Here's wishing you all a year filled with the things that inspire growth...
For me, this has been a year full of Challenges, full of Change, full of Pain, and full of Fear. And I am grateful for every moment, every Obstacle, and every Setback. I look forward to more of the same. Why? Because "Life is Pain, Highness", and without these things, we cannot hope to have Growth. I have Grown more than I have Hurt, I have Learned more than I have Feared, and I have Achieved more than I have Stumbled.
My love to you all. I wish you a year full of the worst that life can throw at you, that you may become a better person because of it.
Monday 31 December 2012
Friday 7 December 2012
Writing: A Sensual Experience
The written word is the one thing that I can turn to when pain, sex and vodka have failed me. In high school, I wrote a lot of poetry. Some of it is trash, sure, but some of it is truly stirring. Sometimes when verbal communication fails me, I turn to the written word. My mother would sometimes see me struggling for the right words during a conversation and tell me to write her a letter, instead. Funny how mom's tend to know us better than we know ourselves. Today, I often open serious discussions, or communicate a frustration through an email before talking over the finer points in person or over the phone. I do this with friends and family alike.
I was interviewed for a blog about long term pain and debilitating diseases. It gave me the push I needed to finally start my own blog. I now write one under my given name on my struggle with pain and my mystery disease, and a second under my professional pseudonym that is a platform for my fledgling business as a Coach/Companion to the geek culture and other minorities.
A dear friend started a blog when he and his wife parted ways, and I immediately started editing that for him, as I understand how he thinks and can figure out what he is trying to say with a post, even when he cannot.
One of my best friends in Hamilton actually writes THREE blogs, and I edit hers for much the same reasons. She is a writer by trade, having recently branched into the world of freelance writing. One of her blogs is just fun stuff about her life and the many creatures she shares it with, one is all about literary women and their books, and the last is more I guess her own writing and thoughts. I've been blessed to edit a piece of fiction that she is working on that gives me goosebumps when it's polished.
I did editing of essays and what not in high school for extra cash. The editing that I do now, I do for the joy and the experience. There is a great sense of pleasure that comes from being able to help someone craft their thoughts and ideas into the written word. Tedious is not a word that I would associate with the experience. In fact, tedious is a word I reserve for all things Mathematical in nature :P And hell, if either of them ever gets published, that's an amazing thing to have on my resume ;)
A friend of a friend recently read my blog for the first time. She had many complimentary things to say about it, but the comment that stuck with me, and truly touched me was 'She writes like she does it for a living.' Thank you, E. That simple phrase means more to me than you can possibly imagine.
I like to tell people that I am a writer by trade. However, I have no formal education in English outside of my regular studies in school. My parents did encourage me to read and write at every given opportunity. In fact, I was reading long before I started school. I was that crazy kid in the third grade who was perusing the Novels section in the school library looking for Jack London's, White Fang, while everyone else was looking for picture books.
I was a hyperactive child, and rather than medicate me, my Dad made up reading, writing and arithmetic assignments for me to do. We had a leather bound collection of Funk & Wagnals encyclopedias that I became very familiar with, and one of those massive dictionaries with the little thumbnail indents for each letter. It was old and fragile, but I loved to reverently turn through it's pages in search of the definition of a whatever new words I had stumbled across in my studies, or that Dad had listed as part of my Definitions Hunt.
Two of the books that I remember reading for assignments were Kon Tiki, and a biography of Abe Lincoln. I remember struggling with Kon Tiki because it was written in the form of a journal, and was therefore often boring. The story of Abe Lincoln, however, was fascinating. Both, however, are beloved pieces of my childhood. In fact, my parents gifted me with a copy of Kon Tiki when I moved away from home. I think it was mom that read me The Call of the Wild, by Jack London, over the summer between grades 2 and 3. I loved it! It was her that sent me to check the school library for White Fang, by the same author, to read on my own.
I am a lot like Picard and Kirk in that I like the feel of a book in my hand. My Android has an E-Reader on it, but I'm really not interested in that. I want to feel the heft of the book, smell the scent of the pages. I actually pouted when I realized that I was going to have to start purchasing paperbacks instead of hardbound, because of my health. The strength and dexterity in my hands is so unpredictable that trying to hold a hardbound book, even in two hands, is often quite difficult. For my birthday last year, one of my best friends got me a gift card for a book store, knowing that I wanted to add to my collection. I bought the second book in one of my favourite series, and in paperback. The first one is hardbound. Makes for an odd pattern on the bookshelf, I'll tell you.
Alright, I'll stop pouting now.
I've actually taken to listening to audio books as I walk or on the bus, or before bed, or while I'm doing housework. Drives my housemates nuts because they'll come into a room jabbering at me and I don't even know that they're there. If you get the right reader, it makes it worth not having the book in your hands. I'm just finishing up the third book in Nora Robert's 'In the Garden' series. The reader is pretty fabulous. I'm hoping that my next audio book adventure is my favourite book of all time- The Redemption of Althalus by David and Leigh Eddings. I hope that it's read at least half as good as it sounded in my head.
Before life got quite as hectic as it is, I also used to write long, handwritten letters to my friends and family. It's been probably close to six years since I've done that on a regular basis. Though I do from time to time, write to a friend or family member, hoping that it brings as much joy to them to receive the letter as I felt while writing it.
There is something about the written word...
It does not frustrate me that I rarely finish a story. It does not bother me that the only thing that I've ever published and sold was Self Published and only took me half an hour to write. What does bother me is that I don't write every day. That I no longer eat, live and breathe the written word. When I move, I always have one box just full of half filled notebooks, stationary. pencils, and pens. I used to have to restock every couple of months. Right now I'm staring at a jar full of pens that rarely see use anymore, and a stack of paper and notebooks that I've had for going on two years.
It's not writer's block. It's just a fast. And it's getting frustrating. I'm getting frustrated. Hell! It feels an awful lot like sexual frustration! But I guess that ties into my opening statement, and my title. Writing has always been a sensual experience for me, and I have been craving that sensation in the same way I crave sensations of the flesh. It's time to get serious about the Written Word, again. Let's see what sort of havoc I can wreak on that stack of notebooks.
*rubs hands together in anticipation*
I was interviewed for a blog about long term pain and debilitating diseases. It gave me the push I needed to finally start my own blog. I now write one under my given name on my struggle with pain and my mystery disease, and a second under my professional pseudonym that is a platform for my fledgling business as a Coach/Companion to the geek culture and other minorities.
A dear friend started a blog when he and his wife parted ways, and I immediately started editing that for him, as I understand how he thinks and can figure out what he is trying to say with a post, even when he cannot.
One of my best friends in Hamilton actually writes THREE blogs, and I edit hers for much the same reasons. She is a writer by trade, having recently branched into the world of freelance writing. One of her blogs is just fun stuff about her life and the many creatures she shares it with, one is all about literary women and their books, and the last is more I guess her own writing and thoughts. I've been blessed to edit a piece of fiction that she is working on that gives me goosebumps when it's polished.
I did editing of essays and what not in high school for extra cash. The editing that I do now, I do for the joy and the experience. There is a great sense of pleasure that comes from being able to help someone craft their thoughts and ideas into the written word. Tedious is not a word that I would associate with the experience. In fact, tedious is a word I reserve for all things Mathematical in nature :P And hell, if either of them ever gets published, that's an amazing thing to have on my resume ;)
A friend of a friend recently read my blog for the first time. She had many complimentary things to say about it, but the comment that stuck with me, and truly touched me was 'She writes like she does it for a living.' Thank you, E. That simple phrase means more to me than you can possibly imagine.
I like to tell people that I am a writer by trade. However, I have no formal education in English outside of my regular studies in school. My parents did encourage me to read and write at every given opportunity. In fact, I was reading long before I started school. I was that crazy kid in the third grade who was perusing the Novels section in the school library looking for Jack London's, White Fang, while everyone else was looking for picture books.
I was a hyperactive child, and rather than medicate me, my Dad made up reading, writing and arithmetic assignments for me to do. We had a leather bound collection of Funk & Wagnals encyclopedias that I became very familiar with, and one of those massive dictionaries with the little thumbnail indents for each letter. It was old and fragile, but I loved to reverently turn through it's pages in search of the definition of a whatever new words I had stumbled across in my studies, or that Dad had listed as part of my Definitions Hunt.
Two of the books that I remember reading for assignments were Kon Tiki, and a biography of Abe Lincoln. I remember struggling with Kon Tiki because it was written in the form of a journal, and was therefore often boring. The story of Abe Lincoln, however, was fascinating. Both, however, are beloved pieces of my childhood. In fact, my parents gifted me with a copy of Kon Tiki when I moved away from home. I think it was mom that read me The Call of the Wild, by Jack London, over the summer between grades 2 and 3. I loved it! It was her that sent me to check the school library for White Fang, by the same author, to read on my own.
I am a lot like Picard and Kirk in that I like the feel of a book in my hand. My Android has an E-Reader on it, but I'm really not interested in that. I want to feel the heft of the book, smell the scent of the pages. I actually pouted when I realized that I was going to have to start purchasing paperbacks instead of hardbound, because of my health. The strength and dexterity in my hands is so unpredictable that trying to hold a hardbound book, even in two hands, is often quite difficult. For my birthday last year, one of my best friends got me a gift card for a book store, knowing that I wanted to add to my collection. I bought the second book in one of my favourite series, and in paperback. The first one is hardbound. Makes for an odd pattern on the bookshelf, I'll tell you.
Alright, I'll stop pouting now.
I've actually taken to listening to audio books as I walk or on the bus, or before bed, or while I'm doing housework. Drives my housemates nuts because they'll come into a room jabbering at me and I don't even know that they're there. If you get the right reader, it makes it worth not having the book in your hands. I'm just finishing up the third book in Nora Robert's 'In the Garden' series. The reader is pretty fabulous. I'm hoping that my next audio book adventure is my favourite book of all time- The Redemption of Althalus by David and Leigh Eddings. I hope that it's read at least half as good as it sounded in my head.
Before life got quite as hectic as it is, I also used to write long, handwritten letters to my friends and family. It's been probably close to six years since I've done that on a regular basis. Though I do from time to time, write to a friend or family member, hoping that it brings as much joy to them to receive the letter as I felt while writing it.
There is something about the written word...
It does not frustrate me that I rarely finish a story. It does not bother me that the only thing that I've ever published and sold was Self Published and only took me half an hour to write. What does bother me is that I don't write every day. That I no longer eat, live and breathe the written word. When I move, I always have one box just full of half filled notebooks, stationary. pencils, and pens. I used to have to restock every couple of months. Right now I'm staring at a jar full of pens that rarely see use anymore, and a stack of paper and notebooks that I've had for going on two years.
