said, you can bet your ass there won’t be another visit for a very long time.

Merry Fucking Christmas Eve

Shoot Me Now

The Beast and my brother are in town for eight days. They flew in yesterday and I’m already on the verge of suicide.

I’ll fill you in later, assuming I don’t eat a bottle of sleeping pills by then.

You Can Always Count on WebMD

It never fails! When I’m not surfing “It Which Must Not be Named” (read WebMD) on my own accord, that bastard site tracks me down and pumps the fear of god into me. We’re connected like Harry Potter and Lord Voldemort.

Now given, the connection could have something to do with me foolishly signing up to receive a newsletter from that ungodly organization, but is it really necessary to fill my inbox with subject lines that read “Are Your Arteries Headed for Disaster?” and “Sudden Death Gene Strikes Women Most.” No, I don’t think so.

So now, thanks to You Know Who, what started as a pleasant morning has turned into an afternoon obsession with atherosclerosis; apparently, America’s number one killer. And also thanks to You Know Who, things like: “Atherosclerosis is dangerous because it's so stealthy” and “Diseases caused by atherosclerosis also lead to chronic pain, kidney failure, blindness, and even impotence” and “Athero is linked to nearly 1 in 4 deaths in the United States” are running rampant through my mind!

So in the wonderful holiday spirit of giving, you too can get the shit scared out of you by clicking here.

Wishing I was born in the UK

It has just come to my attention, while mindlessly surfing the web, that UK residents are afforded a luxury—a mighty fine luxury I might add—that I, in the states, am not; a do-it-yourself liver test. How remarkably ingenious!

You can find out the condition of your liver without even putting the beer down. All you do is prick your finger, send the blood and your hundred pounds to the lab, wait ten days, and voila, color coded results show up in the post (as they call it in those parts).

“If it’s green, ‘your liver enzyme levels are within the recommended normal range.’

If amber, ‘your liver health is less than optimal and you need to look at making changes to your lifestyle.’

And if red, ‘even mild liver test abnormalities may be an early clue to liver disease. You must make significant changes to your lifestyle to protect your liver in the future.’”

What kind of backward ass country am I living in? I can walk out my front door and get a gun and an abortion within a block of the house, but I can’t get a god damn home liver test. I need to relocate.

Oh, and you lucky UK residents can purchase a bloody kit, here.

Front Lines

I didn’t have the chance to mention it, because I was obsessively cleaning my house for the last two weeks, but Rey graduated (with two B.A.’s) last weekend, and thirty of his out-of-state relatives were there to applaud him.

That means thirty of his relatives, including his neurotic dad, delusional sister, and super annoying, super tattooed cousin from SAN FRANCISCO were in my house; in my personal—but very clean space—at once. And despite all the anxiety I experienced leading up to the event, I must admit that I actually enjoyed it. I basked in the company.

It could’ve been the alcohol that made it more manageable, but I almost felt like my social anxiety was non-existent. No sweaty palms. No heart flutters. No blushing. No shaky voice. I did feel my ears turn red when Rey’s mom thanked me during her dinner toast, but aside from that, I was like a pro.

Now all that being said, I awoke the morning after they left with severe, right flank pain and met the following days with heart attack-like symptoms.

I’m thankful the social anxiety is at a low, but the hypochondria is suddenly at a high. One more thing I didn’t mention is The Beast and my brother are coming in to town and staying at my house for an entire week over Christmas; maybe that’s why I’m suddenly dying.

If Perspective is Reality, I'm Dead

I cannot even begin to explain HOW REAL the “heart attack” I “had” today felt. It started at about 3:15 p.m. as I sat in our dimly lit conference room crosschecking an agreement with a coworker. I was reading aloud, she was silently following along, when mid-sentence, an intense stabbing sensation coursed through the left side of my chest.

Blinded by pain, I jumped up from my chair and grabbed my breast. Words were spewing from my mouth, (a problem I usually only encounter when drinking). “Holy shit, I think I’m having a heart attack!” I screamed.

My coworker, being an older woman, who’s actually had a heart attack, tilted her head and looked at me with unsympathetic eyes. “Your arm would hurt like hell and you’d be nauseous. You’re fine.”

