(This may be TMI for some guys, but I doubt it’ll hurt you.)

So my body is fucking pissing me off and I just want to bitch about it. I’m not trolling for “there, there, dears;” I just want to fucking complain.

So.

Over the past few years, I’ve gone from being a happy, healthy, well-adjusted creature to being a fucking wreck. I now have “panic attacks,” of all fucking things, and my fertility cycle went from being totally predictable to being completely fucked up – and this means, of course, that my hormones are fucked up… Which means I’m fucking psycho.

I do not want to be psycho. I enjoyed being a groovy, rational, normal chick. I am now moving into the fringes of “she’s fucking crazy” territory, and it’s not because I’m a bitch, or stupid, or lazy. It’s because my body is ON CRACK. And I don’t even think it’s my fault.

I sometimes spend entire weeks suffering multiple panic attacks a day. Right now I’m totally amped and freaked out, and I’m bleeding when I’m supposed to be ovulating. I want to fucking cry but I’m too tense to enjoy that kind of release – my bloodstream is full of adrenaline and my heart’s skipping beats and I’m going to HAVE TO go work out shortly just to get through the hour without feeling like I’m going to fucking explode.

All this shit is due to some nebulous hormone imbalance… maybe. Or early menopause. Or maybe I’m just going fucking crazy, I don’t know. Sometimes I can’t even deal with my very easy day job because my panic symptoms are so bad.

The person I used to be hated working out. I still do, but I’m DRIVEN to it.

I’m now afraid of stimulants because they seem to increase the symptoms. (The upside is that I’ll probably quit smoking because I’m rapidly becoming afraid of nicotine.) I feel helpless because I am, on the whole, quite healthy… I just spend SO MUCH GODDAMNED TIME FEELING LIKE SHIT.

I’ve turned into a fucking roo: I can’t even drink coffee any more because it sets off my adrenals. Dude: I can’t DRINK COFFEE ANYMORE, let alone do any partying.

My libido is wrecked. It’s a total roller coaster. I either do not think about sex at all, or I think about nothing but. It’s all or none, and it’s driving my husband nuts because he has no way of knowing from week to week which wife he’s coming home to. Is he gonna get laid, or am I gonna look at him like he’s a fucking retard just for suggesting it?

I’m infertile, fine. I don’t care. If my hormones want to be that fucked up, fine. But they couldn’t stop there – nooooo. I have to be in a body that can’t stop pumping me up to run away from dangers that AREN’T EVEN THERE, that is so stressed and tight I get dizzy when I stand up, that has now decided to bleed all the time rather than have a normal monthly cycle…

I can’t get out of my body. I can’t stop monitoring it because it’s keeping me in a chemical state of hyper awareness. I can’t sleep more than five hours in a row, I can’t even have my period on time, I can’t get through a day without at least one panic attack. I am getting TOTALLY sick of this.

Best part is, it’s either a thyroid imbalance that’s so subtle no one will ever treat it, OR menopause (which isn’t even an illness), OR “just” panic syndrome. There are no acceptable – to me – treatments for any of these conditions. I just have to live with it, and if it’s panic syndrome I also have to live with the guilt that it’s my “fault” and I’m “doing it to myself” somehow.

Trust me – I see exactly how, when the symptoms start, I get so upset BECAUSE THEY SUCK SO FUCKING BAD that I make them worse. But the original cause? That’s a physical problem of some kind. I’m certain. Some hormone, telling lies to my body.

On top of all that – the fact that I’m supposed to be ovulating but am bleeding instead, and that I’ve been having multiple panic attacks a day for several days – on TOP OF ALL THAT, I’m fucking sick, too. Stuffy sinuses, snot, irritated chest. And I can’t hold still. And my heart is thumping. And my shoulders are so tight I can barely feel my arms.

Fuck this, that’s all I want to say. Fuck this. I want to feel normal again.
——–

When we were in Chicago, eating at Gino’s, I was hunched over the salad staring at the dressing. It was an olive oil/white vinegar vinigrette, obviously, and I was looking at the spices suspended in it: that was obviously red pepper flakes, but that? Was that cayenne?

…and then WHAM! out of the blue: full-on fucking panic attack.

I finished chewing the bite of salad I had in my mouth, leaned back, and thought to myself, ‘Oh you’re funny, mister whacked-out nervous system.’ Thirty seconds later it was over, and I slammed a glass of water to help flush the adrenaline out of my system.

I wish I could describe what it feels like. One minute you’re just sitting there being a normal boring human being, and the VERY NEXT INSTANT you’re wired for sound. Your heart races, your feet and hands are slick with sweat, you’re tense, and you can feel adrenaline trickling into your bloodstream by the way it travels. Your whole body flushes, your muscles tense, and you feel FREAKED. THE. HELL. OUT.

