February has been the darkest, most loathsome month of my life, ever since I can remember. It's an era in which the tentacles of hatred, frigidity, sheer indifference to the world, to myself and to life in general, have always threatened to obliterate whatever narrow shards of my heart I was foolish enough to leave vulnerable from the previous months' holiday revelry. February contains my least favorite holiday on earth. The wretched month takes on a power, a possession so intense that I fail miserably to explain the effect it has on my to anyone, especially myself.
Even in the best of times, in the rare, "less than dastardly" days of February, it is difficult for me to exist, never mind to try and thrive.
This past February, 2010, I gave up all pretenses of trying to exist. I stayed in bed until just before my lover would come home. I wouldn't shower for days. I ignored everything that existed outside of my bellybutton. I pulled so tightly into myself that my old bindings which had cloistered me together for so long began to wither and crumble under the additional burden. I was light years beyond the usual Seasonal Affective Disorder that usually impales me at this time of year.
I pulled away from all that I used to enjoy, which really wasn't that difficult since sex was already taken away from me and chocolate was becoming less appealing since one of my meds had caused me to gain nearly 40 pounds in TWO FUCKING MONTHS!!!!!
About the only things I continued to do regularly were feed the cats, attend my doctors' appointments (so no one would suspect there was anything wrong with me)-I showered on these days and berate myself for being such a sexless, jobless, useless, unattractive, worthless, taking up too much space on the planet, good for nothing loser.
I was falling apart all over the place-inside myself, outside of myself, in my spiritual self, in my quasi-relationships with the few people I even bothered to make a pathetic attempt at maintaining a relationship with; and yet no one seemed to notice. Not my family-most of whom don't seem to believe there is anything wrong with me in the first place. Not my friends who are consumed with babies, careers and planning a wedding and most of all, not my lover who sometimes goes with me to my appointments and sees me fall to the floor in random spasms of uncontrolled pain.
All of the pretending, all of the trying and the lying to myself came to a crashing halt at the very end of February. My lover had just bought a "new" used car and we were at the dealership getting ready to sign the paperwork, of which I had made it perfectly clear, in advance, that I wanted no part of, because I had already applied for some government programs to help me get health care and food assistance and I was afraid that this car purchase would jeopardize all the work I had done, and besides, like me buying my car, it was supposed to be something he was doing all on his own. He assured me he took care of everything ahead of time, which should have been an enormous red flag that he took care of everything but the obvious stuff, and what ensued was a disaster!
When it came time to sign the papers, it very quickly became clear that my beloved had not taken care of much of anything and I, already a mess from whatever new concoction of meds I was on, was very quickly becoming livid. The dealer was probably never so uncomfortable in his life as I started first just yelling at Luke (we were the only customers in the dealership on a Saturday afternoon-weird right?).
Then, as I began to realize the depth of what he did not take care of, I started yelling a stream of expletives I will not repeat here. When I do that (which isn't terribly often) Luke grows calmer and calmer, which turns me into Mount St. Helen and I erupt, red face, spit and curse words flying, until I collapse from exhaustion.
It was fucking wonderful! If anyone had recorded it and put it on YouTube, we'd probably be mini-stars.
When I finally stopped screaming at him and he had a chance to speak, he said, with tears in his eyes, that the car wasn't worth all this and we could just wait until....but I stopped listening. I knew by the look in his eyes and the wounded way he was holding himself that I had hurt him very badly-never mind the fact that I had humiliated him in the dealership, I had done something much deeper than that, something that in my own hurt and rage I couldn't comprehend yet.
I knew I was wrong to have done what I did and I knew that he was wrong to say that he took care of everything when he didn't. I also knew that there were so many other options for how to handle this situation, but something inside me literally snapped.
That's the only way I can describe it. There was a complete break-down inside of me and I didn't care about a goddamn fucking thing anymore except lashing out. I wanted to hurt everything in my path-probably even my nephews too if they were there. I didn't care about hurting myself-I wanted to hurt myself! For a fucking change I wanted to know where the pain was coming from and why. I wanted to hurt my lover because I was tired of him living a presumably pain free life. I wanted to hurt the bloated car sales person who kept staring at my tits. I wanted to hurt the whole world. I wanted the whole world to feel February.
In the end I gave in, as I so often do, and screamed something at Luke along the lines of "Well FUCK YOU! You pay for all the groceries now any way! If you can't try and respect all the goddamn fucking work I've put into helping us try and save some money, what the fuck do I care if you fall farther into debt by buying this car and paying for all the groceries? It's not like we're fucking married or anything!"
I ended up scribbling something that could never pass for my signature on an endless ream of papers I never read and finally the Ford Focus was all his. Or was it our? I'm still unclear about that one.
I stormed out of the dealership after helping myself to one or two of their pens and Luke and I left in separate cars-no congratulations on your first financed car or anything and headed to a mutual friends house where we did out best to ignore each other all night. It was grand!
I bet the car dealer couldn't wait to see us go!
Monday, June 28, 2010
Where Oh, Where Has Elizabeth Been?
If anyone out there has been paying attention (and I know at least one dear soul who suffered a similar catheter fate read my blog recently! And Nurse Ratchet sister of mine, neither of us enjoyed the experience as much as you seem to enjoy inserting them. There's something wrong with you girl!) it has been almost 5 months since I last posted anything on my blog. I hope that some people have missed me...I know at least Nurse Ratchet's husband would read it during his down time at work (oh the luck of having a job) but I don't know if I've missed me these past five months.
See, when I was first diagnosed with everything, I made a vow to write it all down, even the painful details-ha!, as if there would be much else to write about! But before too long, I was back into my old ways.
Even though I am no longer physically capable of running, I have been running, terror stricken, from the realities of my life for at least these past five months (and much, much longer...it's just that here, with this blog, I was trying to address some of them for a change).
I don't even know how far back I can go and accurately recount what has gone on in the months since I've failed to write. I only know that part of the reason I am here now, writing once again, is because my lover is away on a too short business trip.
As usual, I spent the entire day struggling to figure out what I wanted to do with the day, with MY DAY. And, as usual, the day was over before I came up with an answer and fell gratefully into a long, uninterrupted nap. It wasn't until I was brave enough to lay naked outside on our deck (don't worry prudes, it was well past 10 pm and not a soul could see me-how sad actually), on the uncomfortable wicker love seat, watching the fireflies sparkle through the sultry night air, that I realized what I needed to do was to clean my mind out and not the living room like I had planned on doing.
So now I sit, still sans clothing, on my trusty seat cushion and try and recount how it all went awry and why I haven't written in so long. And I try to keep my thoughts on this serious business of writing and purging my feelings while trying to ignore the sweat coagulating between my breasts because it is too fucking hot out, even at nearly 2 am and the air conditioner is too loud and makes me need my inhaler, which I am completely inept at using, having just recently been diagnosed with asthma.
I'm also simultaneously trying to ignore my stomach's craving for Vienna Fingers and milk because we ran out of milk before I dropped Luke off and I didn't feel like fighting the righteous Sunday shoppers for a quart of organic milk. And hell, I've already gained a bunch of medication related weight and had vanilla ice cream (with a fresh peach) for dinner, so why have a healthy dessert? And I'm somewhat happily alone, so who the hell will know what I eat anyway?
Mostly though, I'm procrastinating. Like all good writers, I'm procrastinating telling you how it all went wrong. How I really feel. How angry I am. How doubtful of everything and scared of nearly everything, I am. I am trying to avoid the ugly and draw upon the pretty, which is something that would probably surprise most people who know me, but then again, most people who know me only know a me they want to see. I am trying to avoid reliving the pain because no matter how many years of therapy I've had, and continue to have, I never quite believe them when they tell me it never hurts as much the second time around.... Is that because you can't re-amputate a lost arm or because you can't re-shatter an obliterated heart? I've yet to figure that one out.
At any rate, February was when the worst of it all happened.
See, when I was first diagnosed with everything, I made a vow to write it all down, even the painful details-ha!, as if there would be much else to write about! But before too long, I was back into my old ways.
