i went to a new doctor for pain management and the first thing the woman says to me was that she doesn’t believe in proscribing pain pills.
So, after pointing out several times that i am NOT depressed, i accepted her script of Cymbalta. It’s an accepted drug for fibromyalgia, supposed to block the brains attempt at screaming out that it’s in pain. Cymbalta was originally made for depression.
i took my first dose yesterday and spent hours rushing to the bathroom with cramps. Dryly, i noted that the establishment is still ritually disemboweling people with supposed mental problems. It just now comes in a pill form. Heh.
It makes me feel slightly fuzzy, which i’m told will wear off.
The Marine came over last week, and i don’t know what the hell happened, but i went back into the bedroom alone and started crying. It’s just been way too much on me for too long.
She hadn’t been feeling too well, and i get that, but i was quite prepared to just pretend that it wasn’t happening. The crying stuff or the reasons why. She kept persisting, asking what was wrong, though she knows the answers.
Then she put her shoes on, said she couldn’t deal, and left.
Let me say, that i would have been fine to be left alone. Also, i get that people are not always prepared to sit with you in pain. The only thing that i ask is that if you are my friend, do not insist on talking and then leave like that. You know, evaluate your ability to deal *first.* i can respect that. Really.
What i can’t deal with is the game women play, “oh, tell me, just tell me, just talk to me” and then don’t deal. It’s not cool.
You know what else isn’t cool?
Not checking back in at all, in any format, for days.
She texted Sir Raven, to see if i wanted help carrying the laundry down to the laundry mat. i appreciated the help, it was at least an extra load than usual. She never asked me if i wanted help or how i was.
You know what she was interested in?
Telling me that i was using the wrong amount of Tide. She swore that the line labelled “one, two, and three” is indicating a one load washing machine, a two load washing machine, or a triple-loader.
Actually, that is bullshit. Read the Tide label. It’s for small, medium, and large loads. You know how i know this? My “nice” ex was a micromanager who read the label on everything, carefully marking each line with a different colored sharpie.
i told her that i thought the amount was for small, medium, and large loads only to have her tell me i went over the third line. Finally, i calmly held up my blue finger, to show her that i could feel the line on the top and that is how i measure.
i don’t even bother to point out how many years i’ve been doing laundry or how small it makes me feel to have her insist i’m doing something wrong. In particular, when i figure she ought to spend her time thinking about her own ability to handle shit and not mine.
She has contributed to stress in my life, both directly and indirectly. In ways big and small. It’s a small thing, to talk at length to me about laundry detergent. The message, though, isn’t a small thing because i can’t seem to do much of anything without her comment about how i’m doing it wrong. Or fixing to do it wrong. Or might be thinking about doing it wrong.
When i told her about the pain doctor in an email, her automatic response was to tell me she understood because she has known other people to get screwed. What i wanted to tell her was, “Look, don’t. You don’t know how this feels. You cannot even imagine accurately. Don’t tell me you understand something you can’t understand. Ask me what i need, what i want.”
i think that is a lot of the problem with her.
People don’t bother to ask people with disabilities what communicates support, love, help, care to them. They just go about doing whatever it is they think is okay and never even consider that the person might need something else.
i reach a point with people where i think, if this is for me, then ask me and listen to the answer.
Let’s face it, otherwise it is NOT for me. It’s for you. And that is fine, but let’s be honest about what is going on.
Maybe because of being disabled, i ask people what they need, what they want, how to help, how to show support.
Maybe a gift of being disabled is you learn how to sit with pain, yours and the other people you love. Because that is the best damn gift in the world, for a person to really and truly sit with you and let you feel. It takes courage. It takes someone who is capable of being vulnerable with their own shit. It’s brave and kind and good to just hold sacred space, safe space, for another human being.
i don’t want to feel like someone is trying to fix me all of the time.
She isn’t aggressive like that with Sir Raven, and if she was, it wouldn’t be appreciated. No matter what i say, there is a rebuttal. Today, they were talking about Unions, and all i said was that it seemed ignorant to single out domestic partnerships to question about health benefits when DP is open to straight people as well.
She says, curtly, “Actually, I wasn’t talking about that. I was saying………..” and it goes into a few long stories. All i say is, “oh” and manage a polite smile before i wander back inside to check the dryers.
So, tonight, she sends a horse shit email: Am i okay or faking it better?
i think it makes sense why i don’t want to bother to be around her sometimes, especially since that means she will spend the night, and i get to spend a largely sleepless night in bed without Sir Raven. Why would i want to keep dealing right now? It’s a whole damn push-pull thing when i’m trying to gain my own sense of balance.
It’s like she left me to deal with all manner of stuff on my own and then questions me constantly. You don’t get to do both to me. i don’t work well that way.
There are practical things she does that have helped, and i acknowledge those things repeatedly. The rest? It’s hard to swallow right now. i’m finally thinking that i need to focus on me, and that my priority is finding balance in my relationship.
i’m trying to deal though so i can be kind and calm tomorrow.