Such a pain in the ass. And no one can even tell you’re in hell ’cause you look normal.

That was on Sunday. I had three more driving to work this morning, and two since I’ve been at work today. I finally went out to the jeep and jacked my head into my iPod and listened to this 9-minute panic eliminator track I have (which basically says, “Your nervous system is doing it, and you’re helping by being afraid of being afraid”). It helped.

But sometimes, honestly, I kinda want to swallow a big fat fucking sedative. This whole bio-feedback thing is just sooo responsible. Taking time out to soothe my physiology can be a total pain in the ass, and having to maintain a good goddamned attitude can be a pain in the ass too. Rar.

It’s probably a good thing I can’t have kids. Who’d want to have this shit passed on to them? Seriously! And if not this, then Brett’s lousy temper. (Snort.)

My water cure has been going on for a few months now. I typically drink 64 ounces of water a day.

Three days ago, I… stopped. Drank a couple glasses of water, but because I’d lost my water bottle I wasn’t drinking enough. And I was tired. I’d been up ’til midnight most nights recording, and as you all know my normal sleeping habits are pretty terrible since I wake up all the time for no apparent reason. (I’ve even been sleeping on the daybed in my office a lot lately, because every single time Brett moves I wake up at night.)

Yesterday I was so fatigued. I felt mussy, fuzzy, and unfocused. It sucked. I thought I was tired. Last night before going to record I bought a bottle of water and drank it. Today I’ve already had two, and I feel SO much better, even though I’m no more rested than I was yesterday.

Water really is the key, people. I’m so serious.

After the flu and protracted anxiety, my neck and ribs were FUBAR. I mean, totally FUBAR. As in, I couldn’t turn my head far enough to change lanes while driving the Jeep.

Yesterday I drove to town and went to see Dr. Crossland. I’d taken Brett there before, but had never been myself. It was AWESOME!

I walked in the door, the lobby was empty, and the good doctor himself was in the office. He had me fill out a little card and took me straight back. No waiting!

The exam room had a chair, a table, and a… contraption. I sat first in the chair, and he discovered my many misalignments by gently poking and prodding with his thumbs. Then onto the contraption I went. It was a tilting chiropractic table – you’d walk up to it, lean forward and put your arms on a couple of rests, and then the whole thing would tilt down. (It felt cool, there was some mild low back stretch from the tilt. I dug it.)

The doc was an old guy, white haired and bright eyed, and you could tell he’d been doing this forEVER. He was totally comfortable, assured, and thorough. I’d only ever been to one chiropractor in my life – the wonderful and flaky Dr. Deb Peters – so I’d never been crunched before, and after every loud noise I steeled myself for it to hurt… but it never did! The man made my back, neck, and hips make THE most insane crunching noises but it felt great!

Honestly, I had no idea. I’m the kind of person who will walk away from people who crack their knuckles or necks – I hate it. Ewh!

But this guy was amazing. After a few minutes on the contraption, he put me on the other table, where I had my lower back popped through some wonderful contortion involving the patient on her side with the upper leg bent, and the good doctor pulling the hip and pushing the shoulder. Yum!

Then back to the contraption to get my back and hips pushed on, then back in the chair for some neck release, then back on the contraption to learn that my legs were now the same length again. The man’s neck un-fucking procedure was freaky: he just took hold of my head, twisted and pulled! And it did not hurt! It sounded totally freaky, but when he was done I could feel blood rushing back into my shoulder muscles for the first time in probably two or three weeks.!

THE MAN IS AWESOME. He showed me a few stretches to do, told me that my bronchia and sinuses might let loose a little after the adjustment, and then only charged me 36 bucks!

He was right, too – last night I coughed pretty determinedly for about an hour after dinner, and I think I pretty much got up the remaining flu garbage that had been stuck in there. (My ribs were all crooked and I guess I hadn’t been able to produce a decent cough.) I love Dr. Crossland! Yay!

This is how screwed up I am. The day before yesterday, I was pretty badly amped. Had to do a bunch of yoga and japa when I got home from work, and I was pretty sweaty-palmed and geeked out much of the day, but it was tolerable.

Last night was pretty rough too but it eased off and I crashed around eight, only to wake up when Brett came to bed and be unable to get back to sleep.

I was up and pretty miserable most of the night, and finally fell asleep around six or seven. Yes, this made me incredibly late to work.

Now it’s 1:15 and I’m having another panic attack. A bad one. It’s like way too much really-really-really bad speed, but I haven’t even had so much as a cup of tea for the past 48 hours.

This shit is basically daily now. I AM SO UNCOMFORTABLE. I HATE IT.
Continue reading Life In Hell →

Monday I felt great but found I had a wee cough. Nothing serious. I thought it was the result of bar over-exposure Friday night.

It wasn’t.