Even though I am no longer physically capable of running, I have been running, terror stricken, from the realities of my life for at least these past five months (and much, much longer...it's just that here, with this blog, I was trying to address some of them for a change).
I don't even know how far back I can go and accurately recount what has gone on in the months since I've failed to write. I only know that part of the reason I am here now, writing once again, is because my lover is away on a too short business trip.
As usual, I spent the entire day struggling to figure out what I wanted to do with the day, with MY DAY. And, as usual, the day was over before I came up with an answer and fell gratefully into a long, uninterrupted nap. It wasn't until I was brave enough to lay naked outside on our deck (don't worry prudes, it was well past 10 pm and not a soul could see me-how sad actually), on the uncomfortable wicker love seat, watching the fireflies sparkle through the sultry night air, that I realized what I needed to do was to clean my mind out and not the living room like I had planned on doing.
So now I sit, still sans clothing, on my trusty seat cushion and try and recount how it all went awry and why I haven't written in so long. And I try to keep my thoughts on this serious business of writing and purging my feelings while trying to ignore the sweat coagulating between my breasts because it is too fucking hot out, even at nearly 2 am and the air conditioner is too loud and makes me need my inhaler, which I am completely inept at using, having just recently been diagnosed with asthma.
I'm also simultaneously trying to ignore my stomach's craving for Vienna Fingers and milk because we ran out of milk before I dropped Luke off and I didn't feel like fighting the righteous Sunday shoppers for a quart of organic milk. And hell, I've already gained a bunch of medication related weight and had vanilla ice cream (with a fresh peach) for dinner, so why have a healthy dessert? And I'm somewhat happily alone, so who the hell will know what I eat anyway?
Mostly though, I'm procrastinating. Like all good writers, I'm procrastinating telling you how it all went wrong. How I really feel. How angry I am. How doubtful of everything and scared of nearly everything, I am. I am trying to avoid the ugly and draw upon the pretty, which is something that would probably surprise most people who know me, but then again, most people who know me only know a me they want to see. I am trying to avoid reliving the pain because no matter how many years of therapy I've had, and continue to have, I never quite believe them when they tell me it never hurts as much the second time around.... Is that because you can't re-amputate a lost arm or because you can't re-shatter an obliterated heart? I've yet to figure that one out.
At any rate, February was when the worst of it all happened.
Monday, February 8, 2010
That's So Gay
Recently my youngest sister has adopted a habit I find both annoying and offensive. I don’t know where she got it from, or why she thinks it’s ok to say this, but she’s started saying, “That’s so gay” whenever she thinks something is dumb or annoys her. Not only does this bother me on a personal level, I wonder how it will affect her as a manager at her job if she is heard saying this. Even though she is my sister, I think language like this should be seen as potential harassment and at the very, very least, certainly inappropriate at any level in the workplace!
Now, I’ll be honest, this wasn’t always a saying that bothered me. In (a deeply embarrassing) fact, there was a time, before I learned to think for myself, that I was very vocally homophobic. (For those of you who know the area, picture me saying repeatedly and loudly, while at a public parade in New Hope, Pa, “There’s no hope for New Hope” and other obnoxious slurs.) However, somewhere around high school, perhaps when I began to admit, at least to myself, that I was either confused or ambiguous about my sexuality, I began to question and challenge homophobic statements.
Now, also in all fairness, I have not always stood up to people who arrogantly, ignorantly or hurtfully hurl anti-gay statements, but with my sisters, I feel I must establish a firm line here. I feel this way for three primary reasons, 1) They know, although don’t really accept, that I am equally attracted to men and women and therefore feel these kinds of statements are a direct insult to me as well as to humanity; because it is never ok to put down one group of people in order to feel better about one’s self, or for any other reason. 2) My entire family knows I made a vow, many years ago, in my single days, to not get married until all people could get married. (I confess, I have amended that statement to currently mean all American citizens and I have inserted a medical clause in there in case either myself or my partner should need medical treatment which we are only able to afford by getting married and being added onto the other person’s health insurance policy). I didn’t make this vow to be cool or start a trend or emblazon my views upon my chest. Instead, I made this vow because once I decided I could spend my life with a man, a woman, both, either, neither or someone who claims to be gender neutral, I couldn’t stop myself from seeing marriage as an federally regulated institution which alienated me. And 3) Because once my sisters started having children, it became an imperative for me to be at least one voice (and hopefully not the only voice) to tell my nephews that it is perfectly acceptable to love and date and marry or not marry whomever they choose.
Before anyone freaks out, if you haven’t already, I made sure to check with both of my sisters when their kids were still infants and get their permission to talk to their kids about how we feel it is ok to be gay or to love anyone you want. My little sister’s recent inappropriate comment aside, both of my sisters said it was fine with them if I had these conversations with their kids, but they wanted to be the ones to have “the sex talks”.
When, in a recent phone call with my youngest sister, I heard her say, “That’s so gay.” I cleared my throat and replied, “Excuse me, what did you say?” At the same time her eldest son overheard her expression and loudly enough that I could also hear him, objected to what she just said. In my opinion, my sister proceeded to cover her ass by exclaiming, “What? It could also mean happy!”
I didn’t buy it and neither did her son (who had probably never heard the word used that way before). My sister, in an almost combative manner, challenged her son to get a dictionary and see who was right about the meaning of the word “gay”. According to the CHILDREN”S dictionary she used, she was right. The book said it meant “happy”.
Lest she get too triumphant about her “victory”, I told her that while the CHILDREN’S dictionary she used might say that the word means happy, I still sided with her son that she used the word inappropriately. I also told her I was offended that she used that term the way she did. In fairness to my sister, she told her son what I said, word for word and he even more vocally voiced his gratitude to me, as well as to himself for also being right.
Later that same day, my partner and I were headed to my youngest sister’s house to pick up her four kids (ranging in age from just over 1 year to 8 years old) for a mini-family reunion at one of my aunt’s homes. My sister was unable to attend because she had to work and my partner and I were going anyway so we figured it was no big deal to bring along a baby and three slightly older kids…good thing my little sister let us use her minivan or we never would have all fit in my little Scion xD!
Before we left to pick up the kids, I replayed the conversation my sister, myself and her eldest son had on the phone, to my partner. I told him that it was very important to me that we make sure to discuss the many different meanings of the word “gay” with the kids and to reiterate how we feel about the rights of all people to love whomever they please. I asked my partner if he was comfortable having this conversation with the kids during the hour or so car ride to my aunt’s, and to my surprise, he was very willing to talk this over with the kids.
Naturally, since we don’t have kids, it took longer than I thought it would to corral all of them into the minivan and be on our merry way (already late for the reunion!). One of the first things I said to the oldest boy, who was seated next to the baby, as well as to the other two kids in the way back of the van, was that while their mommy was right that the word “gay” can, and probably was originally used to mean happy, that isn’t how it is usually used today. I asked my eight year old nephew what he thought the word gay means now. He fumbled his way through an explanation about a boy loving a boy or a girl loving a girl. I told him that he was right and I asked him if he thought people usually said the word “gay” as a positive or negative word. He told us that in school people seemed to use it as a negative word. He went on to say, with an upset look on his face, that one of the kids on his bus calls him gay. This surprised me as he had never told me this before and I made a mental note to tell this to my sister.
Both my partner and I told him, and all of the kids, that it is perfectly fine for them, or anyone, to love boys or girls or both at any time in their lives. Both the oldest and second youngest immediately chimed in that they had girlfriends (at 5 and 8 years old!) and I said that was fine but if they ever changed their minds and liked boys or girls or both or no one, that was fine too.