It's not writer's block. It's just a fast. And it's getting frustrating. I'm getting frustrated. Hell! It feels an awful lot like sexual frustration! But I guess that ties into my opening statement, and my title. Writing has always been a sensual experience for me, and I have been craving that sensation in the same way I crave sensations of the flesh. It's time to get serious about the Written Word, again. Let's see what sort of havoc I can wreak on that stack of notebooks.
*rubs hands together in anticipation*
Tuesday 4 December 2012
Winnowing the Chaff
This was something that I wrote and published to the Writings section of Facebook, years ago. I stumbled across it today, and decided that this was a good forum to post it anew. Shall we step into the time machine?
October 24, 2009
"Put aside relationships that are unfulfilling".
This was a one-liner from my 'Faith and Religion' discussion group from way back when, but it continues to strike a chord with me. I'm sure we all have the kind of relationships that we feel are more draining than fulfilling. But what do we do about it?
Well, I suppose it depends on the type of relationship; How much time, energy and how much of yourself you've poured into it, and the degree of drainage; How much damage you feel is being done to you mentally, emotionally, physically or even financially- though I tend to think that last one is more a final straw, and of less import. For instance:
I cut ties with an Ex that I had been with for 7 years, living together for 4 years, and still friends for a year after that. It took me the last two years of the relationship to figure out that to be happy, I had to walk away. Away from 4 years of routine, 7 years of dedicating myself to him. Away from most of my friends, away from home, hearth, and family. I left him and the North behind and started anew here in Hamilton. It took me another year to figure out that even being friends with him was still draining me mentally and emotionally. It took my mom giving me a lecture that I have given friends in the past, to finally cut all ties.
It's a good feeling not to panic every time the phone rings...
I recently cut ties with two friends who, after numerous times of throwing my friendship in my face, apologising, and then doing it again a few weeks/days down the road, I finally decided that it wasn't worth crying guilty tears. After all, it's not my fault that they can't accept the help given them, the help they've asked for.
I feel lighter for the loss, and yet, part of me still feels guilty, like I didn't do enough...
At a point in my mom's lecture, she tried to tell me to stop feeling guilty. That I am obviously a good person, but that I have to stop blaming myself for these failed relationships. I had developed the mentality that I was failing as a friend, not giving enough of myself to the relationships, even though, in truth, I tend to pour too MUCH of myself into my relationships. Mom said that while this is proof that I am such a good person, it is what makes me to vulnerable to heartache.
Is it just me, or do we 'good people' often end up the victims of relationship leaches? How many people are draining you? And why are you still letting them? For me, it is because I feel I owe them something. But when I stop to think about what, or why.... Why should I feel I owe my continued support and friendship to someone who is causing me nothing but misery and continue to throw said friend ship in my face?
It's my nature, I suppose. I want to help everyone.
I often quote Scripture or Poetry when I rant like this. So here's a couple of bits of poetry for our food for thought for today:
"The hardest things to hear, are those you always say,
When looking for advice, your own is hardest to take."
and-
"Worse that taking without giving,
Is giving without taking.
As the takers grow stronger,
The givers give themselves away."
And the ironic thing? I'm the Poet.
Well, I suppose it depends on the type of relationship; How much time, energy and how much of yourself you've poured into it, and the degree of drainage; How much damage you feel is being done to you mentally, emotionally, physically or even financially- though I tend to think that last one is more a final straw, and of less import. For instance:
I cut ties with an Ex that I had been with for 7 years, living together for 4 years, and still friends for a year after that. It took me the last two years of the relationship to figure out that to be happy, I had to walk away. Away from 4 years of routine, 7 years of dedicating myself to him. Away from most of my friends, away from home, hearth, and family. I left him and the North behind and started anew here in Hamilton. It took me another year to figure out that even being friends with him was still draining me mentally and emotionally. It took my mom giving me a lecture that I have given friends in the past, to finally cut all ties.
It's a good feeling not to panic every time the phone rings...
I recently cut ties with two friends who, after numerous times of throwing my friendship in my face, apologising, and then doing it again a few weeks/days down the road, I finally decided that it wasn't worth crying guilty tears. After all, it's not my fault that they can't accept the help given them, the help they've asked for.
I feel lighter for the loss, and yet, part of me still feels guilty, like I didn't do enough...
At a point in my mom's lecture, she tried to tell me to stop feeling guilty. That I am obviously a good person, but that I have to stop blaming myself for these failed relationships. I had developed the mentality that I was failing as a friend, not giving enough of myself to the relationships, even though, in truth, I tend to pour too MUCH of myself into my relationships. Mom said that while this is proof that I am such a good person, it is what makes me to vulnerable to heartache.
Is it just me, or do we 'good people' often end up the victims of relationship leaches? How many people are draining you? And why are you still letting them? For me, it is because I feel I owe them something. But when I stop to think about what, or why.... Why should I feel I owe my continued support and friendship to someone who is causing me nothing but misery and continue to throw said friend ship in my face?
It's my nature, I suppose. I want to help everyone.
I often quote Scripture or Poetry when I rant like this. So here's a couple of bits of poetry for our food for thought for today:
"The hardest things to hear, are those you always say,
When looking for advice, your own is hardest to take."
and-
"Worse that taking without giving,
Is giving without taking.
As the takers grow stronger,
The givers give themselves away."
And the ironic thing? I'm the Poet.
Friday 30 November 2012
Life: Quantity vs. Quality
What the hell is the point in a long life if you live it in misery? And no, I'm not talking about suicide, or people who are just plain melancholy.
They've switched my birth control because I was showing possible warning signs of blood clots, and have a family history of circulatory problems. I have spent the last two weeks bubbling with hormones, and popping tums because my stomach is a sewer. Last night, I protested out loud "I'll do the two months of guinea pigging, but if this keeps up, I'm switching back. I'd rather die from a blood clot than live like this, and I'm not being dramatic!"
I mean it. I am not about to subject myself to nausea, indigestion, and over all moodiness just because my other stuff MIGHT cause a blood clot. I didn't start taking painkillers because I couldn't handle the pain. What I couldn't handle was the nausea, indigestion, and overall moodiness!
I have been an absolute nightmare to live with. I've taken to throwing things, slamming doors, and swearing out loud when I have a temper flare. Then, when the temper dies down, I apologise to the people around me and then go sulk in my room, overwhelmed by the guilt of what I've just done. I've spent two weeks calling myself stupid, idiotic, childish, and even a coward.
I should be able to handle this! But with everything that I'm already dealing with...Add to that the stress of trying to keep up on my cellphone bill, meds, and rent on the pittance that OW provides...Trying to make plans to go and visit my family for two weeks at Christmas...The house being topsy turvy because one of the roommates is moving out...
I've been thoroughly disappointed and disgusted with myself at every turn. Temper tantrums quickly followed by bouts of depression. I actually caught myself seriously contemplating suicide for the first time in my existence. Sure, I've asked myself 'Do you think it's bad enough that you'd end it?' and generally I scoff and laugh at the preposterous idea. But yesterday, while crying my heart out in the shower, I caught myself staring that the razor and applying logic to the idea, listing reasons why it was in fact the right thing to do. I proceeded to cuss a blue streak, call myself a dirty rotten coward, and then finish washing and get out of the shower.
It took me 24 hrs to talk to someone about it. I actually considered calling the Suicide Help Line because I am the type of person who hates to be a burden on the people around me. I figured if I called someone who's job it was to listen to this sort of thing...But I ended up talking to a friend, instead. I had to laugh when I was informed that this was a thing that was actually expected, considering all that I'm going through. I suppose that makes a certain kind of sense. We can't be strong forever.
I want to be clear that I was not, and am not threatening to kill myself. The fact that I was reasoning it out in my head scared the shit out of me. I didn't keep it to myself for those 24 hrs because I didn't want anyone to stop me. I didn't tell anyone because I couldn't bear the thought of adding that sort of burden to someone else's shoulders. I felt, and still feel, a certain amount of guilt for having the thought to begin with. I am not a quitter. Nor am I a coward. I have strong feelings on the topic of suicide, as do some of my friends. I felt embarrassed to have even thought it, never mind to have admitted it out loud, and now, in a public forum.
That bullshit aside, I need to smarten the hell up. I need to stop being so negative. I need to stop lashing out. I need to be a better friend and roommate. I need to go back to being a better person. I have to stop doing the things that trigger that guilt within me, so that I can pull myself up by the bootstraps and out of this mire of depression.
I know that I'm depressed. Have known for quite some time, and had been doing certain things to keep myself stable. Raging hormones have upped the difficulty level by several degrees. But I can do this. I can survive this and anything else my body, my meds, and my doctors throw at me. They say that the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Well despite all of this kerfuffle, I've lost 8 lbs this month and am below 160 lbs for the first time in over 5 years!
I can do this.
I will survive.
I will live a full and happy life.
They've switched my birth control because I was showing possible warning signs of blood clots, and have a family history of circulatory problems. I have spent the last two weeks bubbling with hormones, and popping tums because my stomach is a sewer. Last night, I protested out loud "I'll do the two months of guinea pigging, but if this keeps up, I'm switching back. I'd rather die from a blood clot than live like this, and I'm not being dramatic!"
I mean it. I am not about to subject myself to nausea, indigestion, and over all moodiness just because my other stuff MIGHT cause a blood clot. I didn't start taking painkillers because I couldn't handle the pain. What I couldn't handle was the nausea, indigestion, and overall moodiness!
I have been an absolute nightmare to live with. I've taken to throwing things, slamming doors, and swearing out loud when I have a temper flare. Then, when the temper dies down, I apologise to the people around me and then go sulk in my room, overwhelmed by the guilt of what I've just done. I've spent two weeks calling myself stupid, idiotic, childish, and even a coward.
I should be able to handle this! But with everything that I'm already dealing with...Add to that the stress of trying to keep up on my cellphone bill, meds, and rent on the pittance that OW provides...Trying to make plans to go and visit my family for two weeks at Christmas...The house being topsy turvy because one of the roommates is moving out...
I've been thoroughly disappointed and disgusted with myself at every turn. Temper tantrums quickly followed by bouts of depression. I actually caught myself seriously contemplating suicide for the first time in my existence. Sure, I've asked myself 'Do you think it's bad enough that you'd end it?' and generally I scoff and laugh at the preposterous idea. But yesterday, while crying my heart out in the shower, I caught myself staring that the razor and applying logic to the idea, listing reasons why it was in fact the right thing to do. I proceeded to cuss a blue streak, call myself a dirty rotten coward, and then finish washing and get out of the shower.
It took me 24 hrs to talk to someone about it. I actually considered calling the Suicide Help Line because I am the type of person who hates to be a burden on the people around me. I figured if I called someone who's job it was to listen to this sort of thing...But I ended up talking to a friend, instead. I had to laugh when I was informed that this was a thing that was actually expected, considering all that I'm going through. I suppose that makes a certain kind of sense. We can't be strong forever.
