Posts Tagged ‘whining


I can’t even, today

I meant to work some more on “Dr. Gale.” I did. I had my coffee and Strawberry Jam Monster at the ready, my chair lifted to its maximum elevation (the pump is busted, so it sinks to uncomfortable levels after sitting in it for about half an hour, or if left unattended for two hours or so), my salt lamp burning and Mista GG’s Predator Chronicles playlist on the iPad (I need noise, and given that I’ve watched them a hundred times and know them by heart, plus it’s long and not often interrupted by ads, it works well for this purpose.)

I was prepared. But my brain decided not to cooperate, especially when it got crapped on by all the layers of the “real world” that I get to deal with.

My apartment, as I mentioned previously, is infested with bedbugs. We’ve set off multiple bug bombs, hosed the place down with Raid. They keep coming back. We had notified the complex owners, also pointing out that the damned things appeared after a new neighbor moved in downstairs, one who likes to stand naked or nearly so by his window and make whale sounds at passersby, one who brings a stench of rotten meat and garbage juice that wafts constantly from his open window, and who sounds as though he’s boxing with the walls at any time of day where he isn’t blaring “music.” On Friday, they informed us the exterminator was coming on Tuesday.

Great, cool. We’re supposed to rearrange the whole house for the exterminator (or face a fine), and I get to try to meet these demands in my condition and then figure out where to hide for several hours while they do the job (accompanied by a deaf-but-very-vocal cat who dislikes me at the best of times) and the apartment returns to livable conditions for a severe asthmatic with allergies and other respiratory or pulmonary issues. I don’t mind all that; if I can stop being eaten alive at night, I’m happy.

Went to call the exterminator to find out what else they need, find out they’re actually coming to spray for roaches and don’t know anything about bedbugs. Apparently, they’re doing this because two other tenants have moved out recently, leaving behind a roach infestation. So I get to continue to be eaten alive, and they’re thrashing the place for bugs I don’t have, and both incidents boil down to the fact that my neighbors are fucking disgusting.

Add in small claims court, fighting with disability and doctors, my depression deciding it wants to bludgeon me extra hard today, my schizophrenia keeping me up all night, arguing back and forth with different doctors over who’s supposed to poke me next and who’s going to sign off on my inability to work for the last several months (if anyone) and scheduling my visit to the Giant Rotating Coffin of Doom (aka, a CAT scan) and my mind is just not able to deal with the idea of writing fiction.

I actually was sitting there staring at the keys for a long time before typing this. Was tempted to say “fuck it” and not post anything at all. But I said I’d do every day in August, and by God, I meant it. It’s still August. I’m at 25 days in a row. I can’t – and won’t – quit now.

So, sorry, for anyone who was waiting on “Dr. Gale.” Hopefully things are a bit better tomorrow.


Who needs lungs, anyway?

Not me, apparently. The doctors are… charming… individuals. They have decided that they have problems in good faith as marking me as actually having a problem because I am capable of blowing into a tube really hard.

This is called spirometry. If you’re lucky enough to have not had to do this, what it entails is they shove a tube in your mouth, tell you to breathe normally for a few seconds, then take as deep a breath as you can before blowing it out as hard and long as you can.

I apparently test very well in this department. The fact that it hurts like a bitch to draw that breath, and that I see stars, almost faint, or go into 2 minute long coughing fits after doing it is apparently irrelevant to the results. They normally do this three times, but had to do it seven for me, because two of the results were “not good enough” (couldn’t blow hard enough for it to register) and two more were interrupted by coughing fits while I was trying to blow.

But yeah, no, nothing wrong here, right?

They say my weight is likely to have something to do with the problem, neglecting that I used to be 260 pounds (which, at 6 foot 5, isn’t all that hefty) but have put on 40 pounds in the last year, primarily due to a sedentary lifestyle in attempts to avoid as many asthma attacks and coughing spasms as I can. Also neglecting they upped my antidepressants (for all the good they do me lately), which can have a negative impact on weight. It’s almost like the problems caused the weight gain, not the other way around, but hey, what do I know? (I mean, aside from having been exposed to medical texts since a young age and at one point having aspirations of being in the psychiatric field, which required med classes…)

They have done multiple X-rays of my chest, and have me scheduled for a CAT scan, an EEG and an EKG. Who knows what any of that will show, though at this point I suspect they’ll say “Well, looks fine, as long as you lie perfectly still, don’t talk, and have doubled up on all your meds in preparation for surviving the two hours of driving and six hours of poking and prodding we’re going to do.” Neglecting that perhaps the problem is that I have to sit still, not talk, and double down on meds to do anything more strenuous than walking to the bathroom.

The shrinks have yet to weigh in on anything, as they apparently think leaving a schizophrenic with bipolar depression who’s having all kinds of other medical problems and is bloody miserable to swing in the wind for months while they “figure out” when the doctor can see them is totally okay. But don’t worry, they sent me to a therapist.

I am about 99% certain my problems are not relating to anything a therapist can help with. I’m well aware of the historical and current stressors on my mental state and am quite capable of dealing with them on my own. I doubt they’re going so say “well, have you thought of it like this” and a magic lightbulb will go on and I will be healed. Fairly certain my mental issues are chemically related, need a tweak to my meds, and are being exacerbated by external stressors, not created by them.

The doctor also tells me I need church. I neglected to point out that I was sent to Catholic school for a chunk of my childhood, followed by LDS doctrine up through high school and had Jehovah’s Witnesses try to recruit me, all without having any real relief from my problems, medical or otherwise, while piling on more guilt, shame, self-loathing and abuse. I don’t think Jesus is going to kiss my boo-boos. (Or Allah, Buddha, Krishna, Vetala, Shiva, Satan, Lucifer, Odin, Baal, the Green Man, Zeus, the Horned God, aliens, the Flying Spaghetti Monster or any other higher or lower power you may or may not subscribe to.)

Then to top it off, I got slapped yesterday with a summons. I’m being sued in Small Claims Court over $500 of medical bills. Yay.

I wouldn’t consider myself suicidal – I am far too afraid of what afterlife may await, or the possibility that I’m already in it, to take the plunge – but I won’t deny that every day the sharp objects look a little more appealing and the urge to even crawl out of bed looks more pointless.

Anyway. Sorry for the depressing post; just needed to vent a bit. Hopefully we’ll have some more of Dr. Gale tomorrow.

As always, if you think you can help out, my Patreon is right here, and if you want to contribute to the surgery/medical/staying alive until I can fix this fund over on GoFundMe, it’s right here. Never required, but always appreciated, and even if you can’t donate, a share helps, too. Thanks to everyone who already has, and again, no guilt if you can’t or won’t.

Take care, everybody.

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