Since the two kids in the far back of the van seemed more interested in their handheld videogames than this conversation, I asked the eldest how it made him feel when someone called him gay. He said he didn’t like it, that it hurt his feelings. I said I could understand why it would hurt his feelings and that when people use the term gay in a negative way, it hurt my feelings and his uncle’s feelings too. He was completely confused at this point and wanted to know why, if we were a girl and a boy that loved each other, would we be hurt if people used the word gay as an insult. I tried to explain to him, as I have tried to explain to him since he was 3 or 4, that it is ok to love whomever you love, be it a boy or a girl and that his uncle and I don’t think it is ever ok to put someone down or hurt someone’s feelings. I tried to explain that this issue is so important to us that we are refusing to get married until all people in this country can do so, in the hopes that he and the rest of our nephews will have a much easier time having their choice of partners be accepted than we did when we were growing up. I tried my best to reassure my nephew that what the kid on the bus was saying was wrong and that he was welcome to talk to us or his parents about how it made him feel.
Finally, he asked me how the word gay could be used in a positive way. I gave him the two best examples I could think of at the time. I said, “Well, if you are talking about your male cousin, in a positive way, you could say that he is gay because he loves boys.” Even though this is at least the second time I’ve told the kids this, the eldest still expressed surprise, perhaps because since they have been old enough to pay any attention to their family member’s partners, my cousin has been single. My second example was, “If you are having a really good time, then you could say that you are having a gay time.”
Not missing a beat, he quipped back, “Well, can I say that I’m having a gay time now and it would be positive?” To that I responded, “Are you having a good time now?” When he said, “No. Not really.” I laughed a little and said that if he wasn’t having a good time right now than it probably wasn’t the most positive use of the word; however we wanted him and his brothers, whom I assumed were ignoring me, to know, that while some people don’t think it is ok to be gay think, it is perfectly fine in our eyes for them to love whomever they want, whenever they want.
I’m not sure how much of this conversation the kids understood.
Shortly after making that point, the car ride was interrupted with the unexpected surprise that we probably didn’t have enough gas to get to our destination as well as my need to give pesky directions since we dared to travel without a GPS. The gay conversation seemed to be over, for now and as far as I know, did not come up again during the reunion.
The car ride home was full of such deep philosophical questions as, “If you could be any superhero in the world, who would it be?” and “If you could be any animal in the world, what would you be?” Although three of the four kids fiercely protested that they weren’t tired at all when we got in the car, all of them were sound asleep before answering both of the questions. One of our nephews even fell asleep in the middle of telling us why he would be either a land turtle or a sea turtle.
My god I love our nephews!
Now, I’ll be honest, this wasn’t always a saying that bothered me. In (a deeply embarrassing) fact, there was a time, before I learned to think for myself, that I was very vocally homophobic. (For those of you who know the area, picture me saying repeatedly and loudly, while at a public parade in New Hope, Pa, “There’s no hope for New Hope” and other obnoxious slurs.) However, somewhere around high school, perhaps when I began to admit, at least to myself, that I was either confused or ambiguous about my sexuality, I began to question and challenge homophobic statements.
Now, also in all fairness, I have not always stood up to people who arrogantly, ignorantly or hurtfully hurl anti-gay statements, but with my sisters, I feel I must establish a firm line here. I feel this way for three primary reasons, 1) They know, although don’t really accept, that I am equally attracted to men and women and therefore feel these kinds of statements are a direct insult to me as well as to humanity; because it is never ok to put down one group of people in order to feel better about one’s self, or for any other reason. 2) My entire family knows I made a vow, many years ago, in my single days, to not get married until all people could get married. (I confess, I have amended that statement to currently mean all American citizens and I have inserted a medical clause in there in case either myself or my partner should need medical treatment which we are only able to afford by getting married and being added onto the other person’s health insurance policy). I didn’t make this vow to be cool or start a trend or emblazon my views upon my chest. Instead, I made this vow because once I decided I could spend my life with a man, a woman, both, either, neither or someone who claims to be gender neutral, I couldn’t stop myself from seeing marriage as an federally regulated institution which alienated me. And 3) Because once my sisters started having children, it became an imperative for me to be at least one voice (and hopefully not the only voice) to tell my nephews that it is perfectly acceptable to love and date and marry or not marry whomever they choose.
Before anyone freaks out, if you haven’t already, I made sure to check with both of my sisters when their kids were still infants and get their permission to talk to their kids about how we feel it is ok to be gay or to love anyone you want. My little sister’s recent inappropriate comment aside, both of my sisters said it was fine with them if I had these conversations with their kids, but they wanted to be the ones to have “the sex talks”.
When, in a recent phone call with my youngest sister, I heard her say, “That’s so gay.” I cleared my throat and replied, “Excuse me, what did you say?” At the same time her eldest son overheard her expression and loudly enough that I could also hear him, objected to what she just said. In my opinion, my sister proceeded to cover her ass by exclaiming, “What? It could also mean happy!”
I didn’t buy it and neither did her son (who had probably never heard the word used that way before). My sister, in an almost combative manner, challenged her son to get a dictionary and see who was right about the meaning of the word “gay”. According to the CHILDREN”S dictionary she used, she was right. The book said it meant “happy”.
Lest she get too triumphant about her “victory”, I told her that while the CHILDREN’S dictionary she used might say that the word means happy, I still sided with her son that she used the word inappropriately. I also told her I was offended that she used that term the way she did. In fairness to my sister, she told her son what I said, word for word and he even more vocally voiced his gratitude to me, as well as to himself for also being right.
Later that same day, my partner and I were headed to my youngest sister’s house to pick up her four kids (ranging in age from just over 1 year to 8 years old) for a mini-family reunion at one of my aunt’s homes. My sister was unable to attend because she had to work and my partner and I were going anyway so we figured it was no big deal to bring along a baby and three slightly older kids…good thing my little sister let us use her minivan or we never would have all fit in my little Scion xD!
Before we left to pick up the kids, I replayed the conversation my sister, myself and her eldest son had on the phone, to my partner. I told him that it was very important to me that we make sure to discuss the many different meanings of the word “gay” with the kids and to reiterate how we feel about the rights of all people to love whomever they please. I asked my partner if he was comfortable having this conversation with the kids during the hour or so car ride to my aunt’s, and to my surprise, he was very willing to talk this over with the kids.
Naturally, since we don’t have kids, it took longer than I thought it would to corral all of them into the minivan and be on our merry way (already late for the reunion!). One of the first things I said to the oldest boy, who was seated next to the baby, as well as to the other two kids in the way back of the van, was that while their mommy was right that the word “gay” can, and probably was originally used to mean happy, that isn’t how it is usually used today. I asked my eight year old nephew what he thought the word gay means now. He fumbled his way through an explanation about a boy loving a boy or a girl loving a girl. I told him that he was right and I asked him if he thought people usually said the word “gay” as a positive or negative word. He told us that in school people seemed to use it as a negative word. He went on to say, with an upset look on his face, that one of the kids on his bus calls him gay. This surprised me as he had never told me this before and I made a mental note to tell this to my sister.
Both my partner and I told him, and all of the kids, that it is perfectly fine for them, or anyone, to love boys or girls or both at any time in their lives. Both the oldest and second youngest immediately chimed in that they had girlfriends (at 5 and 8 years old!) and I said that was fine but if they ever changed their minds and liked boys or girls or both or no one, that was fine too.
Since the two kids in the far back of the van seemed more interested in their handheld videogames than this conversation, I asked the eldest how it made him feel when someone called him gay. He said he didn’t like it, that it hurt his feelings. I said I could understand why it would hurt his feelings and that when people use the term gay in a negative way, it hurt my feelings and his uncle’s feelings too. He was completely confused at this point and wanted to know why, if we were a girl and a boy that loved each other, would we be hurt if people used the word gay as an insult. I tried to explain to him, as I have tried to explain to him since he was 3 or 4, that it is ok to love whomever you love, be it a boy or a girl and that his uncle and I don’t think it is ever ok to put someone down or hurt someone’s feelings. I tried to explain that this issue is so important to us that we are refusing to get married until all people in this country can do so, in the hopes that he and the rest of our nephews will have a much easier time having their choice of partners be accepted than we did when we were growing up. I tried my best to reassure my nephew that what the kid on the bus was saying was wrong and that he was welcome to talk to us or his parents about how it made him feel.