I want to be clear that I was not, and am not threatening to kill myself. The fact that I was reasoning it out in my head scared the shit out of me. I didn't keep it to myself for those 24 hrs because I didn't want anyone to stop me. I didn't tell anyone because I couldn't bear the thought of adding that sort of burden to someone else's shoulders. I felt, and still feel, a certain amount of guilt for having the thought to begin with. I am not a quitter. Nor am I a coward. I have strong feelings on the topic of suicide, as do some of my friends. I felt embarrassed to have even thought it, never mind to have admitted it out loud, and now, in a public forum.
That bullshit aside, I need to smarten the hell up. I need to stop being so negative. I need to stop lashing out. I need to be a better friend and roommate. I need to go back to being a better person. I have to stop doing the things that trigger that guilt within me, so that I can pull myself up by the bootstraps and out of this mire of depression.
I know that I'm depressed. Have known for quite some time, and had been doing certain things to keep myself stable. Raging hormones have upped the difficulty level by several degrees. But I can do this. I can survive this and anything else my body, my meds, and my doctors throw at me. They say that the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Well despite all of this kerfuffle, I've lost 8 lbs this month and am below 160 lbs for the first time in over 5 years!
I can do this.
I will survive.
I will live a full and happy life.
Monday 19 November 2012
Mental Health: II
During the last two years of my first relationship, it was a known fact that I was miserable. However, I was also comfortable. I knew what every day would bring. I am not a person who thrives on change. In that time, there were several conversations about where I would go, what I would do. The where, was always to the Hamilton Boy. We'll call him D, for simplicity's sake.
D was my second long term, common law relationship. I had known him through the entire seven years of my previous relationship, having met him through a friend. She in turn, had met him at a Christian Youth Retreat. We became fast friends via the Internet, sending instant messages, emails, the occasional web cam chat, and even letters. I connected with him on a level that I had never connected with anyone, other than family.
We had many things in common. He had younger siblings, he had grown up largely in Small Town, Southern Ontario, he loved to read, and he was a Gamer. D was also an artist, and a computer tech and programmer.
In the two and a half years that we were together, we were equal parts blissfully happy and devastatingly miserable. As has become my pattern, I tried to stick with it, even when it had devolved to misery.
Many of you will be thinking that it was the 'Honeymoon Phase'. If only it were that simple. Unfortunately, the man I had fallen in love with was Bi-Polar, and borderline schizophrenic. And yes, I knew this from the start. Go ahead, yell at the monitor and shake your head at me. I'm sort of used to it by now.
About a year after we got together, we decided he needed to quit his job. His boss had a health problem that was causing him to be harsh, demanding and unreasonable with his staff and D was coming home everyday more and more pissed off. It was beginning to wear on our relationship. I had just started working full time at the Café, and was fully capable of supporting the pair of us on my minimum-wage-plus-tips income. After all, I had spent 4 years running a household on just that which also included insurance and gas for the vehicle. D and I had no such expenses to worry about. If anything, I was in fact ahead of the game in this scenario.
He quit his job, and things were better. He was excited to be focusing on his art and his computer tech and programming, even registering his own business. He even had a couple of road trips to nearby towns for a few days at a time to do technical work. But things weren't going as quickly as he'd have liked. I was still the breadwinner. His male ego just couldn't handle it. Thus he began a majour bout of depression.
My first relationship was strife with very loud, long and drawn out arguments, not because I was the sort not to let things go (in fact, back then I was largely anti confrontational), but because my partner (let's call him A) was the sort that argued as a way to relieve stress. He would literally change his position on whatever we were discussing until our conversation eventually devolved into an argument. He would then push my buttons until I raised my voice. The arguments often wouldn't end until I was crying myself sick in a corner. It was at this point that he would come to his senses and apologise. No matter how many times it happened, I couldn't see to stop before then, and he wouldn't stop until then. Looking back, I honestly think that he was sadistic, and while he may feel some remorse for what it was doing to me, his guilt did not outweigh his need for that rush of power that he got from turning an otherwise strong girl into a simpering puddle of jelly.
Because of what I had gone through with A, I took my anticonfrontationalism to new heights. In his depressed state, D was the sort of person who, when I tried to have a calm, rational discussion about something that I thought was a point of contention between us, he would automatically get defensive and make himself out to be the victim of an attack. The minute he raised his hackles, and his voice, I would drop it. And so all of the little things that come up between a couple could not be dealt with, were simply swept under the emotional carpet. As a result, he grew more and more distant as his own mental health declined, and I just kept going though the motions.
I remember the moment that I realised that it was over. He was walking around in the living room in nothing but a pair of Atari PJ pants. There was something about the way they clung to his frame that always lit a fire within me. I had always had a bit of an over active libido, so as I sat there watching him, and feeling nothing, no stir, no spark, no heat, I knew. I looked up at him, eyes deadpan, and told him so.
He looked crestfallen. It was the first time I had seen any emotion other than irritation on his face in well over a month. He even teared up. He sat down on the couch and we held each other as we talked about it. We should have ended it right there. We should have laid our frayed relationship to rest. But we loved each other so much. We wanted to try to make it work.
He professed that he wanted to fix things. To make it up to me. But he was setting me up. He just wanted to find a way to make it my fault, or at least that's how it seems now. Whether this was his intention or not, is largely besides the point now. The damage was done. For five months, he dragged me through the gutters, blaming me for everything as he became more and more delusional. We would kiss and make up, and he would forget, and go right back to being vexed with me.
One day at the end of April, he got pissy about something, again forgetting that we had made up, and when I tried to actually address the issue, he turned around and drove his fist through the wall behind me.
Now I may be the kind of idiot who will allow long term mental and emotional abuse to the point of brainwashing, but I will not stand for physical abuse. I went from the jelly spined creature that I had become over the years of abuse from A and then D, to the iron willed, empowered woman that my mother had always hoped I would be. He was told in no uncertain terms that this would be the last time I put up with his circular bullshit. The next time that he 'forgot', I was packing his shit and he was going to his mother's.
A couple of weeks later, while he was at his mother's over mother's day weekend to help plant some flowers in the garden, it happened again. He must have known I would end it, then. He avoided my phone calls, my texts and my emails. I wanted to speak to him over the phone to be sure that it sunk in that we were over. Instead, I received a scathing email from him, telling me what a horrible human being I was, and all of the reasons that he was ending it. Most of which were complete fabrications of his delusional state.
Needless to say, I shot off a response thanking him for painting me as the monster and told him he really needed to get his head on straight. Agreed that it was over, and told him I would have his things packed in time for a friend to drop them off to him.
Ending that relationship was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. Leaving A was just a matter of realising that I was no longer in love with him and that I could only grow as a person by leaving him and leaving my comfort zone. But I was still very much in love with D. For the first time in my life, I suffered a truly broken heart.
D was my second long term, common law relationship. I had known him through the entire seven years of my previous relationship, having met him through a friend. She in turn, had met him at a Christian Youth Retreat. We became fast friends via the Internet, sending instant messages, emails, the occasional web cam chat, and even letters. I connected with him on a level that I had never connected with anyone, other than family.
We had many things in common. He had younger siblings, he had grown up largely in Small Town, Southern Ontario, he loved to read, and he was a Gamer. D was also an artist, and a computer tech and programmer.
In the two and a half years that we were together, we were equal parts blissfully happy and devastatingly miserable. As has become my pattern, I tried to stick with it, even when it had devolved to misery.
Many of you will be thinking that it was the 'Honeymoon Phase'. If only it were that simple. Unfortunately, the man I had fallen in love with was Bi-Polar, and borderline schizophrenic. And yes, I knew this from the start. Go ahead, yell at the monitor and shake your head at me. I'm sort of used to it by now.
About a year after we got together, we decided he needed to quit his job. His boss had a health problem that was causing him to be harsh, demanding and unreasonable with his staff and D was coming home everyday more and more pissed off. It was beginning to wear on our relationship. I had just started working full time at the Café, and was fully capable of supporting the pair of us on my minimum-wage-plus-tips income. After all, I had spent 4 years running a household on just that which also included insurance and gas for the vehicle. D and I had no such expenses to worry about. If anything, I was in fact ahead of the game in this scenario.
He quit his job, and things were better. He was excited to be focusing on his art and his computer tech and programming, even registering his own business. He even had a couple of road trips to nearby towns for a few days at a time to do technical work. But things weren't going as quickly as he'd have liked. I was still the breadwinner. His male ego just couldn't handle it. Thus he began a majour bout of depression.
My first relationship was strife with very loud, long and drawn out arguments, not because I was the sort not to let things go (in fact, back then I was largely anti confrontational), but because my partner (let's call him A) was the sort that argued as a way to relieve stress. He would literally change his position on whatever we were discussing until our conversation eventually devolved into an argument. He would then push my buttons until I raised my voice. The arguments often wouldn't end until I was crying myself sick in a corner. It was at this point that he would come to his senses and apologise. No matter how many times it happened, I couldn't see to stop before then, and he wouldn't stop until then. Looking back, I honestly think that he was sadistic, and while he may feel some remorse for what it was doing to me, his guilt did not outweigh his need for that rush of power that he got from turning an otherwise strong girl into a simpering puddle of jelly.
Because of what I had gone through with A, I took my anticonfrontationalism to new heights. In his depressed state, D was the sort of person who, when I tried to have a calm, rational discussion about something that I thought was a point of contention between us, he would automatically get defensive and make himself out to be the victim of an attack. The minute he raised his hackles, and his voice, I would drop it. And so all of the little things that come up between a couple could not be dealt with, were simply swept under the emotional carpet. As a result, he grew more and more distant as his own mental health declined, and I just kept going though the motions.
I remember the moment that I realised that it was over. He was walking around in the living room in nothing but a pair of Atari PJ pants. There was something about the way they clung to his frame that always lit a fire within me. I had always had a bit of an over active libido, so as I sat there watching him, and feeling nothing, no stir, no spark, no heat, I knew. I looked up at him, eyes deadpan, and told him so.
He looked crestfallen. It was the first time I had seen any emotion other than irritation on his face in well over a month. He even teared up. He sat down on the couch and we held each other as we talked about it. We should have ended it right there. We should have laid our frayed relationship to rest. But we loved each other so much. We wanted to try to make it work.
He professed that he wanted to fix things. To make it up to me. But he was setting me up. He just wanted to find a way to make it my fault, or at least that's how it seems now. Whether this was his intention or not, is largely besides the point now. The damage was done. For five months, he dragged me through the gutters, blaming me for everything as he became more and more delusional. We would kiss and make up, and he would forget, and go right back to being vexed with me.
One day at the end of April, he got pissy about something, again forgetting that we had made up, and when I tried to actually address the issue, he turned around and drove his fist through the wall behind me.