Little did she know that as I stood slumped over that oversized table, gasping for air, and clawing at my chest, my arm did hurt, and it wouldn’t be long before the nausea set in. But before I could convey these seemingly infinitesimal details, and ASK HER TO CALL 911, her turquoise eyes shot to the black and white cityscape hanging on the wall behind me. “Why is that picture crooked!?! What the hell does that cleaning crew do in here at night? I’m gonna have to call management...”

The agreement fell to the floor as I limped out the conference room towards my desk. I could actually feel the artery bursting as I stumbled through the office. I could feel myself drifting away, when a sudden burst of nausea brought me back to this world. And then it happened, I started to dry heave, (right there in the middle of my office).

In a fit of panic, which it apparently was, I fled to the bathroom, gagging the whole way there. I locked myself in the far back stall and stood with my head in my hands for what felt like hours as stabbing pains continued to course through my chest.

Five minutes later, calmed only slightly by deep breathing, but still in a fog, I emerged from the stall and hobbled back to my office. The daziness lasted all afternoon. The pains have been sporadic. If what I experienced this afternoon wasn't at least a minor heart attack, I'm on the brink

Afflicted

First of all, I must apologize to my blog, because if it were the French Bull Dog I’ve been so yearning for, it’d be dead in the back yard right now.

Second, I’m dying. And not that it did, but my absence was not meant to convey a period of wellness. Actually, it wasn’t meant to convey anything at all, except that I’m a lazy procrastinator. Writing hasn’t been all that appealing to me lately. In reality, nothing has been all that appealing, except for drinking, so that’s what I’ve been doing; throwing back bottles of wine amidst fits of hypochondria.

Among other things, I’m wholly convinced that my eye ball is going to explode at any moment. Over the past week, I’ve been experiencing severe pressure in my eye cavity whenever I move my head, blink or bend down. It essentially feels like being repeatedly hit in the face with a baseball.

Also, I’m suffering from what I’ve determined to be Multiple Sclerosis or Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, due to the crippling pains that have been plaguing my arms. I’m talking stabbed with an ice pick pains, that leave me in tears.

Oh, and I simultaneously have colon and cervical cancer.

So, um, yeah. Basically, I’m a basket case right now.

Family Lines

My great grandmother, Anna Augustine, arrived to America, from Poland, in the early 1900’s, settled down in Chicago with an alcoholic engineer, had several children, then died from a heart attack at age thirty-five.

A woman in my family, only three generations removed, died at age thirty-five, from a heart attack. I cannot tell you how disheartening this is. Thirty-five. That’s twelve years older than I am now.

I like to live in denial about certain issues, and this happens to be one of them. I have secretly developed a theory about the death of my great grandmother, damn her to hell, that negates the conclusion that my heart is a ticking time bomb. You see, the theory I’ve concocted is that the sweet thirty-five year old Polish mother died not from a heart attack—as family history would lead you to believe—but from a violent drug overdose in the hard streets of Chi-town. Believable, right?

I bring this up because I’ve become increasingly aware of my own heart issues lately. First it was the heart attack in my sleep, now the constant chest pains; I can’t help but think I’m on the verge of my own heart attack, but I’m holding out for an overdose.

Notice to All Hypochondriacs

If it’s not too late—which it may well be, considering the movie was released to the box office back in June—do not, I repeat DO NOT attempt to watch Michael Moore’s Sicko.

I left Blockbuster last night thrilled with my DVD selection. I could barely contain myself in the liquor store knowing that Sicko sat in the car waiting for me. (And as a disclaimer, I am NOT a Michael Moore fan by any stretch of the imagination, I’m just a sucker for a good documentary). But my dreams of movie grandeur were crushed not fifteen minutes after settling in on the couch and cracking my first Guinness.

Horror stories of sick people abandoned by their insurance companies filled the air. Young women and couples detailed their experiences with rare diseases.

And the TV went off.

So I warn hypos of the world, Sicko is not your friend.

Step One

I emerged from my birthday stupor this morning to kick some anxiety ass. I headed off to work five minutes late, to discover that I was wearing a dirty sweater, and decided at some point thereafter that I was going to do the thing I’d been boasting about all weekend; ask my attorneys for letters of recommendation so that I could apply for the clerk job that I am so deserving of.