Finally, he asked me how the word gay could be used in a positive way. I gave him the two best examples I could think of at the time. I said, “Well, if you are talking about your male cousin, in a positive way, you could say that he is gay because he loves boys.” Even though this is at least the second time I’ve told the kids this, the eldest still expressed surprise, perhaps because since they have been old enough to pay any attention to their family member’s partners, my cousin has been single. My second example was, “If you are having a really good time, then you could say that you are having a gay time.”
Not missing a beat, he quipped back, “Well, can I say that I’m having a gay time now and it would be positive?” To that I responded, “Are you having a good time now?” When he said, “No. Not really.” I laughed a little and said that if he wasn’t having a good time right now than it probably wasn’t the most positive use of the word; however we wanted him and his brothers, whom I assumed were ignoring me, to know, that while some people don’t think it is ok to be gay think, it is perfectly fine in our eyes for them to love whomever they want, whenever they want.
I’m not sure how much of this conversation the kids understood.
Shortly after making that point, the car ride was interrupted with the unexpected surprise that we probably didn’t have enough gas to get to our destination as well as my need to give pesky directions since we dared to travel without a GPS. The gay conversation seemed to be over, for now and as far as I know, did not come up again during the reunion.
The car ride home was full of such deep philosophical questions as, “If you could be any superhero in the world, who would it be?” and “If you could be any animal in the world, what would you be?” Although three of the four kids fiercely protested that they weren’t tired at all when we got in the car, all of them were sound asleep before answering both of the questions. One of our nephews even fell asleep in the middle of telling us why he would be either a land turtle or a sea turtle.
My god I love our nephews!
Thursday, January 28, 2010
I Just Skinned My First Chicken!
Hey Everybody,
I thought I'd take a break from writing about all my pain and health problems to tell you about something I've never done before.
In an effort to save money, I got this brilliant idea to buy a whole chicken because it was $.78 a pound. I had absolutely no idea how I was going to cook the damn thing but a bargain is a bargain and it is harder for me to pass up then sex (well, when I was having sex anyway!).
I didn't know what to do with the whole chicken, so I tossed it in the freezer and forgot about it. However, we have a very small freezer thanks to the old school ice cube and cold water dispenser feature that takes up a huge amount of space. The refrigerator/freezer was a bargain I found on Craigslist...Do you see a theme here?
Since I've discovered Amelia's Grocery Outlet a few miles from our house (and also located near a Goodwill...oh the bargains...oh the fun!), I have spent a lot of time and little money buying lots of frozen and non-perishable food. Eventually (like in the first shopping trip) I bought too much frozen food to fit in the freezer and it became obvious that I could no longer avoid cooking the chicken.
I must admit, I was deeply intimidated by cooking this thing. I used to be a vegetarian and I really prefer that my meat look as little like the animal it came from as possible. Also, I could still hear the humiliating laughter of my friend Sara as she showed me in a hostel in Ireland, in front of a guy I had a huge crush on, how easy it was to cook a whole chicken and how silly I was because I didn't have a clue how to do it. Clearly there is trauma everywhere associated with turning this bird into our future dinner!
After I let the frozen block defrost for two or three days in the refrigerator (I know, I know, that is too long but I got busy, I got distracted, I got intimidated....) I knew it was now or never. Fear or not, I didn't want to waste the bird who, without any choice, gave it's life to us. So I googled, "how to cook a whole chicken in a crock pot" and found this amazing blog: http://crockpot365.blogspot.com/ and I confronted my fears head on!
Like the author of "A Year of Slow Cooking", I am thoroughly grossed out by skin on my chicken and any visible fat. Non-visible fat in my ice cream, chocolates and other "less than great for me foods" are ok, but the nasty yellow, blobbish fat on meat is horrifying, so it had to go! Again, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing but I figured, "What the heck, people have been skinning chickens for generations, so how bad could it be?"
I began the denuding with inadequate tools and I struggled with my non-kitchen, barely sharp regular scissors, to open the chicken's package. This resulted in a lot of blood running all over the cutting board and the counter, but fortunately not on my favorite white tee shirt I was foolish enough to be wearing while mutilating my chicken. With my cheapo knives and scissors, I began to recklessly attack the skin before I remembered that I had to remove the innards. That part really was more fascinating for me than I thought it would be, as I briefly tried to identify pieces before dumping them into a bowl next to me. when I was finished stripping my chicken, I dumped all the innards and scraps in the backyard so whatever carnivorous animals that live near us will benefit from my experimentation. I saw this as a sort of giving back to the earth for the once living chicken I plan on eating. I hope that wasn't a bad idea!
The entire process of removing the skin and all visible fat took me about 45 minutes and was a far more effective anatomy lesson than dissecting a frog in high school ever was! It was also cold, slimmy and sometimes gross. However, it did give me a greater appreciation for the food I am hoping to eat tonight (especially when I removed what I think are the kidneys...they are so tiny!). At some point in time my hands began to burn and itch like crazy (is that a normal reaction?) so I decided it was time to stop, even though there is still some skin on the ends of the drum sticks and some persnickety fat which refused to be removed.
If you are curious what I ended up doing with my new, naked chicken, I took pictures of it with my partner's new digital camera, in case I can convince him to post them here. I then put about 1 cup of water in my crock pot before going crazy with the seasonings.
In generally, I rarely follow a recipe all the way, preferring my "Goddess Method of Cooking by Intuition". I gathered up the rest of our rather old garlic, and a few clementines we weren't eating and shoved those inside the chicken...hopefully as a flavorful replacement for what used to be it's vital organs. Then I created a mixture of white pepper, oregano, rosemary, thyme, double ground mustard and a dash of cumin. I stirred it all up in a bowl and rubbed it all over the chicken and tossed the rest inside the cavity with the garlic and clementines. I also added some clementines to the top of the chicken because I thought it looked pretty.
Why this combination? Well, because it seemed right to me. I have no idea how my naked chicken dinner will turn out, but it smells pretty good cooking right now. I'll have to follow-up and let y'all know how it turned out!
I thought I'd take a break from writing about all my pain and health problems to tell you about something I've never done before.
In an effort to save money, I got this brilliant idea to buy a whole chicken because it was $.78 a pound. I had absolutely no idea how I was going to cook the damn thing but a bargain is a bargain and it is harder for me to pass up then sex (well, when I was having sex anyway!).
I didn't know what to do with the whole chicken, so I tossed it in the freezer and forgot about it. However, we have a very small freezer thanks to the old school ice cube and cold water dispenser feature that takes up a huge amount of space. The refrigerator/freezer was a bargain I found on Craigslist...Do you see a theme here?
Since I've discovered Amelia's Grocery Outlet a few miles from our house (and also located near a Goodwill...oh the bargains...oh the fun!), I have spent a lot of time and little money buying lots of frozen and non-perishable food. Eventually (like in the first shopping trip) I bought too much frozen food to fit in the freezer and it became obvious that I could no longer avoid cooking the chicken.
I must admit, I was deeply intimidated by cooking this thing. I used to be a vegetarian and I really prefer that my meat look as little like the animal it came from as possible. Also, I could still hear the humiliating laughter of my friend Sara as she showed me in a hostel in Ireland, in front of a guy I had a huge crush on, how easy it was to cook a whole chicken and how silly I was because I didn't have a clue how to do it. Clearly there is trauma everywhere associated with turning this bird into our future dinner!
After I let the frozen block defrost for two or three days in the refrigerator (I know, I know, that is too long but I got busy, I got distracted, I got intimidated....) I knew it was now or never. Fear or not, I didn't want to waste the bird who, without any choice, gave it's life to us. So I googled, "how to cook a whole chicken in a crock pot" and found this amazing blog: http://crockpot365.blogspot.com/ and I confronted my fears head on!
Like the author of "A Year of Slow Cooking", I am thoroughly grossed out by skin on my chicken and any visible fat. Non-visible fat in my ice cream, chocolates and other "less than great for me foods" are ok, but the nasty yellow, blobbish fat on meat is horrifying, so it had to go! Again, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing but I figured, "What the heck, people have been skinning chickens for generations, so how bad could it be?"