Now I may be the kind of idiot who will allow long term mental and emotional abuse to the point of brainwashing, but I will not stand for physical abuse. I went from the jelly spined creature that I had become over the years of abuse from A and then D, to the iron willed, empowered woman that my mother had always hoped I would be. He was told in no uncertain terms that this would be the last time I put up with his circular bullshit. The next time that he 'forgot', I was packing his shit and he was going to his mother's.
A couple of weeks later, while he was at his mother's over mother's day weekend to help plant some flowers in the garden, it happened again. He must have known I would end it, then. He avoided my phone calls, my texts and my emails. I wanted to speak to him over the phone to be sure that it sunk in that we were over. Instead, I received a scathing email from him, telling me what a horrible human being I was, and all of the reasons that he was ending it. Most of which were complete fabrications of his delusional state.
Needless to say, I shot off a response thanking him for painting me as the monster and told him he really needed to get his head on straight. Agreed that it was over, and told him I would have his things packed in time for a friend to drop them off to him.
Ending that relationship was one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. Leaving A was just a matter of realising that I was no longer in love with him and that I could only grow as a person by leaving him and leaving my comfort zone. But I was still very much in love with D. For the first time in my life, I suffered a truly broken heart.
Monday 29 October 2012
Mental Health: I
Something that I've heard repeatedly during this whole thing has been, "You are so strong, I have no idea how you do what you do and still stay sane!" Well, for starters, that's assuming that you consider my baseline mental state to fall within the realm of 'sane'. Many do not.
But in all seriousness, sanity is what you make it. To date, I haven't been dealing, I've been coping. There is a significant difference. The biggest distinction between the two being that the second is largely hiding from the problem, while the first is actually working through it. In my opinion, coping over the long term is not a good thing for one's mental health.
We all have different coping methods. I've cycled through throwing myself into different things, some more destructive than others. There's been work, alcohol, intimacy, Gaming (D&D, MTG, console gaming, LARP, etc.), and most recently, housework.
My employers certainly appreciated me throwing myself into my work. I became the person they could expect to show up early, and not complain about leaving late. The person who was available for on-call, shift swapping, and extra shifts.
Alcohol, I have to be extra careful with. Partly because I have what I refer to as an addictive personality, and partly because the pills that I take magnify the affect of the alcohol. (Before you have a coronary, read the disclaimer in Physical Health: II) Makes me a cheap drunk which, to me, is not a bad thing. *wink*
As for intimacy, well, lets just say that I haven't been in a monogamous relationship since 2010, and leave it at that, shall we?
That leads us to Gaming. Gaming has become my little obsession. There was a time that I was participating in three to five Dungeons & Dragons games a week, doing a Vampire live action role play game once a month, not to mention between-game session stuff via email. And that was before I quit my job...
During the couple of months before my health forced me into the ranks of the unemployed,when at home I would spend my time sleeping, or playing the Xbox 360. My three favourite games were BioShock, Bulletstorm, and Borderlands. These were the kind of point and shoot games that I could play even when I was exhausted from the pain and lack of sleep (This is back when the pain and nightmares meant I was averaging four hours a night of sleep. More on the nightmares later). I played through Bulletstorm, BioShock 2, and the last half of Borderlands in the last two months before I moved to London, leaving the Xbox behind.
I've traded it in for Magic the Gathering (MTG) with my housemates, three of whom are fellow Gamers, and each have several of their own decks. I have one that was built for me that I've tweaked, and three that I've built myself. I'm also back to computer games. Things like Diablo II: Lord of Destruction, Torchlight, and Torchlight II, all of which I play with one of my housemates when he has time, or on my own between housework. Part of this Mystery Disease is not being able to sit for extended periods of time without excruciating pain in my back and shoulders. If I can find a comfortable enough chair, and an outlet for my electric heat wrap, I'm good for an hour or two at a time. After that, I have to get up and stretch, but it's still a really long time for me to be stationary. I prefer to be mobile every half hour, which makes movies at a theatre a killer. I've also dabbled with other console games, as we have a PS2, and a Wii, which, as I understand it, plays any of the Nintendo, disc based games.
Which leads us up to housework. I've mentioned in other posts that I have ADHD as well as OCD. I live with four other people, and am the only one not gainfully employed. This means, in my mind, that there is no good reason that I shouldn't be doing the lion's share of the housework. I am one of those few special (read insane) people who actually enjoy housework and find it relaxing. I am considered by most to be a very industrious person. The problem is that I am accustomed to being able to work all day outside the home, come home and do housework, go be social, and come back for more housework. It has taken me some time, and several physical breakdowns, to find a balance between my mental health and my physical health, as far as housework goes.
On that note, let's talk about good days and bad days.
A bad day means that I am limited to things like putting the dishes away, and sweeping the floors, and even those are a struggle, because I am nearly completely numb in my left side. It means needing my cane if I leave the house, and using the railings and likely the walls, to keep myself upright on the stairs, and being overtly conscious of how many trips up and down I take. I often camp out on the ground floor and don't go up or down stairs until bedtime.
My worst days also include left/right confusion between my brain and my body (meaning to do something with the left hand or foot, and having the right respond instead, and vica verca), the inability to string more than a few words together without stuttering horribly, the occasional loss of a line of thought, and huge holes in my generally ample vocabulary. These are generally days when no one hears from me. I hole up in bed watching movies or in front of my computer playing simple RPG's.
A good day immediately following a bad day feels like a gift from the Gods. Even though my baseline keeps sinking, anything better than a bad day is fine by me! Though it leaves me struggling not to overdo things around the house, or going for walks, or social stuff. I have to remember that though I may feel like Superwoman by comparison to the previous day, overdoing it will land me right back on the couch, if not the hospital (which thus far, I have avoided).
My current struggle: Find a long term solution that resembles dealing rather than simply coping.
But in all seriousness, sanity is what you make it. To date, I haven't been dealing, I've been coping. There is a significant difference. The biggest distinction between the two being that the second is largely hiding from the problem, while the first is actually working through it. In my opinion, coping over the long term is not a good thing for one's mental health.
We all have different coping methods. I've cycled through throwing myself into different things, some more destructive than others. There's been work, alcohol, intimacy, Gaming (D&D, MTG, console gaming, LARP, etc.), and most recently, housework.
My employers certainly appreciated me throwing myself into my work. I became the person they could expect to show up early, and not complain about leaving late. The person who was available for on-call, shift swapping, and extra shifts.
Alcohol, I have to be extra careful with. Partly because I have what I refer to as an addictive personality, and partly because the pills that I take magnify the affect of the alcohol. (Before you have a coronary, read the disclaimer in Physical Health: II) Makes me a cheap drunk which, to me, is not a bad thing. *wink*
As for intimacy, well, lets just say that I haven't been in a monogamous relationship since 2010, and leave it at that, shall we?
That leads us to Gaming. Gaming has become my little obsession. There was a time that I was participating in three to five Dungeons & Dragons games a week, doing a Vampire live action role play game once a month, not to mention between-game session stuff via email. And that was before I quit my job...
During the couple of months before my health forced me into the ranks of the unemployed,when at home I would spend my time sleeping, or playing the Xbox 360. My three favourite games were BioShock, Bulletstorm, and Borderlands. These were the kind of point and shoot games that I could play even when I was exhausted from the pain and lack of sleep (This is back when the pain and nightmares meant I was averaging four hours a night of sleep. More on the nightmares later). I played through Bulletstorm, BioShock 2, and the last half of Borderlands in the last two months before I moved to London, leaving the Xbox behind.
I've traded it in for Magic the Gathering (MTG) with my housemates, three of whom are fellow Gamers, and each have several of their own decks. I have one that was built for me that I've tweaked, and three that I've built myself. I'm also back to computer games. Things like Diablo II: Lord of Destruction, Torchlight, and Torchlight II, all of which I play with one of my housemates when he has time, or on my own between housework. Part of this Mystery Disease is not being able to sit for extended periods of time without excruciating pain in my back and shoulders. If I can find a comfortable enough chair, and an outlet for my electric heat wrap, I'm good for an hour or two at a time. After that, I have to get up and stretch, but it's still a really long time for me to be stationary. I prefer to be mobile every half hour, which makes movies at a theatre a killer. I've also dabbled with other console games, as we have a PS2, and a Wii, which, as I understand it, plays any of the Nintendo, disc based games.
Which leads us up to housework. I've mentioned in other posts that I have ADHD as well as OCD. I live with four other people, and am the only one not gainfully employed. This means, in my mind, that there is no good reason that I shouldn't be doing the lion's share of the housework. I am one of those few special (read insane) people who actually enjoy housework and find it relaxing. I am considered by most to be a very industrious person. The problem is that I am accustomed to being able to work all day outside the home, come home and do housework, go be social, and come back for more housework. It has taken me some time, and several physical breakdowns, to find a balance between my mental health and my physical health, as far as housework goes.
On that note, let's talk about good days and bad days.
A bad day means that I am limited to things like putting the dishes away, and sweeping the floors, and even those are a struggle, because I am nearly completely numb in my left side. It means needing my cane if I leave the house, and using the railings and likely the walls, to keep myself upright on the stairs, and being overtly conscious of how many trips up and down I take. I often camp out on the ground floor and don't go up or down stairs until bedtime.
My worst days also include left/right confusion between my brain and my body (meaning to do something with the left hand or foot, and having the right respond instead, and vica verca), the inability to string more than a few words together without stuttering horribly, the occasional loss of a line of thought, and huge holes in my generally ample vocabulary. These are generally days when no one hears from me. I hole up in bed watching movies or in front of my computer playing simple RPG's.
A good day immediately following a bad day feels like a gift from the Gods. Even though my baseline keeps sinking, anything better than a bad day is fine by me! Though it leaves me struggling not to overdo things around the house, or going for walks, or social stuff. I have to remember that though I may feel like Superwoman by comparison to the previous day, overdoing it will land me right back on the couch, if not the hospital (which thus far, I have avoided).
My current struggle: Find a long term solution that resembles dealing rather than simply coping.
Friday 19 October 2012
Mythic Weight Loss
NOTE: This started as a comment on a friend's Blog post.
http://boudicabooks.org/2012/09/18/what-is-dieting/
Dieting is one of those things that varies from person to person. Some people's metabolism just works a little differently, some people have underlying health issues that contribute to what they can/should eat. Some people are allergic to vegetables. Okay, so maybe they just eat like they were...
When I was working/living on a hobby farm and participating in Track & Field and going to the gym every Friday night with The Guys, my metabolism was insane. On a weekend, I would start my chores early and then come in and make breakfast. A ten egg omelet with half a tin of brown beans, chunks of cheddar cheese, diced green olives and whatever leftover meat and veggies there were from the night before, accompanied by two slices of thick, home made, whole wheat bread. After which I returned to chores.
