“Stories of imagination tend to upset those without one.” – Terry Pratchett
I know, I know. I’m still not writing as much as my beloved public would like. But I’m still lying low, because I’m feeling low.
Got a prescription for the panic attacks, which I still haven’t started (I’ve had it for two weeks). I feel conflicted about the pills. I could take them, and maybe feel better or have no change. I could not take them, and see if this goes away on its own (so far, no dice, but I have gotten slightly better at not letting my imagination run wild).
My imagination, of course, tells me that I will die, alone, probably with Netflix running, mid-spoonful of ice cream. I’ve tried, somewhat successfully, to cut back on sugar and caffeinated beverages (which, if you know me, these are my life). My coffee of choice these days is a grande (venti, I miss you RIP) decaf sugar-free vanilla caramel macchiato from Starbucks. They made it for me that way the first time and it was a mistake, but I figure it’s better than nothing (I went for 5 days with nothing. Those were dark days).
My imagination has also tried to convince me that I have died, which happened two weeks ago when I was on the phone. The call dropped, and I got scared, and immediately thought to look on the floor to see if I was lying there.
See? My imagination is kind of an asshole.
I guess I could go back to therapy, but that shit’s expensive – so for now, I’ll just write about my crazy and hope that the result is the same (and cheaper).
According to my doctor, the kidney infection isn’t there anymore (I asked for a retest, because I’m still hurting), and bloodwork showed the same marker for lupus that was there around the time my leg first started swelling in 2008. So, if my doctor’s office ever gets its shit together (it’s been a headache), I should be going to see a rheumatologist in the near future. Though I have no real memory of going to a rheumatologist seven years ago, the test results from that time showed all other tests were normal (or at least, not crazy enough for them to worry about anything). I imagine that the results might be the same this time around, but because I am also a doctor through the power invested in Google, I’m starting to think that it makes sense.
Not that I want lupus. I just want answers. And if the answer is lupus, that makes it easier to deal with – because you finally know what you’re fighting against. My sister has MS and explained that autoimmune disorders are notoriously tricky to diagnose; essentially, you have to “catch” them at the right time. So basically, having an autoimmune disorder is like that corporate-ladder-climbing bitch in your office who talks about you behind your back and makes you look bad in front of the higher-ups – and the only way to catch them is to install a hidden camera and review every so often.
(Sorry. I’ve been watching White Collar a little too much lately, I think.)
And if the answer isn’t lupus, then… I don’t fucking know. I just have weird things happen to me that like to go away and reappear every so often, like a distant, unwelcome relative. (…Turning, turning, turning through the years, minutes into hours and the hours into years… )
And in between my catastrophic imaginings (I know, how do I find the time?), I’ve been going to Ravinia concerts with my bestie (we saw a Led Zeppelin cover band, and it was fairly awesome) and showing her how to use Snapchat and talking about going to a yoga class but then not.
I’ve also been taking swing dance lessons with the boy. We did our second lesson yesterday. Basically it’s a lot of twirling in 4/4 time to a 6-count beat. My limbs would not be mine if they did not betray me, which they have been doing with regularity. I just wish I felt/looked/was more fluid. It’s possible it will come with time (hopefully in the 5 sessions remaining). My goal is to make it look as effortless as this chick Tracy, who dances to the right of me, and then to actually look like this girl Liliya ( or Lillllllll-e-ya, that’s the way I say her name, because all the dudes in the class want a piece of her skinny ass [including my boyfriend, who won’t admit it]). She is probably as tall as I am, but yeah, she’s probably not eating ice cream and Netflixing when she gets home from work. I get it).
Paul seems to be picking it up quite nicely, though, and for that I am happy. He likes the music and saw it fitting to sing L-O-V-E to me on the ride home, which just makes my heart go pitter-patter, even though it also leaves me mortified.
I have good people around me, for sure. Even if I do have hard times ahead, I’m one lucky lady.
Have a good night, friends. Be kind to yourselves.