I began the denuding with inadequate tools and I struggled with my non-kitchen, barely sharp regular scissors, to open the chicken's package. This resulted in a lot of blood running all over the cutting board and the counter, but fortunately not on my favorite white tee shirt I was foolish enough to be wearing while mutilating my chicken. With my cheapo knives and scissors, I began to recklessly attack the skin before I remembered that I had to remove the innards. That part really was more fascinating for me than I thought it would be, as I briefly tried to identify pieces before dumping them into a bowl next to me. when I was finished stripping my chicken, I dumped all the innards and scraps in the backyard so whatever carnivorous animals that live near us will benefit from my experimentation. I saw this as a sort of giving back to the earth for the once living chicken I plan on eating. I hope that wasn't a bad idea!
The entire process of removing the skin and all visible fat took me about 45 minutes and was a far more effective anatomy lesson than dissecting a frog in high school ever was! It was also cold, slimmy and sometimes gross. However, it did give me a greater appreciation for the food I am hoping to eat tonight (especially when I removed what I think are the kidneys...they are so tiny!). At some point in time my hands began to burn and itch like crazy (is that a normal reaction?) so I decided it was time to stop, even though there is still some skin on the ends of the drum sticks and some persnickety fat which refused to be removed.
If you are curious what I ended up doing with my new, naked chicken, I took pictures of it with my partner's new digital camera, in case I can convince him to post them here. I then put about 1 cup of water in my crock pot before going crazy with the seasonings.
In generally, I rarely follow a recipe all the way, preferring my "Goddess Method of Cooking by Intuition". I gathered up the rest of our rather old garlic, and a few clementines we weren't eating and shoved those inside the chicken...hopefully as a flavorful replacement for what used to be it's vital organs. Then I created a mixture of white pepper, oregano, rosemary, thyme, double ground mustard and a dash of cumin. I stirred it all up in a bowl and rubbed it all over the chicken and tossed the rest inside the cavity with the garlic and clementines. I also added some clementines to the top of the chicken because I thought it looked pretty.
Why this combination? Well, because it seemed right to me. I have no idea how my naked chicken dinner will turn out, but it smells pretty good cooking right now. I'll have to follow-up and let y'all know how it turned out!
Friday, January 8, 2010
What Hurts The Most
For quite some time now, I’ve been uselessly debating what I would tell people if anyone other than someone I pay, asks me “What hurts the most?” Would I say that it hurts the most in my right side, an area which no one can figure out why it hurts? Would I try and describe how it feels like there is a large, ever growing lamprey living there, with teeth so sharp it feels like razors eating into my flesh…and that is on a good day? Would I tell someone, as I try to nonchalantly limp away from the table to pee that the inexplicable pain in my side currently feels like minions of fireballs searing, tearing, paralyzing me with pain, and that when I finally reach the bathroom stall I cry silently to myself unable to endure what is happening, scared to death about what might be wrong and desperate, so desperate for an answer…any answer…as long as it is the correct answer to what is causing this pain? Would I confess, when I rejoin them at the table that I was away for so long because I couldn’t stop myself from crying, that I couldn’t wipe the tears away fast enough or pull myself together quickly enough to devote my energy to the conversation?
No. I’d probably lie and say I was fine…fine...always fine. Because no matter what I say, it isn’t all of the truth anyway. Whether I am writing about my ripped rectum or my constant need to pee, even when I can’t, I’m never really telling the full truth about what hurts the most.
Well, I once told my Physical Therapist that what hurts the most is my ego and self-esteem; both so wounded and in pain that the mere act of getting out of bed is pointless. She did the best she could to console me but that isn’t her area of expertise. And I’ve tried to talk to my partner about what hurts the most, as the tears pouring down my face blur the distance between us…blur the space where all I want is a strong hug and a shoulder to absorb the snot gushing out of my nose and instead becomes the space where somehow it is about him and how he needs to fix things he can’t even understand. I guess those experiences, as well as a lifelong bludgeoning into my brain that pure truth is rarely what people are looking for, are a large part of what keeps me lying, to everyone but myself, about what hurts the most.
If I were to be truly honest, (will I ever learn my lesson?) as I prepare for one more whack in the face, I would say that what hurts the most is the indifference, the denial, the complete and utter forgetability of what I am going through. What hurts the most isn’t the physical pain…I’ve got pills for that as well as well honed childhood skills of separating my mind from my body when things hurt too much. No, it is what lies deeper and far more invisible than physical pain that hurts the most.
It is the lack of visible proof that something is wrong with me. It is lack of phone calls or e-mails or text messages with the sole purpose of seeing how I’m doing. Sure, people still call me, for whatever it is they need and want me to fulfill for them and sometimes, as a sort of cursory “pleasantry” they will ask how I’m doing and inevitably become too busy, too sidetracked, to one-sidedly selfish to really listen to my answer, if I bother to give one at all. Sometimes it is just so much easier to lie and say, “I’m fine.” in a false staccato voice which does not belong to me but isn’t heard anyway.
What hurts the most is that I envy people who are on crutches or temporarily in a wheelchair or have a cast or sling or brace on their arm, even people who are in the hospital, because “those are the ones who truly have something wrong with them.” Those are the people whose pain is easy to acknowledge…it is easy to do things for them..say, hold open a door or autograph their cast or give them special parking places until they get better. The people who are in the hospital get ‘round the clock questions about how they are doing. They get cards and flowers and visitors. They get obvious acknowledgement of what they are going through, even if it is only temporary (the acknowledgement and the suffering).
Believe me, I am not wallowing so deep in my depressed navel gazing that I truly believe this is the case for all people who are suffering this way. I know that I am romanticizing and glossing over and being selective or downright creating my own reality about what I want to see, but right now…today…last night…this week…for god only knows how long, that is of little consolation to me.
Because that is what I so desperately want. I want the money “wasted” on cards and the fucking flowers that are just going to die and make me sneeze anyway. I want a cast on my arm that people can write encouraging things on it like we used to do in school. I want the “I’m only calling to see how you are doing” phone calls. I want the visits where people are stopping by with homemade chicken noodle soup, or chocolates or hasty get-well drawings from their kids. I want visits and phone calls where people, for once in my goddamn fucking life, are asking no more of me than how I am doing and for once in my fucking life, are actually listening to the answers…the ones I give out loud and the ones I give with my body language. I want people to see through my false self-deprecating jokes that they can help me by “just cutting out whatever is wrong with me.” I want acknowledgement of the hurt and fear and pain and foreboding sense of hopelessness inside me. I want to know that there are people that I can lean on, that will put aside their own super busy lives, if only for a ten minute phone call or a quick visit that’s all about me…that is not a ruse for their own needs or desires for me to be a living “sounding board” for their problems, hopes, failures and despairs.
I want to be seen as someone who is sick, if even temporarily, and needs other people to lean on.
What hurts the most is this ridiculous game we keep playing that I am strong enough to get through anything AND that I can handle everyone else’s problems too. What hurts the most are the people…friends, family and professionals, who outright tell me, or subtly and cowardly, imply that if I just got over my anger, my problems would go away…I’d be able to shit without medicine, walk without pain, fuck without guilt, stand tall and proud without stabbing pains in my lower back. If I just changed me, without medicine, without anger and without help, I’d be fine.
That’s what hurts the most…that my problems are either my fault or that I am strong enough to handle them alone, and that I should fix them by myself while simultaneously being there gleefully supporting the rest of the world and the very same people who don’t call or send cards or stop by to visit but still want me to help them heal their wounds, their pain, their problems.
No. I’d probably lie and say I was fine…fine...always fine. Because no matter what I say, it isn’t all of the truth anyway. Whether I am writing about my ripped rectum or my constant need to pee, even when I can’t, I’m never really telling the full truth about what hurts the most.
Well, I once told my Physical Therapist that what hurts the most is my ego and self-esteem; both so wounded and in pain that the mere act of getting out of bed is pointless. She did the best she could to console me but that isn’t her area of expertise. And I’ve tried to talk to my partner about what hurts the most, as the tears pouring down my face blur the distance between us…blur the space where all I want is a strong hug and a shoulder to absorb the snot gushing out of my nose and instead becomes the space where somehow it is about him and how he needs to fix things he can’t even understand. I guess those experiences, as well as a lifelong bludgeoning into my brain that pure truth is rarely what people are looking for, are a large part of what keeps me lying, to everyone but myself, about what hurts the most.