Lunch was usually two sandwiches thicker than my hand, with fruits or vegetables, and supper was what you would imagine on a farm; meat and potatoes wit ha side of veggies. All through high school, I was 135 lbs soaking wet, 145 when I actually took my weight training seriously or in the fall when it was time to spend evenings and weekends splitting and stacking cord wood.
Some people gain weight when stressed, no matter what they eat or don't eat. Some people lose weight when stressed, no matter what they eat or don't eat. Some people naturally or purposely have a high fibre diet that helps to make them feel full and pass waste quickly and efficiently.
I tend to lose weight when stressed, because I stop eating, but gain when depressed, because that's all I do. Due to the amount of pain killers I take on a good day, never mind a bad day, Benefibre or a high fibre diet are a necessary evil, lending to my ability to feel full, and therefor not feel the need for seconds, or dessert.
Some people think cutting out all other junk except that 'one thing' is the way to go. For others, it's Fad diets. Some people drink more and eat less. Some people stop eating dessert. Some vie for low carbs, and some for less sugar. Most people do not realise that building muscle mass actually increases your weight, so depending on how their work out is structured, they're right, they won't lose weight. But that's what you get for being obsessed with numbers.
I grew up in a house where junk food was only around on special occasions, and dessert was pretty much the same. Our version of a treat was either one of Mom's good-for-you baked goods, or something we called Moo (see post script). I of course picked up the habit of junk food and dessert when I moved out on my own, but the novelty soon wore off and, these days, I often don't even think of dessert (if you come over for a meal and expect dessert, you might want to bring your own ;) ).
I am still very muscular, despite having to largely adjust my physical exertions. My arms are getting a little too scrawny for my likings, but the stairs in this house ensure that my legs are still tree trunks. Any weight loss that I do that is also accompanied by an exercise plan often leads to very few pounds lost, though I suddenly develop the need to wear a belt with all of my new jeans. I'm aiming for around 145lbs because I know that that is approximately the weight I should be when I've lost the extra chub on my arms, thighs, face and belly that I'd like to see gone. If I get rid of that before hitting that number, so be it. 145 is a guideline, not a requirement.
Here's the part where you're going to want to tell me to get off of my high horse.
The one thing that every diet needs to succeed is will power. Go ask the strongest, most determined people you know how they've lost weight and they'll give you a line that seems so simple that you just want to grab them and shake them.
For me, this was as simple as drinking lots of water, taking a fibre supplement, and changing my habit of sitting down to eat a full meal at meal time because it was the thing to do. I now have a small breakfast when I get up (typically about a third of a cup of cereal with milk and a yogurt cup, or a pouch of instant oatmeal), followed by small snacks through out the day. This changes slightly for 5 days starting on the 23rd day in a 28 day cycle, when my body decides that it wants a full meal, high in iron, and some chocolate, which I typically try to avoid, knowing that its my Kryptonite.
When all else fails, go with routine. Find a way to make dieting/exercising part of your routine.
However, speaking as one of those strong, determined people who has managed to lose weight and keep it off (so far), I can also attest to the fact that sometimes you've got to try a few different things before you find what works for you. I've been struggling with my weight for the last two years. Often, my weight gain was related to a decline in my mental or physical health. Now that I've finally got both of those more or less in hand, Ta da! Started at 175lbs and I'm now down to 161 in 80 days.
Bottom line. Dieting is not a myth, its just a boat load of misconception.
PS: Moo is Jell-O made with milk in place of cold water. Let the hot mixture cool first, or it gives it a gritty texture. But definitely try it! It gives the Jell-O a dessert quality. Though I'm not a fan of the Grape Moo
http://boudicabooks.org/2012/09/18/what-is-dieting/
Dieting is one of those things that varies from person to person. Some people's metabolism just works a little differently, some people have underlying health issues that contribute to what they can/should eat. Some people are allergic to vegetables. Okay, so maybe they just eat like they were...
When I was working/living on a hobby farm and participating in Track & Field and going to the gym every Friday night with The Guys, my metabolism was insane. On a weekend, I would start my chores early and then come in and make breakfast. A ten egg omelet with half a tin of brown beans, chunks of cheddar cheese, diced green olives and whatever leftover meat and veggies there were from the night before, accompanied by two slices of thick, home made, whole wheat bread. After which I returned to chores.
Lunch was usually two sandwiches thicker than my hand, with fruits or vegetables, and supper was what you would imagine on a farm; meat and potatoes wit ha side of veggies. All through high school, I was 135 lbs soaking wet, 145 when I actually took my weight training seriously or in the fall when it was time to spend evenings and weekends splitting and stacking cord wood.
Some people gain weight when stressed, no matter what they eat or don't eat. Some people lose weight when stressed, no matter what they eat or don't eat. Some people naturally or purposely have a high fibre diet that helps to make them feel full and pass waste quickly and efficiently.
I tend to lose weight when stressed, because I stop eating, but gain when depressed, because that's all I do. Due to the amount of pain killers I take on a good day, never mind a bad day, Benefibre or a high fibre diet are a necessary evil, lending to my ability to feel full, and therefor not feel the need for seconds, or dessert.
Some people think cutting out all other junk except that 'one thing' is the way to go. For others, it's Fad diets. Some people drink more and eat less. Some people stop eating dessert. Some vie for low carbs, and some for less sugar. Most people do not realise that building muscle mass actually increases your weight, so depending on how their work out is structured, they're right, they won't lose weight. But that's what you get for being obsessed with numbers.
I grew up in a house where junk food was only around on special occasions, and dessert was pretty much the same. Our version of a treat was either one of Mom's good-for-you baked goods, or something we called Moo (see post script). I of course picked up the habit of junk food and dessert when I moved out on my own, but the novelty soon wore off and, these days, I often don't even think of dessert (if you come over for a meal and expect dessert, you might want to bring your own ;) ).
I am still very muscular, despite having to largely adjust my physical exertions. My arms are getting a little too scrawny for my likings, but the stairs in this house ensure that my legs are still tree trunks. Any weight loss that I do that is also accompanied by an exercise plan often leads to very few pounds lost, though I suddenly develop the need to wear a belt with all of my new jeans. I'm aiming for around 145lbs because I know that that is approximately the weight I should be when I've lost the extra chub on my arms, thighs, face and belly that I'd like to see gone. If I get rid of that before hitting that number, so be it. 145 is a guideline, not a requirement.
Here's the part where you're going to want to tell me to get off of my high horse.
The one thing that every diet needs to succeed is will power. Go ask the strongest, most determined people you know how they've lost weight and they'll give you a line that seems so simple that you just want to grab them and shake them.
For me, this was as simple as drinking lots of water, taking a fibre supplement, and changing my habit of sitting down to eat a full meal at meal time because it was the thing to do. I now have a small breakfast when I get up (typically about a third of a cup of cereal with milk and a yogurt cup, or a pouch of instant oatmeal), followed by small snacks through out the day. This changes slightly for 5 days starting on the 23rd day in a 28 day cycle, when my body decides that it wants a full meal, high in iron, and some chocolate, which I typically try to avoid, knowing that its my Kryptonite.
When all else fails, go with routine. Find a way to make dieting/exercising part of your routine.
However, speaking as one of those strong, determined people who has managed to lose weight and keep it off (so far), I can also attest to the fact that sometimes you've got to try a few different things before you find what works for you. I've been struggling with my weight for the last two years. Often, my weight gain was related to a decline in my mental or physical health. Now that I've finally got both of those more or less in hand, Ta da! Started at 175lbs and I'm now down to 161 in 80 days.
Bottom line. Dieting is not a myth, its just a boat load of misconception.
PS: Moo is Jell-O made with milk in place of cold water. Let the hot mixture cool first, or it gives it a gritty texture. But definitely try it! It gives the Jell-O a dessert quality. Though I'm not a fan of the Grape Moo
Wednesday 17 October 2012
The Pursuit of Happiness
NOTE: This began as a comment on a friend's Blog post.
http://boudicabooks.org/2012/10/16/the-pursuit-of-happiness/
Happiness of self Vs. Happiness of Family, eh? Alright *rolls up sleeves*
I had spent the ages of 18-24 trying to make my Family (parents, siblings, spouse, inlaws) happy. It took two Common Law marriages and subsequent breakups and breakdowns for me to finally stop putting someone else's, anyone else's happiness above my own. It took all of that to finally learn to be just a tiny bit self serving. Which, by the way, is a very healthy thing to be.
I have always been the type of person to be able to seek joy in the small things. Like a good book, my favourite movie, a comfy sweater, Mom's best recipes, or simply a piece of music (I'm currently listening to a play list entitled 'Celtic Christmas' despite it being October) however, it took a lot of effort to figure out how to make myself truly happy. For me, this was surrounding myself with friends who think I'm crazy but support me every step of the way, while never afraid to tell me when I'm being ridiculous. It was finding a job that I enjoyed, excelled in and through which I could help others. It was finding things to do in my off time that were rewarding and fulfilling, and avoiding ever having the feeling of just 'putting in time', be that at work, or at play.
Faced with the reality of my declining health (See my posts on Physical Health), I have been confronted with the challenge of finding other ways of being helpful, useful and productive. I have struggled with the balance of putting my own needs, mentally, emotionally, and physically, above the 'demands' of those around me.
I've always had a pretty good grip on reality and the concept of mortality, but watching my uncle suffer through stage four lymphoma has certainly brought into perspective the fact that each moment is precious and that we should not put our happiness off until tomorrow. Granted that there are always things that require patience, but instant gratification has also become a selfish trend in our society.
Now to answer Victoria's question about personal happiness vs. happiness of the family unit.
You are part, if not half, of the Family Unit. If you're not happy, the Family is not happy. You smile and nod and go through the motions, but meanwhile, there is an undercurrent of unsatisfaction and frustration. And we all know what the inevitable end of that is. It may not be the destruction of a family, but the blow ups that occur when the scale suddenly tips too far to the side of frustration are cataclysmic. It can sometimes takes days, weeks, even months for the ripples to fade.
I'd like to say that we are all guilty of putting ourselves on the back burner at one time or another but I think 'we' in this case, is probably only a very specific category of people. That's a topic for another day.
Bottom line. You can't make anyone else truly happy if you're not happy yourself. Unhappiness is just as contagious as Happiness. Some people just have a better buffer against the scowls they pass on the street. Just as almost no one can resist a smile when confronted with one. So smile bright when you mean it, and learn to admit that you simply aren't happy instead of taking up the 'smile and nod' habit. You'll be better for it in the long run.
http://boudicabooks.org/2012/10/16/the-pursuit-of-happiness/
Happiness of self Vs. Happiness of Family, eh? Alright *rolls up sleeves*
I had spent the ages of 18-24 trying to make my Family (parents, siblings, spouse, inlaws) happy. It took two Common Law marriages and subsequent breakups and breakdowns for me to finally stop putting someone else's, anyone else's happiness above my own. It took all of that to finally learn to be just a tiny bit self serving. Which, by the way, is a very healthy thing to be.