Monday night my chest got tight. By nine thirty it hurt; by eleven I was seriously sick. By four in the morning I Was In Hell. My entire chest, from collarbones to hipbones, was ON FIRE. And it HURT.

Then the cough arrived. The kind of cough that comes from your ankes and hurts like you’re being vivisected with a million tiny little ultrasharp scalpels from the inside. The kind of cough you dread, the kind of cough that makes you stop doing anything and everything else simply so you can brace yourself for the onslaught. The kind of cough that makes your skull hurt and the brains inside feel like they’re exploding.

Monday night was a horrible night.

Tuesday morning I called Buzz at 7:30 and left the most ridiculous message; something along the lines of: “Dude, I am SO FUCKING SICK! {cough, cough} I won’t be in today, like, {cough, cough} at ALL.”

I remember yelling “Shut up!” at the dogs at one point, then trailing off into senselessness before groaning, “Okay, bye then,” and pressing the End button on my cell phone. I would have felt stupid for leaving such an absurd message if I hadn’t been So. Fucking. Sick.

I put myself to bed. I slept probably 18 hours that first day. I ate nothing but water, a package of Top Ramen, and an ear of corn on the cob.

The next day, Wednesday, I called Buzz around noon. “Hi, it’s Michelle. I’m calling in sick,” I rasped.

He chuckled. “I figured, since you weren’t here.”

“Yeah, well. Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow! I think I’m feeling better.”

“Oh, uh-huh,” he laughed.

I was awake maybe a total of ten hours that day, in small intervals. The rest of the time I was passed out, sleeping the sleep of the truly wretchedly ill.

Wednesday Brett had come down with it, but not nearly as bad. He had the cough, and the discomfort, but he at least could still move around. He worked half the day, then watched TV through the afternoon. I made occasional pilgrimages to the kitchen for water and he, ever the tender and gentle lover, started calling me Snot. As in, “Hey, Snot, how’re you feeling?”

Ah, love – know thee no boundaries?

Wednesday night, late, while Brett slept on the couch in front of the flickering images of the SPEED channel, I sipped Echinacea Complete Care in beside the fire and marveled that while I must reek, I was so sick I couldn’t smell myself. In spite of that, I thought for a minute that I was getting better. I thought if I could sleep through the night and get up on time, I might get to work the next day.

Hah! I slept the vast majority of the twenty-four hour period known as ‘Thursday’ as well. I even ran a one-degree temperature for five or six hours last night.

But today! Ah, today! I’ve been awake now since TEN O’CLOCK! I did a load of laundry, and picked up after myself and my husband, and am alert enough now to actually sit in front of the goblinbox and blog! Halleluia!

Begin domestic aside:
Now. I realize my man’s been sick these past few days too. I also realize he’s a good goddamned guy in general. But he’s not half as sick as I am, and he never picks up the slack! I’ve been a slob this week because it was all I could do to boil myself some water, let alone wash dishes or pick up after myself, but he’s been well enough to go places and do things and… and… and STAY AWAKE! He took my slovenly behavior more or less as carte blanche to act like a pig. He didn’t even bother to rinse his dishes, which you’d think would have been ingrained in his thick hide by now.

Am I truly out of line to expect my roommate to occasionally, NOW AND THEN, to go just a tiny bit above and beyond? It’s not like I’m pissed off that I had to cook my own food and make my own tea with a staggering headache – I’ve lived with him long enough to know that bringing home a bottle of NyQuil (and calling me “Snot”) is as far as his sickroom ministrations ever go. But SHIT, people! When the primary homemaker is flat on her aching back with influenza, RINSE YOUR GODDAMNED DISHES ALREADY. Maybe toss a load in the washer, rather than letting the bathroom laundry basket overflow all over the floor. Put your garbage IN THE GARBAGE CAN. Put your shoes on the shoe rack and hang your outerwear where it belongs instead of creating an obstacle course of massive boots and piles of slippers, hats, coats, and jackets in the high-traffic areas your sick and almost-legally-blind-without-her-contact-lenses wife is trying to navigate WHILE RUNNING A FEVER!!!

{Chuckle.} Truly, it’s not that bad – nothing fifteen minutes of shuffling around didn’t set right. But when I surfaced enough to actually see the piles of dishes, garbage, and general crap we’d managed to pile up on every surface, I almost fainted. Snort!

Well, I believe it might be naptime again for the Mushlette. I’m off to check my email, maybe get another few ounces of water in this aching body, and get horizontal. Ciao, babies! BE WELL. (I am so serious.)

Score: Flu 1, Mush 0.

Last night we went to bed early. (If that’s not a euphemism for “got laid,” I don’t know what is!) I was asleep by eight, probably.

I woke up at midnight, thirsty as hell.