If I were to be truly honest, (will I ever learn my lesson?) as I prepare for one more whack in the face, I would say that what hurts the most is the indifference, the denial, the complete and utter forgetability of what I am going through. What hurts the most isn’t the physical pain…I’ve got pills for that as well as well honed childhood skills of separating my mind from my body when things hurt too much. No, it is what lies deeper and far more invisible than physical pain that hurts the most.
It is the lack of visible proof that something is wrong with me. It is lack of phone calls or e-mails or text messages with the sole purpose of seeing how I’m doing. Sure, people still call me, for whatever it is they need and want me to fulfill for them and sometimes, as a sort of cursory “pleasantry” they will ask how I’m doing and inevitably become too busy, too sidetracked, to one-sidedly selfish to really listen to my answer, if I bother to give one at all. Sometimes it is just so much easier to lie and say, “I’m fine.” in a false staccato voice which does not belong to me but isn’t heard anyway.
What hurts the most is that I envy people who are on crutches or temporarily in a wheelchair or have a cast or sling or brace on their arm, even people who are in the hospital, because “those are the ones who truly have something wrong with them.” Those are the people whose pain is easy to acknowledge…it is easy to do things for them..say, hold open a door or autograph their cast or give them special parking places until they get better. The people who are in the hospital get ‘round the clock questions about how they are doing. They get cards and flowers and visitors. They get obvious acknowledgement of what they are going through, even if it is only temporary (the acknowledgement and the suffering).
Believe me, I am not wallowing so deep in my depressed navel gazing that I truly believe this is the case for all people who are suffering this way. I know that I am romanticizing and glossing over and being selective or downright creating my own reality about what I want to see, but right now…today…last night…this week…for god only knows how long, that is of little consolation to me.
Because that is what I so desperately want. I want the money “wasted” on cards and the fucking flowers that are just going to die and make me sneeze anyway. I want a cast on my arm that people can write encouraging things on it like we used to do in school. I want the “I’m only calling to see how you are doing” phone calls. I want the visits where people are stopping by with homemade chicken noodle soup, or chocolates or hasty get-well drawings from their kids. I want visits and phone calls where people, for once in my goddamn fucking life, are asking no more of me than how I am doing and for once in my fucking life, are actually listening to the answers…the ones I give out loud and the ones I give with my body language. I want people to see through my false self-deprecating jokes that they can help me by “just cutting out whatever is wrong with me.” I want acknowledgement of the hurt and fear and pain and foreboding sense of hopelessness inside me. I want to know that there are people that I can lean on, that will put aside their own super busy lives, if only for a ten minute phone call or a quick visit that’s all about me…that is not a ruse for their own needs or desires for me to be a living “sounding board” for their problems, hopes, failures and despairs.
I want to be seen as someone who is sick, if even temporarily, and needs other people to lean on.
What hurts the most is this ridiculous game we keep playing that I am strong enough to get through anything AND that I can handle everyone else’s problems too. What hurts the most are the people…friends, family and professionals, who outright tell me, or subtly and cowardly, imply that if I just got over my anger, my problems would go away…I’d be able to shit without medicine, walk without pain, fuck without guilt, stand tall and proud without stabbing pains in my lower back. If I just changed me, without medicine, without anger and without help, I’d be fine.
That’s what hurts the most…that my problems are either my fault or that I am strong enough to handle them alone, and that I should fix them by myself while simultaneously being there gleefully supporting the rest of the world and the very same people who don’t call or send cards or stop by to visit but still want me to help them heal their wounds, their pain, their problems.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
My Shit Stool
In our bathroom we now have a shit stool. It’s a lovely golden thing with fringes around the middle that the cats like to tear off. It’s cushiony and has a neat pattern on it for me to stare at in flights of fantasy if I need to.
It used to reside in our living room, in front of the wooden rocking chair with the woefully thin blue cushion. It never matched the rocking chair but it sorta matches our ugly gold sofa and it theoretically served as a great place to rest your feet if one was ever to lounge in the rocking chair with a good book and a stiff drink. I rarely ever did anything more than rock myself back and forth when I would cry in our last apartment, so I could sort comfort myself and not wake my partner up by crying in the same room. The foot rest seemed superfluous when I was crying as well as when we were moving for the second time in a year last year, but for some reason, we never got rid of it.
Now that golden stool resides in our bathroom. I bought the wrong color “oops” paint at Home Depot and we didn’t prime the walls before we painted them, so the bathroom has a rather morgue green hue to it. However, that is only relevant to this story to highlight the fact that this stool does not match the bathroom anymore than it matched its old mate, my rocking chair.
Whether or not it matches anything is irrelevant overall though, because the sole purpose of the stool in the bathroom is to help me move my own stool better, more efficiently, and with as few anal fissures as possible.
I learned about the shit stool when I was discussing my current pain problems with my physical therapist. At the time, it felt as though my bowels drove a Mac truck through my anus and left shred marks to prove it. Shitting was just as painful as sitting and it was a fascinating topic of discussion for that day’s therapy session. Turns out, my beloved physical therapist has a) heard of this problem before and therefore wasn’t openly repulsed by what I was describing and b) had some possible solutions in mind. Hell, she even had a diagram to send home with me that shows the proper 90 degree angle at which one should sit in order to most productively shit!
She also discussed the possibility of trying pelvic floor stretches via my anus (that reminds me, I probably should write about what happens in PT!) and getting a stool for the bathroom to help me achieve that perfect angle. For the meantime, I opted out of the rectal stretches in favor of the shit stool (my words, not hers).
Being either frugal or cheap, I did not want to rush out and buy anything as unglamorous as shit stool (I’d much rather spend the money I saved on one of my post-BI shopping trips.) so I went home and thought deep thoughts on the crapper as nothing came out of my bowels. Finally it occurred to me to use the plush, padded, mismatched stool we already had in our living room and see how that worked out.
For awhile, all I could do was shoo our white cat, Jezzabella of the stool, since she now thought it belonged to her, and maneuver it in front of me before I sat down on my throne. I would place my feet upon it as I sat there trying to expel a trickle or two of urine, since nothing was coming out of my little Wal-Mart.
My partner and I have taken to calling my anus my little Wal-Mart when the stores around here got the less than brilliant idea to change their symbol to what my beloved claims, looks like an anus. Initially I did not agree that’s what the symbol looked like, but that was before I spent so much time contorting myself to look at my own anus for cracks, tears and fissures and to apply the once or twice daily ointments to that area. Then I began to agree with my lover that Wal-Mart’s new symbol and my anus do bear a striking resemblance! Although I swear Wal-Mart has an easier time moving shit out of its orifice, err, store than I do.
It never ceases to amaze me what you can learn to talk about and become comfortable with in a relationship, since I’ve never discussed this part of my body with anyone so openly and frequently as I do now!
Even though I couldn’t shit for a while, I rather liked the feeling of having my feet propped up when I peed. It gave me a more comfortable chance to impersonate Rodin’s "The Thinker", as I tried to expel something, anything, from some lower hole in my body.
Eventually the Miralax and the three stool softeners I take each day kicked in and something festering inside me for entirely too long serrated it’s way out of my colon and my anus. And I was somewhat more comfortable as it tore slightly less of my ass part now that my perch perfected that sought after angle of release.
The shit stool doesn’t stop the anal tearing and it certainly isn’t something I’m going to take with me everywhere I ago, but now that I am used to it, I find it much easier to crap with it’s help. Plus, since many of my medications make me constipated, and I know it takes a day or two for the Miralax to work, I am rarely caught off guard with the need to shit. When I am, I now try to replicate the 90 degree angle by sitting on the throne and pushing my knees up as high as they will go while simultaneously trying to balance most of my lower weight on my tippy toes. This usually results in very sore toes, wobbly legs and an occasional cramp in my arches…a small price to pay for an easier crap I’d say!
