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I'm insane. I'm insane. I'm insane. I'm insane. I'm insane. I'm insane. I'm insane. It's not real. It's not real. It's not real. Reality is better than this. The brain worms are lying. I'm insane. I'm not seeing the beauty of the world that actually exists. I'm insane. I'm insane. There's hope, I just don't see it. I'm insane. I'm insane. I'm insane. The thoughts are just thoughts. I'm insane. I'm insane. I'm insane.
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Got some scary news today about my mom's health. She has a hole in her aortic valve. It's progressed already, from minor to moderate. From being barely noticeable to causing her shortness of breath.
I'm so fucking scared. I love her. I don't want to lose her. I'm scared and I'm helpless and there's nothing I can do.
They're putting her under next Tuesday. They're going to put a scope down her throat to image her heart. My dad is so calm on the phone. He's so level. I don't know how scared he is, and I'm so fucking scared because of that.
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It feels like whenever I'm happy, it's because there's something I'm forgetting. Like I'm supposed to be hopeless, like hopelessness is the correct way to feel, and anything else is self-delusion. Like it's a disrespect to be happy.
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I can feel myself going down into the hole again. I can feel my thoughts turning bad. I hate this. I hate myself. My body hates me.
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I want to be better. I want to be better. I want to be better.
Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow will be better. Tomorrow will be better.
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Something good for a change: Massive grody bruise inside my left elbow, and large tape wrap. I gave blood yesterday. Feels like a badge of honor. I was able to help for a change. I was able to give something back. I chose this one.
It takes almost a week for the tape residue to come off the inside of my elbow, after each time they let me out of the hospital. The gummy dark glue sticks to hairs on my arms (longer, now, darker than before. My body is trying to protect itself even as my weight drops, drops, drops.) and won't come off with scrubbing.
Left arm, when they did the vitamin tests. Three vials, one band-aid.
Right arm, when they put in the IV they never actually used. Thick gummy gauze held on with glue.
Left arm, when they did the Lyme test. One vial, two overlapping pieces of tape.
Right arm, when they did the tests for toxins. Three vials, one giant sticky square of tape.
Left arm, when they redid the thyroid test. One vial, one piece of tape.
Right fingertip for the blood-sugar test. ("Three, two, one," the EMT said, and then "I always stick on 'two.'" I'd heard that one before, but didn't tell him so.)
It's easy, to alternate. I just look at where the fresh hole is, look at where the dark sticky residue still gathers in and around the hollow of my elbow. And then I hold out the other arm.
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Pretty good weekend. Pretty bad symptoms, but I feel like I can handle them right now.
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I'm climbing. I'm climbing. It's hard, but I'm continuing to climb.
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Every so often, I'd like him to panic. He calls from the hospital, sounding so fucking calm. He calls from the ambulance, sounding steady as a brick. "Just letting you know." "Not urgent."
Sometimes it is urgent. Sometimes he's scared. Sometimes he's sad. Sometimes he's helpless and hopeless. Sometimes I want to be let in. Sometimes I want to hear it.
We're so fucking professional with each other. We've talked to each other from hospital beds 鈥斅爉e in the bed, him in the bed, my mom on the bed between us 鈥斅爈ike a couple of coworkers meeting at a conference. I hate it. I don't know how to stop it. It's how we talk to each other. We've never learned any other way, and so we can't teach any other way.
Sometimes it's not okay. Sometimes it's urgent. Sometimes I want to connect to him, and neither one of us knows how.
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It's official: this sucks. IBS sucks. Depression sucks. I hate this.
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Here I am, in pain again. Which sucks. But you know what, it is what it is.
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Why do I feel so hopeless? And how do I make it stop?
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Here's how I really know something is wrong with me: he asked me about the movie, and I had nothing to say.
I can remember being ten years old, babbling about this thing I'd seen in A Series of Unfortunate Events as my father and I rode the bus through the countryside until he gently, laughingly, had to ask me to stop.
I fell in love with the man by my side when we spent four hours in the parking lot, talking about The Imitation Game and not wanting to say good night.
It's how people know me: the person with opinions about everything. At family gatherings, at parties, people say to me: have you seen...? And wait for my answer.
Yesterday we saw a movie. I felt nothing. I thought nothing. I had nothing to say about it.
I hate the person I've become.
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Bad dreams last night. More pain today. It is what it is.
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Bad dreams last night. More pain today. It is what it is.
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Today I'm in the hospital waiting room for the gastric emptying study. They fed me eggs, toast, jam, radioactive isotopes. They photograph my insides, first every half hour and then every hour, until it has passed through my system.
The other two people in the waiting room watch videos on their phones, sans headphones. I try to think of them as fellow IBSers, as humans like the ones I talk with on Reddit who suffer just like I suffer and try anything for relief just like I do. I try to remember that they are just like me, from duodenum to colon if nothing else. They are humans. We are all humans, all going through this together.
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