I have always been the type of person to be able to seek joy in the small things. Like a good book, my favourite movie, a comfy sweater, Mom's best recipes, or simply a piece of music (I'm currently listening to a play list entitled 'Celtic Christmas' despite it being October) however, it took a lot of effort to figure out how to make myself truly happy. For me, this was surrounding myself with friends who think I'm crazy but support me every step of the way, while never afraid to tell me when I'm being ridiculous. It was finding a job that I enjoyed, excelled in and through which I could help others. It was finding things to do in my off time that were rewarding and fulfilling, and avoiding ever having the feeling of just 'putting in time', be that at work, or at play.
Faced with the reality of my declining health (See my posts on Physical Health), I have been confronted with the challenge of finding other ways of being helpful, useful and productive. I have struggled with the balance of putting my own needs, mentally, emotionally, and physically, above the 'demands' of those around me.
I've always had a pretty good grip on reality and the concept of mortality, but watching my uncle suffer through stage four lymphoma has certainly brought into perspective the fact that each moment is precious and that we should not put our happiness off until tomorrow. Granted that there are always things that require patience, but instant gratification has also become a selfish trend in our society.
Now to answer Victoria's question about personal happiness vs. happiness of the family unit.
You are part, if not half, of the Family Unit. If you're not happy, the Family is not happy. You smile and nod and go through the motions, but meanwhile, there is an undercurrent of unsatisfaction and frustration. And we all know what the inevitable end of that is. It may not be the destruction of a family, but the blow ups that occur when the scale suddenly tips too far to the side of frustration are cataclysmic. It can sometimes takes days, weeks, even months for the ripples to fade.
I'd like to say that we are all guilty of putting ourselves on the back burner at one time or another but I think 'we' in this case, is probably only a very specific category of people. That's a topic for another day.
Bottom line. You can't make anyone else truly happy if you're not happy yourself. Unhappiness is just as contagious as Happiness. Some people just have a better buffer against the scowls they pass on the street. Just as almost no one can resist a smile when confronted with one. So smile bright when you mean it, and learn to admit that you simply aren't happy instead of taking up the 'smile and nod' habit. You'll be better for it in the long run.
Friday 14 September 2012
Physical Health: II
Let me begin by saying that my current Family Doctor is the second awesomest Doctor that I have ever had the pleasure of being the patient of. He treats me like a person, not a number, and asks me questions and gives me options and detailed explanations. He even takes my input and researches it to get a better idea of what information I've been looking at. Two thumb's WAY up! For the sake of clarity, let's call him Dr. R.
So Dr. R. listened to my history and my hesitant request for a painkiller stronger than over the counter, with a specific request to start with what I called 'baby pills', and nodded along as he typed up some notes and reached for his 'scrip pad. He gave me a small prescription for two different things. One a pain killer (tramadol), the other an anti inflammatory (naproxen). He gave a strict regimen of how to take it for the first little while, just to get a handle on the pain. Two weeks later I had a follow up after an x-ray. The results of which, low and behold, showed no evidence of the DDD previously diagnosed by the doctor (see previous entry). Not unheard of, but certainly unusual. An MRI was the next logical step, and so that was booked, and my pain killer regimen varied slightly. Now he wanted me to only take them as needed, but before the nausea set in, and to still supplement with my over the counter choices, just being careful not to mix the naproxen with other anti inflammatories.
At work, I was a new person. My direct supervisor noticed the change immediately with the new medication. She said the change in my face alone was remarkable. Weeks went by, and I was able to cope with the pain by rotating my new pills, supplementing them with a stiff drink once at home.
Now hold up! Yes, I get that the common perception is to never mix alcohol and pills. I am not advocating that anyone or everyone do this. However, the particular combination of my pills and alcohol was conferred with my doctor. He brought to my attention the risks, which are intensifying the affects, including side affect, of the pills and alcohol. Fine. So one drink is like three. I'm no lightweight, I can handle that. And I'm apt to be groggy. Fine, I only drink at home, or when very well supervised. No going out on the town with the guys. Ten Four. And yes, I'm aware of the possibilities of liver damage. What do you think all of these pain killers are doing in that department? If I have a choice between one pill and one shot or four pills or four shots, I'm going to choose the former. Thank you for your concern, now can we move on? Great.
So a few weeks go by, and the MRI results come back. Still no sign of DDD, nor of anything else significant, for that matter. And now we're back at square one...Where do we go from here? We wait. Until the symptoms change or worsen, we've got nothing to go with. Alright. I'm not exactly happy, but I can accept that. The pills are working, and therefore, so am I, so I'm not going crazy quite yet.
Couple of months down the road and the 'baby painkillers' aren't working as well. I'm back in the same boat of missing work due to the pain. Add to that, the beginnings of neurological symptoms such as confusion, short term memory loss, loss of sensation in left side of face, hand, arm and leg. Oh, and blackouts, lets not forget the blackouts. And all of this comes days after I've applied for a promotion. Go figure.
So I haul myself back down to Dr. R's office. He listens to my worsening symptoms with a growing concern. The simple fact that I am so young and experiencing such sudden and aggressive onset of neurological symptoms has him at a loss, but definitely concerned. He gives me a prescription for Lyrica to add to my daily regimen of pills. He explained the drug as a pain modifier. It's supposed to change how my body interprets the pain. I can still feel things like heat and cold and sharp, so I'm not likely to accidentally injure myself, but the radiating pain in my back is dulled to a background murmur.
At this point I am taking four vitamin D, a vitamin B12, a multivitamin, and one Lyrica first thing in the morning. Another Lyica later in the day, and , as needed, up to three half tablets of Tramadol, up to two Naproxen, and up to three robax platinum. How's that for a cocktail?
The Lyica comes in many dose sizes. I am currently on the second lowest possible dose. It's not likely that my body will grow a tolerance for the drug, so we should only need to increase the dose if my pain levels rise, which, is likely, considering the trend. And I'm not a fan of the idea of narcotic pain killers, so I'm more than happy to just let the Lyrica do it's thing, for now. And it has. It's been a Godsend. The Lyrica allowed me to go back to work again, this time for a few more months. I felt energised and ready to take on the world. I've given up the idea of a promotion, but I have volunteered for the closing shift, with a special note from Dr. R that limits my hours to 2 p.m. to 9:30 p.m. Being an experienced senior employee, this left me as essentially the after hours acting management. There was always at least one more manager available, and usually two, but I did some of the leg work while they were able to get to paperwork that had piled up on their desks all day. It was the perfect balance for me. I got to do all the fun stuff that my promotion would have involved, without the added headache.
But eventually, even the Lyrica wasn't quite enough. It's unclear if some of my symptoms are caused/magnified by the Lyrica, as they were already there before I started taking the pills, but the neurological stuff finally got bad enough that I couldn't be at work. I was having a hard time remembering things, I had to default back to little tricks that I'd used while still in training, and had a stack of scribbled notes surrounding my workstation. I got to the point where I could no longer answer a question from another agent while still working on my own assignment (something that I had had no issues with, prior), and sometimes, to the point of having to put my customer on hold just to gather my thoughts and remember how to use the computer systems and where to find the solutions to the problems they were experiencing. The best way that I can describe it is that if felt like I was slowly going senile.
But I'll leave those types of details for the section on Mental Health.
So I typed up my letter of resignation, and headed to my Boss' office after a chat with my Team Leader. My TL was sympathetic. She knew how much I loved my job and what it meant for me mentally and physically to be quitting. My Boss was at a loss. It just so happened that we were friends outside of work as well, so he knew the struggle I'd been going through. He joked around, telling me that he could only accept it if it were written in three languages. I smiled and warned him that at least one of them would be Klingon. When I finally left his office, I was nearly in tears. Giving four weeks notice for a job that I loved, was one of the hardest things I've ever done.
And as it would happen, I didn't even make the four weeks. Two weeks later, the symptoms had gotten so bad that I had to quit on the spot. I spent a week packing and sitting on the couch watching TV and playing video games, before moving to London. I was moving to a bigger home with friends that would be able to play nurse to me during my rough periods. Same rent, and I already had a network of friends there, so all in all, it was a good move.
So Dr. R. listened to my history and my hesitant request for a painkiller stronger than over the counter, with a specific request to start with what I called 'baby pills', and nodded along as he typed up some notes and reached for his 'scrip pad. He gave me a small prescription for two different things. One a pain killer (tramadol), the other an anti inflammatory (naproxen). He gave a strict regimen of how to take it for the first little while, just to get a handle on the pain. Two weeks later I had a follow up after an x-ray. The results of which, low and behold, showed no evidence of the DDD previously diagnosed by the doctor (see previous entry). Not unheard of, but certainly unusual. An MRI was the next logical step, and so that was booked, and my pain killer regimen varied slightly. Now he wanted me to only take them as needed, but before the nausea set in, and to still supplement with my over the counter choices, just being careful not to mix the naproxen with other anti inflammatories.
At work, I was a new person. My direct supervisor noticed the change immediately with the new medication. She said the change in my face alone was remarkable. Weeks went by, and I was able to cope with the pain by rotating my new pills, supplementing them with a stiff drink once at home.
Now hold up! Yes, I get that the common perception is to never mix alcohol and pills. I am not advocating that anyone or everyone do this. However, the particular combination of my pills and alcohol was conferred with my doctor. He brought to my attention the risks, which are intensifying the affects, including side affect, of the pills and alcohol. Fine. So one drink is like three. I'm no lightweight, I can handle that. And I'm apt to be groggy. Fine, I only drink at home, or when very well supervised. No going out on the town with the guys. Ten Four. And yes, I'm aware of the possibilities of liver damage. What do you think all of these pain killers are doing in that department? If I have a choice between one pill and one shot or four pills or four shots, I'm going to choose the former. Thank you for your concern, now can we move on? Great.
So a few weeks go by, and the MRI results come back. Still no sign of DDD, nor of anything else significant, for that matter. And now we're back at square one...Where do we go from here? We wait. Until the symptoms change or worsen, we've got nothing to go with. Alright. I'm not exactly happy, but I can accept that. The pills are working, and therefore, so am I, so I'm not going crazy quite yet.
Couple of months down the road and the 'baby painkillers' aren't working as well. I'm back in the same boat of missing work due to the pain. Add to that, the beginnings of neurological symptoms such as confusion, short term memory loss, loss of sensation in left side of face, hand, arm and leg. Oh, and blackouts, lets not forget the blackouts. And all of this comes days after I've applied for a promotion. Go figure.