It used to reside in our living room, in front of the wooden rocking chair with the woefully thin blue cushion. It never matched the rocking chair but it sorta matches our ugly gold sofa and it theoretically served as a great place to rest your feet if one was ever to lounge in the rocking chair with a good book and a stiff drink. I rarely ever did anything more than rock myself back and forth when I would cry in our last apartment, so I could sort comfort myself and not wake my partner up by crying in the same room. The foot rest seemed superfluous when I was crying as well as when we were moving for the second time in a year last year, but for some reason, we never got rid of it.
Now that golden stool resides in our bathroom. I bought the wrong color “oops” paint at Home Depot and we didn’t prime the walls before we painted them, so the bathroom has a rather morgue green hue to it. However, that is only relevant to this story to highlight the fact that this stool does not match the bathroom anymore than it matched its old mate, my rocking chair.
Whether or not it matches anything is irrelevant overall though, because the sole purpose of the stool in the bathroom is to help me move my own stool better, more efficiently, and with as few anal fissures as possible.
I learned about the shit stool when I was discussing my current pain problems with my physical therapist. At the time, it felt as though my bowels drove a Mac truck through my anus and left shred marks to prove it. Shitting was just as painful as sitting and it was a fascinating topic of discussion for that day’s therapy session. Turns out, my beloved physical therapist has a) heard of this problem before and therefore wasn’t openly repulsed by what I was describing and b) had some possible solutions in mind. Hell, she even had a diagram to send home with me that shows the proper 90 degree angle at which one should sit in order to most productively shit!
She also discussed the possibility of trying pelvic floor stretches via my anus (that reminds me, I probably should write about what happens in PT!) and getting a stool for the bathroom to help me achieve that perfect angle. For the meantime, I opted out of the rectal stretches in favor of the shit stool (my words, not hers).
Being either frugal or cheap, I did not want to rush out and buy anything as unglamorous as shit stool (I’d much rather spend the money I saved on one of my post-BI shopping trips.) so I went home and thought deep thoughts on the crapper as nothing came out of my bowels. Finally it occurred to me to use the plush, padded, mismatched stool we already had in our living room and see how that worked out.
For awhile, all I could do was shoo our white cat, Jezzabella of the stool, since she now thought it belonged to her, and maneuver it in front of me before I sat down on my throne. I would place my feet upon it as I sat there trying to expel a trickle or two of urine, since nothing was coming out of my little Wal-Mart.
My partner and I have taken to calling my anus my little Wal-Mart when the stores around here got the less than brilliant idea to change their symbol to what my beloved claims, looks like an anus. Initially I did not agree that’s what the symbol looked like, but that was before I spent so much time contorting myself to look at my own anus for cracks, tears and fissures and to apply the once or twice daily ointments to that area. Then I began to agree with my lover that Wal-Mart’s new symbol and my anus do bear a striking resemblance! Although I swear Wal-Mart has an easier time moving shit out of its orifice, err, store than I do.
It never ceases to amaze me what you can learn to talk about and become comfortable with in a relationship, since I’ve never discussed this part of my body with anyone so openly and frequently as I do now!
Even though I couldn’t shit for a while, I rather liked the feeling of having my feet propped up when I peed. It gave me a more comfortable chance to impersonate Rodin’s "The Thinker", as I tried to expel something, anything, from some lower hole in my body.
Eventually the Miralax and the three stool softeners I take each day kicked in and something festering inside me for entirely too long serrated it’s way out of my colon and my anus. And I was somewhat more comfortable as it tore slightly less of my ass part now that my perch perfected that sought after angle of release.
The shit stool doesn’t stop the anal tearing and it certainly isn’t something I’m going to take with me everywhere I ago, but now that I am used to it, I find it much easier to crap with it’s help. Plus, since many of my medications make me constipated, and I know it takes a day or two for the Miralax to work, I am rarely caught off guard with the need to shit. When I am, I now try to replicate the 90 degree angle by sitting on the throne and pushing my knees up as high as they will go while simultaneously trying to balance most of my lower weight on my tippy toes. This usually results in very sore toes, wobbly legs and an occasional cramp in my arches…a small price to pay for an easier crap I’d say!
Pee Envy
I am starting to suffer from pee envy. It’s a condition I either developed or became fully aware of yesterday.
See, I was in the bathroom stall at the hospital, needing desperately to pee for the second time in less than five minutes, when, presumably, a woman entered the stall next to me. In the time it was taking me to line the seat (again) with toilet paper and sit down, the woman next to me was already getting down to business.
As I paused to consider whether or not she had taken the time to line the seat before plopping her ass down on a much used seat, my urgent need to pee was, for a millisecond, outwitted by my deep pondering. My deep pondering was interrupted by the noises that issued forth in the stall next to me.
As I sat, impatiently trying to wait patiently for my urine to spew forth, there was an active geyser jettisoning its way into the toilet next to me. I was aghast. I was stunned. I wondered what the hell was going on over there! The woman seemed to be peeing as if her very life-force depended upon it…as if she drank an entire pot of coffee mere moments ago…as if she was trying to disgorge something in time for a drug test…as if she weren’t human.
I was still sitting there, waiting, waiting, waiting for my “urgent pee” to come out and this woman must have pumped a gallon or more of liquid into her throne. I say liquid because the sound lasted for so long that I began to doubt it was really a human being urinating next door. Perhaps it was just someone pouring out all the leftover stale beverages from the holidays…into the toilet…when it would have been so much easier to empty it all out in the sink. I thought about looking under the wall, you know, quickly and inquisitively like you did when you were a kid, but at 32 I felt too old to risk the reaction I might get.
Then I considered that maybe there was a horse in the stall next to me, which would obviously explain the ferocity with which urine was pummeling the toilet. Again, I resisted the urge to stick my head under the partition and instead, I surreptitiously surveyed the floor next to me, in case it was a horse, not a woman, making all that ruckus. To my dismay, I only saw two feet when I was hoping to see four hooves.
I know that this might sound utterly ridiculous, looking for horses in a hospital bathroom, but hey, it may have happened somewhere! Yet what it really came down to was a realization that smacked me between the eyes as my own urine trickle, trickle, drop, dropped out. I was jealous! I was insanely jealous of the ability of the person next to me to urinate freely and with such force she could probably propel herself into another universe if she tried not to pee at all during an 8 hour work day. I was jealous of the fact that she was out of the stall and washing her hands as I, who got there before her, was still trying to coax more urine from my bladder. I was jealous that she doesn’t pee like someone who has IC, and truth be told, her ability to do so, made me want to cry about my own inadequate urinating abilities.
I know I wrote recently about the things I was grateful for, but right now, I’m having a relapse. Mentally I am forgetting the brief feeling of relief I had when my pains had names and treatment options. And physically, for reasons I cannot figure out, I seem to be “flaring up” as bad, or worse than I was before I started all my treatments.
Now, having the powerful, “I will stomp on small children and elderly ladies in the way of my getting to the bathroom” need to pee after physical therapy doesn’t surprise me too much, I just didn’t think it would last ALL DAY! And even that doesn’t explain why, seemingly within the last week or so, I feel the need to pee far more often and produce far less urine. I’ve been, with the exception of chocolate, ridiculously good about trying to stay away from any “problem foods”, even over the holidays. And even if I did have three glasses of Sauvignon Blanc on New Year’s Eve (and I took my Prelief!) it shouldn’t be causing a “flare-up” so many days later!
I’m getting sick of writing down everything I eat and drink (which is only water and milk and I think milk is gross!) and when I pee and when I shit and how I feel when I feel it. I’m getting sick of watching what I eat and still seeing my weight go up. I’m getting sick of feeling ridiculously strong urges to pee and not being able to fill a thimble, or even better yet, feeling like my clitoral hood and/or urethra is being sliced apart with razor blades when I finally dribble something out. I am no longer amused by the AZO Standard (over-the-counter pyridium) I take before my bladder instillations which turn my urine Easter egg shades of yellow and orange…as well as my underwear if I forget to wear dark colored ones and our white sheets too!