Stella had somehow gotten shut in the future living room and her whining had woken Brett up half an hour after I’d settled myself before the fire with a cheesy book and a bottle full of water. I let her out, confused at how she’d even gotten in there – the door was closed and latched and there was a box in front of it – and Brett went back to sleep.

I read more and quaffed my water. You know you’re dehydrated when you can drink 32 ounces of water before you have to pee. But at least I’d felt thirsty!

I’ve been trying really hard to drink enough water every day. It’s taken a couple of months, but now I actually get thirsty again, for the first time in a couple of years, I think.

Apparently when you’re chronically dehydrated, your thirst reflex stops working. You wander along simply not realizing you’re desperately thirsty, and your body spends all its time in a drought, trying to make do.

I’ve also rediscovered something I used to know but had forgotten: if you get up and have a glass of water first thing in the morning, it really gets the elimination cycle rolling for the day. The horrific constipation is gone since the miscarriage (thank God), but I’ve never been what you’d call terribly regular.

We all need much more water than we typically drink. Being dehydrated can contribute to all kinds of chronic pain and other malfunctions.

What surprizes me most, I guess, is how much water I had to drink and for how long before I started to get thirsty for water again! I used to be so good at staying hydrated, and somehow I just… quit doing it. I got to the point where I never really wanted water, and would suck down an obligatory glass or two every now and then, but I’d actually gotten to the point where I no longer preferred it to other beverages! What the hell was I thinking?!
——–

Today, Tahmi came over to visit me. She brought me a book from her man, a pizza from Pizza Slut (we both secretly eat there when our menfolk aren’t looking – shhh), a Frappucino (I only drank half of one), and a pack of smokes since Brett hadn’t left me ANY.

I gave her a knitting book I’d borrowed (like a year ago), her Amma doll (which she’d left here last week by accident), and a DVD.

We ate lunch, toured the remodel, and she helped me figure out how to feed a certain audiobook to my iPod. We watched Poirot. And she – I am not kidding! – spent three hours combing the snarls out of my hair!

How fucking superior is that?! (Answer: very.) (I am ABJECTLY so NOT worthy!)

Remember LAST WEEK when I said my hair looked like Don King-meets-Deadhead, from all that hormone-driven rocking? Well, I haven’t brushed it since then. I’ve WASHED it four times and kept it back in a scrunchie, but neither comb nor brush has touched it. Yes, I went to work like that. (Those guys can’t figure me out anyway, dreads didn’t phase ’em.)

I had planned to spend this afternoon working it out myself so I wouldn’t have to cut it all off, but Tahmi – bless her in all ways – DID IT FOR ME. And she was such a pro about it I actually forgot she was doing it a few times! (Poirot was on. He’s SO fastidious!)

Then night fell {thunk}, I gave her money for pizza and smokes, and she left in her fast black car.

And ten minutes later I noticed her purse was on the round table.

So I called her house to tell her machine that her purse (and GameBoy, and iPAQ, and cell phone, and wallet, and iPod) were all HERE. Far away from HER.

She called me when she got home to say, “Without the cash you gave me, I wouldn’t have been able to buy my groceries!”

Yay! Happy ending! 😉

I’m feeling practically normal, finally! No more crying jags! In other words, my hormones are totally back to normal. Yay!

I had a pelvic exam yesterday (oh joy… NOT) and the nurse midwife agrees that I’m not pregnant. Since I haven’t had a normal period yet I’m taking this truly horrible-awful-bad tasting emmenagogue to get things flowing. Yuk.

I woke up absurdly early this morning, and then fell asleep on the couch and didn’t wake back up until 11:30. Grr. So much for working a full day today! I feel like a jerk; I feel so much better I should celebrate by… getting my ass to work for a few hours!

So I’m off to town to grab a bite to eat and to drop by the office for a few hours and see if the DSL database is doing okay.

I’ll try and write a truly interesting blog post sometime before the year’s up, I promise!

About an hour after I got up this morning, I noticed a bump on the back of my left hand. It’s the size of a pea and it’s under my skin. It doesn’t hurt; it just grosses me out, kinda.

So I got dressed and came to work and walked in and showed it to Buzz. “I have a bump on my wrist! It wasn’t there yesterday!” He took one look at it and said, “Oh, yeah, that’s a ganglion cyst. Cyndi’s had one for years. I had one on my foot once, but it went away.”

Naturally I looked it up (I LOVE THE INTERNET) and I’ll be damned if he isn’t right. He’s really tremendously handy to have around.

I rather feel like running home and getting my bowling brace, to keep my wrist immobilized. Or something. I hope it goes away on its own ’cause it kinda grosses me out. It’s just not supposed to be there. That particular area of my body is supposed to be smooth, it always has been before!

Ah, being a thirty-something computer-using carpel tunnel-potential victim is weird. Talk about insult to injury. First the puking, and now this.