This Week

. . .is starting with a pulverizing headache.

. . .is the week of Stitches South in Atlanta.  I'm going --- are any of you?  Is there anything any of you need me to pick up for you while I'm there?

. . .while at Stitches, I may need to buy yarn in "my" color:

. . .has me taking one new medicine and new dosages of two of my "regulars."  My doctor is seriously considering ElectroConvulsive Therapy.  I'm just stuck.  And still can't give you a good reason for me to go on.

. . .will hopefully have Riley getting her feeding tube removed.  She is eating a good bit on her own.

Hanging On

By my fingernails.  Which are slowly breaking, one by one.

Making this:

out of this:

Distraction

Having a monumentally bad day.  Inside, I'm screaming, "What is the point of going on?"  Keeping it inside is setting off waves of panic attacks.  And if I type about it anymore, things will get worse.

So let me type something that I found the other day.  A while ago, the magnificent Stephen Fry published a book called  The Ode Less Travelled, which helped its readers write all different types of poetry.  I found my workbook from when I read the book, and am rather fond of the following. We were called upon to finish "Fry's Ballad," which began thusly (my contributions in bold):

Now gather round and let me tell
The tale of Danny Wise:
And how his sweet wife Annabelle
Did suck out both his eyes.

And if I tell the story true
And if I tell it clear
There's not a mortal one of you 
Won't shriek in mortal fear.

For Annabelle was fair of face,
A comely shape and size.
She won young Danny with her grace,
But everything was lies.

Her demon heart was hidden well;
None dared believe it true.
Their wedded life became a Hell
Once lovesick Danny knew.

He suspected things were not quite right
With his darling little missus
When once, in telling him "Goodnight,"
She near smothered him with kisses.

His breath regained, he sought to run
He had no choice but flee
Her answer was a wicked one:
"Can't run if you can't see."

And so she snared him in her arms
And breathed into his ear,
"Fall victim to my wiles and charms
This one last time, my dear."

With less a thought than one might give
A stranger's passing face,
She put her lips where sight does live
Pulled his eyes out of their place.

And then she laughed an evil laugh
Moved off into the night
Left Danny less a man by half
And doubled her own sight.

Riley

Riley, my mom's cat whom we adopted, is in the vet hospital as I type, receiving treatment for "fatty liver disease."  She hadn't been herself for several days, and last night, we decided we should take her to the emergency vet.  They kept her overnight, gave her IV fluids, then we picked her up this morning and took her to our vet.  She (our vet) seemed a little grimmer than the emergency vet, and now Hannah is a wreck.  She's kicking herself for not having said something sooner.

We've got 24 - 48 hours without her, as the doctors drip more fluids and see if she will eat.  She'd become almost skeletal, and, handily, the treatment for this is food.  We are hoping she'll be able to eat on her own, or with the help of a syringe.  Worst case scenario is a feeding tube.

The bill last night was $630.  No telling what a few days at our vet will be.  I do know my monthly visits will have to be off for the rest of the year.  At least I got one in.

I stop acupuncture, too.  It's costly, and I'm not getting any good things out of it.

Right now, I'm just very sleepy.  We didn't get back from the emergency vet until after midnight, and I was still lying awake at 4.  Doubt that Hannah got much more sleep.  And she's supposed to work a 5-hour shift today.  All I have is therapy.

If Riley doesn't make it, Hannah will be devastated.  First Esme, now this.  And she is not the best at telling anyone what she needs, so I'll just have to sort of stand close and let her come to me.

And, if Riley doesn't make it, that's one more way I'll have let Mama down since she died.  Another thing I didn't handle well.

Very Sick

Right now, I am going through as bad an emotional spell as I have since I was suicidal.  No hope, no energy, constant worry.

I don't want to lay it off on the acupuncture, but after each session I've had, I've been immobilized --- the first time by physical pain, this time by emotional.  I just stare straight ahead, unable to move, unable to find a reason to move.