I don’t mind the oral medicine so much, even when the Elmiron lodges in the back of my throat like stifling cum, but that is probably because I haven’t noticed any hair loss, or other unpleasant side effects which may occur. Nor have I noticed any marked improvement, but I was warned that could take 3 to 6 months and I have only been popping those babies for a month or so.
I am beginning to loath the bladder instillations. Even as much as I like the nurse who does them, there is NOTHING FUN about having a catheter shoved in your urethra and to do that for 9 weeks in a row is beyond madness, it might even qualify as a form of torture! Another nifty thing about BIs is that when the catheter is removed, and I am finally allowed to pee, I almost always produce a profusion of air bubbles which make me feel like I am farting from the wrong place. Sometimes those air bubbles hang around for many feeble urinations afterwards.
During my last BI, as they are called in the office, the nurse suggested that it was possible that the IC spread into my urethra and the treatments that were supposed to make me better (the BIs) might be causing me more pain. So, I stopped going for several weeks over the holidays because my urethra hurt and burned and felt fingered by Freddy Kruger so much that air, never mind underwear, was causing me intense pain. Everything hurt that area…sitting down, laying down, standing up, walking with my feet as far apart as possible, being naked. Everything.
I am often frustrated and disgusted. I feel like one treatment option exacerbates something else. Sure, I could stop the BIs and continue with the Elmiron, but realistically I couldn’t stop urinating, no matter how painful it may be. And as much as I love to be naked, it is too fucking cold to be tottering, legs wide apart, throughout our house and I am too damn cheap to pump the heat into the 80’s so I would be more comfortable naked. And it never occurred to me how much I envy some people’s ability to urinate until yesterday, until the full reality that I really do have a problem, finally sunk in.
Today alone, I have peed 16 times. Sixteen times and it is only 8:30 at night! If I were able to collect all the urine I produced in one day, I sincerely doubt it would fill a pint glass (which is what the woman next to me yesterday was able to produce each millisecond!!). I used to think my urge and frequency was normal, but now that I know it is not, it is really fucking with my life. A few weeks ago I thought I was getting better. Now I feel like I am just getting better at peeing through the pain.
See, I was in the bathroom stall at the hospital, needing desperately to pee for the second time in less than five minutes, when, presumably, a woman entered the stall next to me. In the time it was taking me to line the seat (again) with toilet paper and sit down, the woman next to me was already getting down to business.
As I paused to consider whether or not she had taken the time to line the seat before plopping her ass down on a much used seat, my urgent need to pee was, for a millisecond, outwitted by my deep pondering. My deep pondering was interrupted by the noises that issued forth in the stall next to me.
As I sat, impatiently trying to wait patiently for my urine to spew forth, there was an active geyser jettisoning its way into the toilet next to me. I was aghast. I was stunned. I wondered what the hell was going on over there! The woman seemed to be peeing as if her very life-force depended upon it…as if she drank an entire pot of coffee mere moments ago…as if she was trying to disgorge something in time for a drug test…as if she weren’t human.
I was still sitting there, waiting, waiting, waiting for my “urgent pee” to come out and this woman must have pumped a gallon or more of liquid into her throne. I say liquid because the sound lasted for so long that I began to doubt it was really a human being urinating next door. Perhaps it was just someone pouring out all the leftover stale beverages from the holidays…into the toilet…when it would have been so much easier to empty it all out in the sink. I thought about looking under the wall, you know, quickly and inquisitively like you did when you were a kid, but at 32 I felt too old to risk the reaction I might get.
Then I considered that maybe there was a horse in the stall next to me, which would obviously explain the ferocity with which urine was pummeling the toilet. Again, I resisted the urge to stick my head under the partition and instead, I surreptitiously surveyed the floor next to me, in case it was a horse, not a woman, making all that ruckus. To my dismay, I only saw two feet when I was hoping to see four hooves.
I know that this might sound utterly ridiculous, looking for horses in a hospital bathroom, but hey, it may have happened somewhere! Yet what it really came down to was a realization that smacked me between the eyes as my own urine trickle, trickle, drop, dropped out. I was jealous! I was insanely jealous of the ability of the person next to me to urinate freely and with such force she could probably propel herself into another universe if she tried not to pee at all during an 8 hour work day. I was jealous of the fact that she was out of the stall and washing her hands as I, who got there before her, was still trying to coax more urine from my bladder. I was jealous that she doesn’t pee like someone who has IC, and truth be told, her ability to do so, made me want to cry about my own inadequate urinating abilities.
I know I wrote recently about the things I was grateful for, but right now, I’m having a relapse. Mentally I am forgetting the brief feeling of relief I had when my pains had names and treatment options. And physically, for reasons I cannot figure out, I seem to be “flaring up” as bad, or worse than I was before I started all my treatments.
Now, having the powerful, “I will stomp on small children and elderly ladies in the way of my getting to the bathroom” need to pee after physical therapy doesn’t surprise me too much, I just didn’t think it would last ALL DAY! And even that doesn’t explain why, seemingly within the last week or so, I feel the need to pee far more often and produce far less urine. I’ve been, with the exception of chocolate, ridiculously good about trying to stay away from any “problem foods”, even over the holidays. And even if I did have three glasses of Sauvignon Blanc on New Year’s Eve (and I took my Prelief!) it shouldn’t be causing a “flare-up” so many days later!
I’m getting sick of writing down everything I eat and drink (which is only water and milk and I think milk is gross!) and when I pee and when I shit and how I feel when I feel it. I’m getting sick of watching what I eat and still seeing my weight go up. I’m getting sick of feeling ridiculously strong urges to pee and not being able to fill a thimble, or even better yet, feeling like my clitoral hood and/or urethra is being sliced apart with razor blades when I finally dribble something out. I am no longer amused by the AZO Standard (over-the-counter pyridium) I take before my bladder instillations which turn my urine Easter egg shades of yellow and orange…as well as my underwear if I forget to wear dark colored ones and our white sheets too!
I don’t mind the oral medicine so much, even when the Elmiron lodges in the back of my throat like stifling cum, but that is probably because I haven’t noticed any hair loss, or other unpleasant side effects which may occur. Nor have I noticed any marked improvement, but I was warned that could take 3 to 6 months and I have only been popping those babies for a month or so.
I am beginning to loath the bladder instillations. Even as much as I like the nurse who does them, there is NOTHING FUN about having a catheter shoved in your urethra and to do that for 9 weeks in a row is beyond madness, it might even qualify as a form of torture! Another nifty thing about BIs is that when the catheter is removed, and I am finally allowed to pee, I almost always produce a profusion of air bubbles which make me feel like I am farting from the wrong place. Sometimes those air bubbles hang around for many feeble urinations afterwards.
During my last BI, as they are called in the office, the nurse suggested that it was possible that the IC spread into my urethra and the treatments that were supposed to make me better (the BIs) might be causing me more pain. So, I stopped going for several weeks over the holidays because my urethra hurt and burned and felt fingered by Freddy Kruger so much that air, never mind underwear, was causing me intense pain. Everything hurt that area…sitting down, laying down, standing up, walking with my feet as far apart as possible, being naked. Everything.
I am often frustrated and disgusted. I feel like one treatment option exacerbates something else. Sure, I could stop the BIs and continue with the Elmiron, but realistically I couldn’t stop urinating, no matter how painful it may be. And as much as I love to be naked, it is too fucking cold to be tottering, legs wide apart, throughout our house and I am too damn cheap to pump the heat into the 80’s so I would be more comfortable naked. And it never occurred to me how much I envy some people’s ability to urinate until yesterday, until the full reality that I really do have a problem, finally sunk in.
Today alone, I have peed 16 times. Sixteen times and it is only 8:30 at night! If I were able to collect all the urine I produced in one day, I sincerely doubt it would fill a pint glass (which is what the woman next to me yesterday was able to produce each millisecond!!). I used to think my urge and frequency was normal, but now that I know it is not, it is really fucking with my life. A few weeks ago I thought I was getting better. Now I feel like I am just getting better at peeing through the pain.
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