So I haul myself back down to Dr. R's office. He listens to my worsening symptoms with a growing concern. The simple fact that I am so young and experiencing such sudden and aggressive onset of neurological symptoms has him at a loss, but definitely concerned. He gives me a prescription for Lyrica to add to my daily regimen of pills. He explained the drug as a pain modifier. It's supposed to change how my body interprets the pain. I can still feel things like heat and cold and sharp, so I'm not likely to accidentally injure myself, but the radiating pain in my back is dulled to a background murmur.
At this point I am taking four vitamin D, a vitamin B12, a multivitamin, and one Lyrica first thing in the morning. Another Lyica later in the day, and , as needed, up to three half tablets of Tramadol, up to two Naproxen, and up to three robax platinum. How's that for a cocktail?
The Lyica comes in many dose sizes. I am currently on the second lowest possible dose. It's not likely that my body will grow a tolerance for the drug, so we should only need to increase the dose if my pain levels rise, which, is likely, considering the trend. And I'm not a fan of the idea of narcotic pain killers, so I'm more than happy to just let the Lyrica do it's thing, for now. And it has. It's been a Godsend. The Lyrica allowed me to go back to work again, this time for a few more months. I felt energised and ready to take on the world. I've given up the idea of a promotion, but I have volunteered for the closing shift, with a special note from Dr. R that limits my hours to 2 p.m. to 9:30 p.m. Being an experienced senior employee, this left me as essentially the after hours acting management. There was always at least one more manager available, and usually two, but I did some of the leg work while they were able to get to paperwork that had piled up on their desks all day. It was the perfect balance for me. I got to do all the fun stuff that my promotion would have involved, without the added headache.
But eventually, even the Lyrica wasn't quite enough. It's unclear if some of my symptoms are caused/magnified by the Lyrica, as they were already there before I started taking the pills, but the neurological stuff finally got bad enough that I couldn't be at work. I was having a hard time remembering things, I had to default back to little tricks that I'd used while still in training, and had a stack of scribbled notes surrounding my workstation. I got to the point where I could no longer answer a question from another agent while still working on my own assignment (something that I had had no issues with, prior), and sometimes, to the point of having to put my customer on hold just to gather my thoughts and remember how to use the computer systems and where to find the solutions to the problems they were experiencing. The best way that I can describe it is that if felt like I was slowly going senile.
But I'll leave those types of details for the section on Mental Health.
So I typed up my letter of resignation, and headed to my Boss' office after a chat with my Team Leader. My TL was sympathetic. She knew how much I loved my job and what it meant for me mentally and physically to be quitting. My Boss was at a loss. It just so happened that we were friends outside of work as well, so he knew the struggle I'd been going through. He joked around, telling me that he could only accept it if it were written in three languages. I smiled and warned him that at least one of them would be Klingon. When I finally left his office, I was nearly in tears. Giving four weeks notice for a job that I loved, was one of the hardest things I've ever done.
And as it would happen, I didn't even make the four weeks. Two weeks later, the symptoms had gotten so bad that I had to quit on the spot. I spent a week packing and sitting on the couch watching TV and playing video games, before moving to London. I was moving to a bigger home with friends that would be able to play nurse to me during my rough periods. Same rent, and I already had a network of friends there, so all in all, it was a good move.
Sunday 2 September 2012
Spiritual Health: I
Have you ever been hungry to the point where you feel like you're wasting away but nothing seems appetising? Nothing seems like it could possibly fill the void?
I've spent the better part of my adult life feeling something like that.
My parents were never what you would call religious. My Dad ruled the home with an iron fist and filled it with books and learning, Mom guided us through our emotional ups and downs and taught us the fundamentals of how to live independent lives, and they both taught us to respect the world around us. The closest thing to Christ we had in our home was the birch bark Nativity scene that the neighbours gave us one year shortly after we moved North.
I had an aunt and uncle that were catholic, and they used to take me to church, when I was just wee, and to my uncle's despair, I would sing along with the hymns at the top of my lungs. I don't remember this, but it's one of my favourite stories. Love you, Uncle G. *innocent grin*
Later, I had friends who attended church. A difficult thing to avoid in Small Town, Northern Ontario. I mostly remember the singing. It wasn't until I was in high school that I started attending church on a somewhat regular basis. I spent most weekends at my best friend's house and her family attended church every Sunday. Theirs was a branch of the Good Shepherd Church, as, it happens, was the one other friend with whom I attended church around age 11.
Good Shepherd was a good place for me to get my feet wet with the whole God/Christ thing. Unfortunately, I stopped attending after a particularly poor move on the part of the pastor. He offended a lot of people that day, and I was simply too young to forgive him and give him a second chance. I never went back.
My first boyfriend, later fiancé, was a Jehovah's Witness. Well, his parents were, anyway. He and I used to have some interesting conversations about the Bible. And I'd even have similar conversations with his parents from time to time.
It's funny, but it wasn't until I walked away from a 7 year relationship and hit the bottom of my emotional well that I actively sought the Church. I was working at a small café in Middle of Nowhere, Southern Ontario, and a group of ladies started coming in for early tea before the lunch crowd trickled in. On their third visit, they finally approached me with The Good Word. Turns out that they, too, were JW's...
Now, I should mention, here, that I have a very biased opinion of JW's. In my eyes, the embody everything that is wrong with Christianity. I'm not saying this to start a debate, I just think it's important in order to understand the progress of my Walk. Anyway, back to my story...
Something made me actually listen to what they had to say instead of just politely declining. And the next thing I knew, I was agreeing to a Bible study every morning before the café got busy. At a time when I had just walked away from my life, my home, and was even temporarily estranged from my family, this was exactly what I needed. Between those ladies and their Bible Study, my new boyfriends, and the wonderful woman for whom I was working, I managed to find my feet again, to reach out and regain my life, find new friends and a new support system, and even find the patience to wait out the storm until I could go back to the arms and lives of my family.
I've spent the better part of my adult life feeling something like that.
My parents were never what you would call religious. My Dad ruled the home with an iron fist and filled it with books and learning, Mom guided us through our emotional ups and downs and taught us the fundamentals of how to live independent lives, and they both taught us to respect the world around us. The closest thing to Christ we had in our home was the birch bark Nativity scene that the neighbours gave us one year shortly after we moved North.
I had an aunt and uncle that were catholic, and they used to take me to church, when I was just wee, and to my uncle's despair, I would sing along with the hymns at the top of my lungs. I don't remember this, but it's one of my favourite stories. Love you, Uncle G. *innocent grin*
Later, I had friends who attended church. A difficult thing to avoid in Small Town, Northern Ontario. I mostly remember the singing. It wasn't until I was in high school that I started attending church on a somewhat regular basis. I spent most weekends at my best friend's house and her family attended church every Sunday. Theirs was a branch of the Good Shepherd Church, as, it happens, was the one other friend with whom I attended church around age 11.
Good Shepherd was a good place for me to get my feet wet with the whole God/Christ thing. Unfortunately, I stopped attending after a particularly poor move on the part of the pastor. He offended a lot of people that day, and I was simply too young to forgive him and give him a second chance. I never went back.
My first boyfriend, later fiancé, was a Jehovah's Witness. Well, his parents were, anyway. He and I used to have some interesting conversations about the Bible. And I'd even have similar conversations with his parents from time to time.
It's funny, but it wasn't until I walked away from a 7 year relationship and hit the bottom of my emotional well that I actively sought the Church. I was working at a small café in Middle of Nowhere, Southern Ontario, and a group of ladies started coming in for early tea before the lunch crowd trickled in. On their third visit, they finally approached me with The Good Word. Turns out that they, too, were JW's...
Now, I should mention, here, that I have a very biased opinion of JW's. In my eyes, the embody everything that is wrong with Christianity. I'm not saying this to start a debate, I just think it's important in order to understand the progress of my Walk. Anyway, back to my story...
Something made me actually listen to what they had to say instead of just politely declining. And the next thing I knew, I was agreeing to a Bible study every morning before the café got busy. At a time when I had just walked away from my life, my home, and was even temporarily estranged from my family, this was exactly what I needed. Between those ladies and their Bible Study, my new boyfriends, and the wonderful woman for whom I was working, I managed to find my feet again, to reach out and regain my life, find new friends and a new support system, and even find the patience to wait out the storm until I could go back to the arms and lives of my family.
Friday 17 August 2012
Bigger Plate
As if dealing with my own symptoms and doctors and financial struggles weren't enough, I have now heaped another helping of doctors and symptoms onto my plate.
My 'Uncle' has recently been diagnosed with Stage Four of an aggressive form of lymphoma. He is 69, his daughter has her own family a couple of hours away, and his wife is Autistic. Any guess as to who has volunteered to spend three to five days down there every three weeks when he has his chemo?
I'm hoping that this trip was the most intensive. First round of chemo and a half dozen oral medications to get used to taking, one of which is making him diabetic, so I also had to learn and then teach them how to change his diet and monitor is blood sugar. What a roller coaster ride.
At first I was frustrated because we couldn't lay hands on the reference material that they had sent home with him. But once I'd read through that, I felt much better. I had been working blind, with only the Internet as a rough guide as to how to balance out his blood sugar. But the care manual for the Chemo was in conflict with some of those instructions, so until I had read everything, I was a little bit unnerved. According to his doctor, though, I'm doing a great job. Uncle's daughter and I are getting on well, and make a great nursing team. Even Auntie isn't feeling too overwhelmed with all of the changes.
With both myself and their daughter only a phone call away, and a handy reference guide for both diabetic diet, and chemo symptoms to watch for, I am confident they will do fine on their own until my next visit.
With any luck, my own medical appointments will coincide with my trips to Hamilton for nursing duty. Cross your fingers...
My 'Uncle' has recently been diagnosed with Stage Four of an aggressive form of lymphoma. He is 69, his daughter has her own family a couple of hours away, and his wife is Autistic. Any guess as to who has volunteered to spend three to five days down there every three weeks when he has his chemo?
I'm hoping that this trip was the most intensive. First round of chemo and a half dozen oral medications to get used to taking, one of which is making him diabetic, so I also had to learn and then teach them how to change his diet and monitor is blood sugar. What a roller coaster ride.
At first I was frustrated because we couldn't lay hands on the reference material that they had sent home with him. But once I'd read through that, I felt much better. I had been working blind, with only the Internet as a rough guide as to how to balance out his blood sugar. But the care manual for the Chemo was in conflict with some of those instructions, so until I had read everything, I was a little bit unnerved. According to his doctor, though, I'm doing a great job. Uncle's daughter and I are getting on well, and make a great nursing team. Even Auntie isn't feeling too overwhelmed with all of the changes.
With both myself and their daughter only a phone call away, and a handy reference guide for both diabetic diet, and chemo symptoms to watch for, I am confident they will do fine on their own until my next visit.
With any luck, my own medical appointments will coincide with my trips to Hamilton for nursing duty. Cross your fingers...