It took me all morning to drum up the confidence, and after a lunch pep talk with Rey, I marched into one of my attorney’s office—with racing heart and sweating palms—and recited the words I’d practiced forty-two times that morning: “There’s a job I want to apply for at State Court and I was wondering if you would write me a letter of recommendation.”

I saw her jaw tense as her chair swung in my direction. I stood their exposed in my dirty sweater as she looked me squarely in the eyes and exclaimed “No!” She, in fact, would not write me a letter of recommendation. Not only no, but fuck, shit, hell no. She didn’t want me getting another job.

Flattering, sure, but not the response I was looking for. A simple “no problem” would have sufficed, but what ensued was five-minute conversation about why I wanted to leave.

After explaining that the clerk position paid almost twice my current salary, the attorney reluctantly obliged. She also offered to talk our administrator about getting me the money I deserve. Score.

Those sweaty palms and racing heart ain’t got nothing on me.

Twenty-Three, Bitches

I’ll make this short and sweet. Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me, happy birthday…okay, excuse me while I go drown in a bottle of scotch…

I Suck

I feel like a freak. Like a pariah. Like a clown. Mostly like a cripple.

I found out today that the state court is hiring. Judging by the way I’ve been acting for the last six months, you’d think I’d be ecstatic; sprinting to the courthouse with my resume plastered to my chest.

You see, I’m starting court reporting school next month and it’s common knowledge that court reporters who work in the courts pull the highest salaries; we’re talking in the ball park of $10,000 for a three-week trial, which is all fine and dandy, but the catch is these jobs are all sowed up, (surprise, surprise).

So, it’s been my dream—not in the sappy sense—to get my foot in the door at the court, as a clerk, so that I can woo the judges (and their staff) and eventually—after I complete my court reporting certification—steal a lazy, unknowing court reporter’s high-paying job.

But today, when I saw that posting for the clerk job on the court’s website, I nearly crapped myself. Actually, I’m lying, it wasn’t until I read the words, “those most qualified will participate in an oral interview or interviews before a panel,” that I nearly crapped myself.

Panel interview? Um…NO!

Release the anxiety gates! Ever since I read those dreadful words, my mind has been flooded with potential botched panel interview attempts.

Red face. Stuttering. Sweating. Crapping on the panel members. Or my chair.

Instead of excitement, I feel fear. Instead of opportunity, I smell failure. This damn job posting—that I don’t even have to respond to—has ruined my day, and probably my week. I’m pathetic.

I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I know I can handle the job. I don’t think I can handle the panel interview. I want it, but I’m scared. I don’t know if I have it in me to apply.

I wish I was someone else. A braver, stronger someone else.

Truth be Told

Every decision is liberating, even if it leads to disaster. Otherwise, why do so many people walk upright and with open eyes into their misfortune.
-Elias Canneti

The Things That Come Out of His Mouth

I crawled out of bed this morning just long enough to call in sick. Strangely, after the call, the “fog” lifted and I felt strong enough to make a trip to Wal-Mart to pick up a 360 game in celebration of my mini-vacation. I leaned against the door, decked out in my grey sweat pants. I had the hood of my trusty Raiders sweatshirt pulled tightly around my face to hide my dirty hair. Rey—who had showered and shaved before I called in sick—looked at me while adjusting the collar of his dress shirt and said:

“Maybe they’ll think I’m taking you to get an abortion.”

I love you too, honey.

Analytics

I bring you an update from the frontline. Or, is it the backline? Enough bad jokes. I’m here to report that things in the southern region have improved, i.e. I no longer feel like I shit fiery clumps of jagged gravel. Jagged gravel maybe, but I’ve gone five days without finding blood in my shit, and this alone is grounds for celebration.

But although the blood is gone, I still have intense upper-stomach pain, and I’m increasingly convinced that my turds look skinnier by the day; both indicators of colon cancer. And while I never thought I’d say, “I’m crossing my fingers for hemorrhoids,” I definitely am, (and it’s looking pretty bleak).

I just can’t bring myself to pick up the phone and call the doctor. I’m operating under the illusion that this thing will clear itself up.

Bottom line? The blood is gone, that is good. The pain is not, that is bad.

Truth be Told

Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experiences of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, vision cleared, ambition inspired and success achieved.
-Helen Keller