Isn’t it funny

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Funny how a little water leaking from my eyes will drag my ass out of bed faster than anything else. Now that I’m fully conscious (or a damned good imitation of it) I can’t even begin to remember what might have made me cry. No big things going on in my life at the mo. No ugly memories in my mind. Just…water leaks.

Headaches, too. Or the same one. Never really know, and half the time it feels more like I have one long headache that just gets interrupted now and then. I went to sleep last night with a raging headache coming on. Thought okay, I’m getting a headache from being tired, perfect time to head to bed. Even took a pain relief pill to make sure I slept long and well. But I didn’t. I didn’t sleep ‘long and well’. The headache plagued me for a quite a while as I tried to drift off. And now it seems like sleep was just one of those temporary interruptions. The pain is creeping back.

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One more thing to bitch about: my back. Still stiff. Still occasionally hurting enough to make me suck my breath in. Been out walking, but it seems walking irritates the area. For hours after a 30 minute stroll the section around my tail bone feels grouchy. Tender, aching. Then it goes cold/hot, like I applied one of those mentholated balms (my favorite time ’cause at least it doesn’t hurt). Finally it ends up with just a deep ache that no massaging or paracetamol can touch. Lovely stuff, and SO much fun to live thru.

Today is scheduled to be a scorching hot one, and I made plans to sit under a plastic cape and get my hair done in the peak of the afternoon. If my hair didn’t look so damned raggedy I might call it off or reschedule, but damn! I just look too scruffy. My biggest dilemma, as I mentioned to a friend, is to find something to wear. It’s got to be (1) cool enough so I don’t pass out, (2) something that won’t frighten little children when they see my cellulite, and most importantly (3), something that won’t let the sweat around my butt soak thru so it looks like I peed in my pants (or skirt) while waiting for my hair to get done. That’s a tall order for my wardrobe.

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Will I EVER get over my paranoia in public? I’m okay if no one looks at me but as soon as I catch one glance my way my head goes nuts. My fly is undone or my hair is frizzed out or I’ve got a bugger stuck on my face. That’s always what I think. It takes a lot of courage to walk around thinking that you might have something really WRONG with your appearance. I do it every goddamned day. Some days it’s not that bad. Most days it’s hell on wheels. I’m constantly trying to make sure my pants zipper or button isn’t undone without making it SEEM like I’m checking my fly. That’s a tough one. And if you saw me, you might mistakenly think I’m a narcissist as you see me surreptitiously check my reflection in every reflective surface I pass. I do it because I’m paranoid, not because I think I look good. I’m looking for that open fly, the bugger on my face, the fly away hair that looks like a rat’s nest, the piece of spinach stuck in my teeth. And I see women heavier than me, women who wear shorts that let their large thighs hang out and women who wear sundresses despite their sagging upper arm skin. I envy their confidence.

But hey. I said I needed to take that first step, and I am. Doing my best to stick to my back exercises and gentle walking until I feel better. That could take some time. I regret now a fall I took some twenty five years ago. It was icy, and I landed smack on my tail bone. I think I cracked it, but of course I did nothing – no health insurance to cover it at the time and I was young. Never gave a lot of thought to long term pain. Don’t know that I would have cared at the time, anyway. But I think that was the beginning of my problem. Me of now would go back and slap the me of then for not going to get it checked. Then again, there would be a lot the me of now would say to the me of then.

I’ll probably be able to say the same thing about the me of now in twenty years.

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…Ugly honesty…been considering death a lot lately. Not suicide, just fading away like any normal old person. Really thinking about consequences of my smoking. Every time I’m there – no matter how afraid I am – I know one thing: I don’t want to outlive my bro. Sorry, but that’s the basic truth of it. I’d rather die first. If I could live beyond him without going homeless it might be another matter, but I don’t think I can do that. I think if the worst should happen I’d be out on the streets. There’s a little money coming in here and there, but not enough to support me. I don’t need to be old, in pain, AND homeless. Besides. My bro is my last link. The last reason I’m here. He’s made me promise I won’t kill myself as long as he’s alive; we’re in this together.

Ugh. So that’s probably it; the reason I woke up crying. I got that on the edge of tears shit right now and it’s so damned incongruous to the noise of the garbage truck outside it’s almost comical. Ha fucking ha.

Isn’t it funny.

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