Friday 3 August 2012
Physical Health: I
Where to begin. Well, as a kid, I was often sick. Usually the first one to catch any bug going around, and the worst hit by the virus. I can remember having the flu so bad in high school that I dropped 15 lbs in 2 weeks. That'll happen when you have a high metabolism and eat nothing but jello and ginger ale for 2 weeks. Measles I got before I started school. Chicken pox waited until the fourth grade, for some reason. Grew up on a hobby farm, with lots of chores to do. Spent my off time reading or riding my bike or just messing around building forts and clearing trails in the bush. Was on the track team all through grade school and into high school.*shrugs* Nothing major, nothing special. Unless you count undiagnosed ADHD and OCD, which I don't.
The winter that I turned seventeen is where it all started. We did the same thing we had done every year since high school started; went down the road to my grandmother's to go sledding in the series of gullies on her property. The only real difference being, that because there was fresh powder, one of the bigger guys treated us by tossing us all down the hill to flounder in the deep snow. It was a lot of fun, and the perfect way to pack down some of the sled run. Everything was fine until it came to my turn. You see, he found a gopher hole with his foot, misstepped, and it threw off my trajectory causing me to land of the flat of my shoulders. It hurt a lot and knocked the wind out of me. But the freaky part was that I couldn't even lift my arm to let them know I was okay. By the time they scrambled to he bottom of the hill, I was okay, had climbed to my knees, and was giving my head a shake. I got up and spent the rest of the afternoon sledding just at though nothing were wrong.
Later that summer, I got my first migraine. Not that this was unheard of in my family, and until recently, I didn't even consider in part of the bigger picture. These were debilitating migraines. Light and sound sensitivity, vomiting, the whole works. MRI's showed nothing, and Tylenol didn't touch it. Mom's home remedy was a dark room, and sipping a shot of cherry whiskey over the span of half an hour. That always managed to work. And so I carried on with life.
It wasn't until the age of twenty-four that the old back injury seemed to catch up with me. I was working in a Café at the time, and all of the lifting, bending and twisting was finally getting to me. One day in particular, after helping to haul off the plexi glass slabs that made up the patio enclosure, I seemed more done in than usual. And so I booked myself an appointment with my brand new Family Doctor. Initial assessment was most likely a mechanical injury, due to hefting things that a girl of my petite stature really aught not to be lifting but, just to be safe, he scheduled me an x-ray. I got a call back after the scan, and was asked to come back in to see the Doctor.
Now, at this point, I'd like to interject with a little bit of a side note about my luck with doctors to date. While my paediatrician while still in my home town of Orillia had been a marvel of a Medical Practitioner, every doctor I had had since (and living in small town rural northern Ontario, that ended up being a steady stream of them) had been a complete waste of a diploma, in my humble opinion. And this guy, well he just took the cake.
Forgetting the fact that he was late for my initial and follow up appointments (I understand that Doctors are people too, with their own lives and own personal or even professional emergencies), by the time he showed up to my x-ray follow up, he brusquely told me that I had Degenerative Disc Disease, but that we weren't going to be doing any replacement surgery, that it would be up to me to exercise and lose weight. I sort of blinked at him, doing a fair 'deer in headlights' routine. I tried to ask him a few questions, which he bulldozed through. Some explanation of how my vertebrae in the neck and shoulder areas were inverted, but that weight loss and exercise would fix everything. He was about to write me a prescription for oxicodone. No thanks! I'm good! Tried to ask a few follow up questions. I mean, disease? Wouldn't you ask a few questions? His response, was to square off with me and state, in no uncertain terms, "I. Have. To GO!" I sputtered, having no clue what I could possibly have done wrong. I was this close to losing my infamous Scottish/French temper at him before reigning it in and replacing it with my best Customer Service demeanour. I thanked him, apologised for keeping him, and walked out. Suffice it to say, I never went back.
I did however, go home and pull of a wikipedia article on DDD, in hopes of answering my myriad questions. As you can see from the article, it's not really that bad. something that happens to our body naturally as we age, that I had supposedly managed to accelerate due to disregarding that repetitive adage running through my head whenever I did something foolhardy; my mother's voice saying "You're going to regret that when you're older." So I lost the weight, I did the workouts, and I trained my body to deal with the pain which, at first, was only sporadic. Generally, whenever I'd over done it at work.
Two years later, I had migrated from food service to telephone based customer service, the pain getting to the point that I could simply no longer tolerate the strains of standing on my feel all day, and the bend, lift twist that is the natural rhythm of work in a kitchen. I mourned the shift in careers, because I greatly enjoyed the idle banter and lively chit chat with customers that one cannot always, if ever, get away with in a phone anchored customer service environment. But the pain was slowly changing from periodic flairs, to a near constant buzz in my nerve endings. Approximately two years after my original diagnosis, I was missing whole and partial days at work due to the pain induced vomiting. There were now some days that I wouldn't even make it out of bed before my body was rebelling against the amount of pain it was in. It was time to buckle down and find myself a new Family Doctor.
The winter that I turned seventeen is where it all started. We did the same thing we had done every year since high school started; went down the road to my grandmother's to go sledding in the series of gullies on her property. The only real difference being, that because there was fresh powder, one of the bigger guys treated us by tossing us all down the hill to flounder in the deep snow. It was a lot of fun, and the perfect way to pack down some of the sled run. Everything was fine until it came to my turn. You see, he found a gopher hole with his foot, misstepped, and it threw off my trajectory causing me to land of the flat of my shoulders. It hurt a lot and knocked the wind out of me. But the freaky part was that I couldn't even lift my arm to let them know I was okay. By the time they scrambled to he bottom of the hill, I was okay, had climbed to my knees, and was giving my head a shake. I got up and spent the rest of the afternoon sledding just at though nothing were wrong.
Later that summer, I got my first migraine. Not that this was unheard of in my family, and until recently, I didn't even consider in part of the bigger picture. These were debilitating migraines. Light and sound sensitivity, vomiting, the whole works. MRI's showed nothing, and Tylenol didn't touch it. Mom's home remedy was a dark room, and sipping a shot of cherry whiskey over the span of half an hour. That always managed to work. And so I carried on with life.
It wasn't until the age of twenty-four that the old back injury seemed to catch up with me. I was working in a Café at the time, and all of the lifting, bending and twisting was finally getting to me. One day in particular, after helping to haul off the plexi glass slabs that made up the patio enclosure, I seemed more done in than usual. And so I booked myself an appointment with my brand new Family Doctor. Initial assessment was most likely a mechanical injury, due to hefting things that a girl of my petite stature really aught not to be lifting but, just to be safe, he scheduled me an x-ray. I got a call back after the scan, and was asked to come back in to see the Doctor.
Now, at this point, I'd like to interject with a little bit of a side note about my luck with doctors to date. While my paediatrician while still in my home town of Orillia had been a marvel of a Medical Practitioner, every doctor I had had since (and living in small town rural northern Ontario, that ended up being a steady stream of them) had been a complete waste of a diploma, in my humble opinion. And this guy, well he just took the cake.
Forgetting the fact that he was late for my initial and follow up appointments (I understand that Doctors are people too, with their own lives and own personal or even professional emergencies), by the time he showed up to my x-ray follow up, he brusquely told me that I had Degenerative Disc Disease, but that we weren't going to be doing any replacement surgery, that it would be up to me to exercise and lose weight. I sort of blinked at him, doing a fair 'deer in headlights' routine. I tried to ask him a few questions, which he bulldozed through. Some explanation of how my vertebrae in the neck and shoulder areas were inverted, but that weight loss and exercise would fix everything. He was about to write me a prescription for oxicodone. No thanks! I'm good! Tried to ask a few follow up questions. I mean, disease? Wouldn't you ask a few questions? His response, was to square off with me and state, in no uncertain terms, "I. Have. To GO!" I sputtered, having no clue what I could possibly have done wrong. I was this close to losing my infamous Scottish/French temper at him before reigning it in and replacing it with my best Customer Service demeanour. I thanked him, apologised for keeping him, and walked out. Suffice it to say, I never went back.
I did however, go home and pull of a wikipedia article on DDD, in hopes of answering my myriad questions. As you can see from the article, it's not really that bad. something that happens to our body naturally as we age, that I had supposedly managed to accelerate due to disregarding that repetitive adage running through my head whenever I did something foolhardy; my mother's voice saying "You're going to regret that when you're older." So I lost the weight, I did the workouts, and I trained my body to deal with the pain which, at first, was only sporadic. Generally, whenever I'd over done it at work.
Two years later, I had migrated from food service to telephone based customer service, the pain getting to the point that I could simply no longer tolerate the strains of standing on my feel all day, and the bend, lift twist that is the natural rhythm of work in a kitchen. I mourned the shift in careers, because I greatly enjoyed the idle banter and lively chit chat with customers that one cannot always, if ever, get away with in a phone anchored customer service environment. But the pain was slowly changing from periodic flairs, to a near constant buzz in my nerve endings. Approximately two years after my original diagnosis, I was missing whole and partial days at work due to the pain induced vomiting. There were now some days that I wouldn't even make it out of bed before my body was rebelling against the amount of pain it was in. It was time to buckle down and find myself a new Family Doctor.
Why, Oh Why?!?
No, not "Why me?" just "Why Am I Doing This?"
I have lead a rather chaotic and eventful life, filled with one challenge, conflict, and hurdle after another. You won't catch me wasting my breath with sentiments like 'why me?' I'm quite content to struggle though each new challenge with the knowledge that what does not kill us makes us stronger. According to the vast majority of my friends and family, strength is something I have in abundance. But we cannot always be strong on our own.
As a self sufficient and very determined individual, it took finally coming face to face with my own mortality to clue into the fact that I cannot in fact do this alone. So this is one medium that I am using to reach out to the world around me. I'm not looking for sympathy, just for support and, at times, clarity. Sometimes getting the tangle of thoughts and emotions out of my head and scribbling it out can help process. Sometimes another perspective can help put things into focus.
So hold on tight, folks! It's going to be a bumpy, chaotic ride!
*maniacal grin*
I have lead a rather chaotic and eventful life, filled with one challenge, conflict, and hurdle after another. You won't catch me wasting my breath with sentiments like 'why me?' I'm quite content to struggle though each new challenge with the knowledge that what does not kill us makes us stronger. According to the vast majority of my friends and family, strength is something I have in abundance. But we cannot always be strong on our own.
As a self sufficient and very determined individual, it took finally coming face to face with my own mortality to clue into the fact that I cannot in fact do this alone. So this is one medium that I am using to reach out to the world around me. I'm not looking for sympathy, just for support and, at times, clarity. Sometimes getting the tangle of thoughts and emotions out of my head and scribbling it out can help process. Sometimes another perspective can help put things into focus.
So hold on tight, folks! It's going to be a bumpy, chaotic ride!
*maniacal grin*
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