And blogging about it is iffy, as I already feel that I've scared away friends who had once stood steadfastly by me, but lately, have been nowhere to be found.  If I were crying wolf, I'd get it.  

But I'm not.

Agony

Second acupuncture session today, and it was a disaster.  The needles, the cupping caused pains that made it difficult to breathe.  One needle to my hand sent electricity through my fingers.  One needle in my foot, in a place that one was last time, caused me to gasp in pain.

Then, all of a sudden, I was crying.  Not just tears leaking out of my eyes.  Huge, racking sobs.  I couldn't stop.

If I can't even endure the treatment, how will I ever get well?

Report

The acupuncture treatment went very well.  I was aware of a slight sting when the needles went in, but it was much less than being stuck with a regular sewing needle.  Not a problem at all.  Honestly.

There was also a cupping treatment, which was more uncomfortable than the acupuncture.

What has caused the most problem since, however, was the intense massage.  Since I woke up yesterday, I have had a searing headache.  Everything that was done was to release pent-up energy and toxins, and I must be a damn landfill of the stuff, as much pain as I've been in since.  I've been in bed with ice packs all day today, even having to cancel a therapy appointment.

The therapist told me on Saturday that my symptoms might worsen after the treatments.  She was right.

Insert Needle A Into Body K

Going to an acupuncturist in the morning.  (Why isn't that spelled "accupuncture"?  Seems more accurate.)  Decided to try some other possible remedies for my anxiety/stress/depression and my headaches.  I've no fear of needles, so that isn't a problem.  I do wonder, though, what the feeling will be like as the energy begins to move around.  There's a whole lot of bad stuff stored up in this body, and I just wonder what it's going to feel like when someone tries to take it out.

I just have to do something.  Spinning in place has gotten old.  And Briton is convinced I'm suicidal again.  All I want to do is stay in bed and sleep, which has always been, as I'm sure I've said dozens of times here already, my Worrisome Sign.

So, we'll give that a whirl tomorrow.  'Til then, Rifftrax and Noro silk:

If You Were Here Right Now

You would hear Klunk behind Hannah's bedroom door, begging to be let out.

You would hear Hannah yelling at him from the den, because his mewling is interrupting her "Deep Space 9" marathon. 

You would have seen Briton hastening out the door after receiving a call that one of his actors is AWOL from tonight's performance.  He "gets" to fill in.

You would find me lying as still as possible, as I have had a headache today that feels like the hell-bound bastard child of Sinusitis and Migraine.  With Cluster Headache lineages on both sides.

Playing Through the Pain

My arm muscle, whichever it is, is damn serious about keeping me from knitting.  At knitting group last night, I got about 12 rows done before having to stop.  And the pain has continued through today.

This is not going to end well.  I'll either lose my sanity from lack of having something to do, or my arm will be shot from overuse.  

Hey, maybe they can come up with some sort of radical new surgery to deal with knitting-related injuries.  I could be the Tommy John of the fiber world!

On the DL

You may remember that several months ago, Hannah and I went for massages, and my right arm, which had been giving me trouble while knitting, got quite a workover.  As in, to the point of sort of hideous bruising.  That masseuse thought the problem was in my bicep, and gave me stretching and other exercises to help things along.

Well, in the last two or three weeks, the pain had returned, and was actually worse.  Hannah and I had, again, been looking for a date to go in for massages, and when we found one, we pounced.

This time, the masseuse decided the trouble was the deltoid muscle.  And he worked on it for probably half of our entire session.  Hurt (still hurts) like a mother.  And his suggestion was that I cut back on knitting.

Right?  Tell a knitter not to knit.  When that knitter is about to go away for a couple of days and knitting was one of the only three Trip Goals.  Tell a knitter not to knit when the Super Bowl is coming up?

But you know what?  If I knit for very long, the pain is all but unbearable.  Dammit.

