Just back from a doctor check up for this infection turned head cold from hell. Nothing she can do; the green goo has pretty much left my nose. I did get a gentle admonishment to see her when I actually HAVE a fever, not after I’ve got the fever under control. In fact, since I’m on Enbrel, this injection I take for my RA, she suggested I take my temp every other morning just to monitor my condition. The Enbrel dampens my immune system so I’m more prone to things like sinus infections. Yippee. Thought once I got off the Methotrexate I wouldn’t be so vulnerable, but I guess I was wrong. So now I’m slugging it out on my own, juice on my desk as I write. I gotta keep myself relaxed and resting or this thing WILL drag on for another month, whether the doc thinks so or not. Been there, done that.
Looking for a few places to submit my flash fiction. Going for the big guns first, of course. I mean, I might as well TRY to get paid. Those other places that’ll take your writing and exploit it for nothing, well, they’ll always be there. I’d like to see if I can write with the big boys. Have a literary ‘zine run the story. Since I self published my book, I kinda feel like I ain’t a real writer. Or at least that Negative Nellie in me keeps saying that (I had one character echo those thoughts in my book to mock myself). But have you read any of those submission pages? I mean, can we get more vague and unspecific? ‘We want good writing’ – Oh, geez. I thought you wanted shit. ‘Flash fiction should be more than a scene, it should be a story, just in few words.’ Uh-huh. Then they direct me to an example which, in my opinion, is a bloody scene, not a story. So WTF? I just gave up reading their suggestions. They’re gonna get my 500 word vomit of ugly, and they’ll like it. I hope.
Doing myself NO favors by smoking during this illness thingy. Couldn’t smoke at all during the first 4 or 5 days; it just made me cough. Now I can actually take two or three hits from my J before I gotta put it out. THANK GODDESS. If I didn’t have somethin’ to slow me down I’d be boppin’ around and driving this into pneumonia. And the break’s done me good, I guess. Two or three hits is all I need right now. And I’d like to keep my smoking down, now that it is down. Keep cutting back. Since my bro has to go cold turkey I feel like a right asshole smoking in front of him, or even in the house. Figure I’ll use my inbred guilt to help me quit. Maybe I’ll even make myself go outside to smoke to keep it completely away from my bro. Geez, I feel for him right now. At least they gave him some Lorazepam so MAYBE he can sleep a few hours each night, for fuck’s sake. His doc was supposed to call yesterday, so he’s still waiting just to hear what the next step is. Bah!
The thought crossed my mind this morning as I was walking back from the doc’s that I’ve fucked my life up continuously just to “get back” at my mom. The saddest part of it is, there’s a kernel of truth in there. I can’t say it was a conscious decision, or something that happened at one point in time. It just kind of occurred, slowly. Like watching an accident take place…everything slows down but you can’t do anything to stop it. Or so I think today. I look back at all the times I decided to party or use drugs or NOT try to succeed because why the fuck bother when you think you’re worth shit anyway? Or, maybe more succinctly, when the people who claim to love you make you feel like you’re shit?
Christ, I am fucking MORBID this morning. Illness always makes me morbid. I feel like my life is more than fucking half over and I’ve just sat around whining and throwing a fucking fit because mommy didn’t love me like I needed her to. AAARGH! And that just makes me more angry, and hate her even more for NEEDING her approval so fucking much.
Fallen back into a rut of slovenliness. Doing the bare minimum to get by, the dishes most days. My laundry got done yesterday ’cause I ran out of underwear. I’m wearing a hoodie that needs washing but didn’t get thrown in with the rest because I still feel DIRTY and I need dirty clothes to wear right now. Why bother putting clean clothes on a mess? It’ll just ruin the clothes. I ooze out this cold clammy sweat six times a day right now, soaking everything I’m wearing. It’s not a fever; don’t have one. And my meds for my hot flashes are working. It’s just what my body’s doing right now, and it’s disgusting. I can’t go ANYWHERE without it happening. Automatic sweat up walking into stores and shops. I don’t think it’s anxiety, either, because I don’t feel terribly anxious. Maybe I’m just stuffing that so far down I can’t access it; I really don’t have a clue. I just want it to stop!
*sigh* Damn getting old, anyway.
Ok….Ok. I can sit here and continue to whine, continue to smoke, continue to do everything that WON’T help me heal. I’ve done that a lot, for many years. Decision time…. Is this growing up? Making a decision like this and sticking to it? Shit, no wonder people who’ve grown up look old. This shit is HARD.
It’s Friday. I want to be back in the pool on Tuesday. So that’s my goal: to get healthy enough to be able to swim in four days. Keep the smoking to a bare minimum. Keep watching films and sleeping in my chair. Keep drinking juice and going to bed early. Four days.
What this really means to me: I can’t go out tonight like I’d hoped to. I gotta keep drinking juices even tho I’m sick of it right now. Most of all, I MUST find that still place in me….
There is a place I dance without moving. Flowing with energy, but placid. Where is my map? WHERE is my map to this place? I’ve been there before, in dreams and in waking, but when I need to be there I don’t remember how to GET there. And with the irony of the universe, that, of course, is my problem: I can’t GET there when I’m panicky and needy. I just gotta let go to find my way……