Might As Well Let All of You Know the Truth

It has been a difficult week, because it was a torturous weekend.  My son has the capacity for great empathy and caring and selflessness, but, unfortunately, he has a greater capacity for bursts of temper that are frightening.  He exploded on me last Saturday, and --- my right hand on this --- spent hours ranting and raving and throwing things and spitting at me and waving his finger in my face and punching walls and windows.  Hours.

He did go see his girlfriend that night, but within 20 minutes of walking in the door, he had spiraled out of control again, screaming about how much better off every one would be if he were dead, pounding on his chest while saying "I'm a waste of skin and oxygen.  The universe is against me.  Why do I even care?"  That went on for another couple of hours.  I hid all the knives and chemicals in the house, and took away his car keys.

Sunday was The Walk on the Eggshells for me.  I never know what will set him off.  Of course, he was fine --- he had spewed all his poison and felt much better.  While I had a splitting headache from the yelling and the crying I did afterward, not to mention the lack of sleep I got because I was listening for him in case he decided to do something stupid.

Monday I had therapy.  It dawned on me somewhere in all the warfare that I am in an abusive relationship.  With my own son.  I spent another hour crying, while my therapist just let me go.  Add more pain to the still-throbbing headache.

All week, I've just laid low.  No energy, really, to do much else.  Everyone thinks I'm in a bad mood, but I'm just scared to talk.  To trip the trigger.  And I'm empty.  There is absolutely nothing left in my tank.  No energy.  No joy.  No hope.

Newtown

I am 52 years old, and have experienced my share of sadness.  But what happened yesterday in Connecticut has me, for the first time ever, wondering about and questioning God.

It's been a long time since my two children were in Kindergarten.  Those two first days, however, are very clear in my mind.  After I left them in their classrooms and walked back to my car, I cried both times.  They were so small, and they were setting out on such a big adventure.  It never crossed my mind that, on any given day, I might not be able to pick them up in the line of cars, but would have to go to the medical examiner to retrieve them.

That someone the same age as my younger child could walk into a school and shoot 6 and 7 year-olds over and over again defies reason.  That parents had to wait after getting that horrifying news, that those babies were still lying where they fell and they could not get to them, is something my heart cannot bear.

Temporariness

It struck me at some point over the weekend that most, if not all, of my headaches and knotted stomachs and a good deal of my depression has come from temporariness.

Since I last worked, in December, 2010, every aspect of my life has been unsettled.  My mother's health.  Her death, and having to deal with the estate.  Being unable to find a job.  Problems with my children's lives.  Them moving out of the house, then in.  Finances.  All of these issues have been ongoing, without any ends in sight.  I've been saying that it feels as though my life has flown apart into pieces, and those pieces are just circling my head.  I can't catch any of them and put them to rest.  Or think clearly enough for long enough to try and make sense of them.  My life has been, still is, up in the air.

And although I still have no idea how to deal with all of it, it's comforting to understand it a little more.

It is 11:57 PM, I have taken SEVEN Klonopin, and sleep is not in sight.  That is double the dose I am supposed to take.  I'd take more, but that seems a little dangerous, and I am so awake now, I doubt it would help.

I am angry, and I am in pain, and I want to lash out at people in my anger, and I want them to hurt like I hurt.  Because they don't seem to care right now.  My son and I had a SCREAMING telephone call this afternoon, and I'm willing to bet when it was over, he went back to playing video games or whatever he was doing and never gave it a second thought.

My daughter spent all day in her room, until friends came to take her our for pizza.  We've said maybe 8 words all day.  I've got plenty of things I could yell at her.

Why am I so angry?  Where is this consuming rage coming from?  I just want to smack everybody down.  I'm being cruel to our pets, I'm throwing things --- I don't have any control.

I lost my mind once this year.  Is it happening again, only in a different way?

Pain

I've developed some sort of "syndrome" or "itis" in the biceps of each of my arms --- especially the right.  Knitting for more than about 90 seconds brings on sharp, not-quite-unendurable pain.  I had a massage last Thursday, and the masseur said he could work it all out in about 6 months, but that a physical therapist could probably take care of it in 8 weeks.  So, I've got a phone call to make tomorrow.

Memory

Yesterday was the first year anniversary of my mother's death.  I was the only one who remembered.  Which would have mortified her.  She was one of those write-the-thank-you-notes-the-evening-of-the-event-type.  She never wanted to look anything but completely together, with everything handled.

She was determined to be perfect, to stay on top of things because of pride.  She wanted to stand alone because of what she was capable of.  Her isolation was due to her idea that dignity was the goal, and dignity is usually a one-person-at-a-time event.

I find myself doing almost everything by myself.  Remembering dates, occasions.  My children don't have a clue.  Don't even show an interest in paying attention to anyone's lives/feelings/activities but their own.  I'm the only one who seems to realize that there are things that simply have to be done, just have to be thought about.  Even if it interrupts a DVD or a text or a phone call.

My isolation is loneliness.  An only child, never the best at making lots of friends, raised by a woman whose message was always "backbone" instead of "heart."

Stump

For some reason, both our dogs have been whining all day long.  It has driven me insane.  Rupert, in particular, has been persistent with his shrill yodel.  I have no idea what the problem/issue is, I just know I have a column of agony in the right side of my brain drilled from the top of my head down to my top teeth.

My psychiatrist refused altering my medications, though I begged him to.  He said, firstly, I am taking so many things, trying to pinpoint exactly what to change and how much would be almost impossible to do.  I can understand that, but I NEED HELP.  His answer was that since depression is such an isolating disease, I need to get out and with other people as much as possible.  I told him that I volunteer once a week, and have my knitting group every other week.  Nice "start," he said.  Add one more activity before the year is over was what he sent he me away with.

I could have punched him in the throat.  I am so angry and so tired and so devoid of hope.  And I am now in physical pain, which I trust will be lessened by a massage tomorrow afternoon.  (It is agonizing to even knit.)  I am running wholly and completely out of ideas here.

Now

As of this exact moment: 7:37 PM on the 9th of November, 2012, I care about absolutely nothing.

I have kept myself drugged since Wednesday so that I could sleep.  I took my daughter to work, I went to my second therapy session, but then I slept.  In the last 72 hours, I've seen my daughter for approximately 6 minutes.

I don't care.  I don't want to care.  What has caring done for me these last 2 years?  News from Tennessee is that we may be close to signing the sale papers on the house.  So?  Just another trip up there, just more guilt, just more pain.  It will all be over, but it will never end.

One week ago today, my mother died.  The first year is hard, because you're forever being reminded of where you had been, or what you had seen, or what you had said or laughed about during that last year. Will the passing of the anniversary make a difference in me?  I don't know.  I don't remember any big changes the year after my husband died.  Or my Daddy.

I've given up even trying to look or act normal, for my children or for the world.  I just don't care.  I really just don't.

Scream

My clothes are aggravating me.  My skin is aggravating.  I want to rip the entire world away from me, or me from the entire world.

I am angry and I am hopeless and I want to scream, but I have no idea what I'd say.  Nothing --- nothing --- is calming me.  I have the TV on because silence is deadly.  But noise makes my skin crawl.  

My son is having very serious mental health issues, but he is not sharing (and he certainly has every right to keep his business to himself.)  My daughter is all over the map emotionally.  I gave each of them until December 31st to save enough money to live on their own --- I can't imagine that either of them have even a tiny percentage of what it would cost.

If they cannot pay rent somewhere else, I will allow them to live here, but there will be rent and bills and rules.  Frankly, the idea of all three of us under one roof again scares me.  We are not good for one another in a long run.  And the feeling that they will have that they have failed will only blacken their moods.  And as they go, I go.

Why can't I get better?  My therapist and my psychiatrist and I are trying all we can, but I'm just sinking more.