My Body is Lame But in a Good Way

I feel like pregnant shit and my fibromyalgia is again somewhat quiet. YAY! I'm going to wait until Wednesday (my regularly scheduled 1st ob appt) to find out if things are still...alive and such. Until then I am putting my damn head in the sand, clicking my heels together and chanting, "There's no place like home, there's no place like home, there's..."

Please Tell Me

Tell me that you all know that the video wasn't my [Hallmark holiday] gift, because if any of you seriously thought that my husband is that kind of a dick AND that I would put up with said dickishness I would be ashamed. Ashamed of you. However, I do not take suggestions lightly, and I believe that Teddy Bear needs Box Lunch: The Layperson's Guide to Cunnilingus written by the lovely Diana Cage. Of course it is written by a woman for two (or more if you'd like I suppose) women to enjoy, but even the most manly man could likely get something out of it. In my opinion, one can never practice the fine art of going downtown overly much.

As far as dildos go, I had one once about fifteen years ago. I loved it dearly and it served a certain purpose at the time. Since then? Meh. I don't really have any needs that aren't well served by TB or my own two hands. You're welcome for the over share.

I had someone at the house one time that observed a random Sam bra hanging out on the couch. He was rather surprised at its plain cotton blah-ness. I suppose if you talk to me at length you might think that I have a whole ball of kinky sexiness at my disposal, including HOT HOT undies. Actually I am all about comfort in my everyday wear. I love cotton. There. I said it. I fucking hate lace, itching, tight rubbing tagged misery. I have issues with skin sensitivity, not that I get rashes but that my stupid body likes to interpret normal clothing as BAD! and HORRID! and OUCH! Some days are better than others. If society wasn't so damn obsessed with my fairly perky tits and HELLO! nipples I would never ever wear a bra. It's not like the damn things move around much without one, they just do their boob thing and occasionally attract my husband's attention.

I don't know if it is the FMS that keeps me from pursuing the crazy fun with toys sex or a unhealthy dose of apathy. I know that devoting energy to figuring out the very best vibrator seems a little silly when I am struggling to get through each day. I like to tell myself that eventually I will get tired of vanilla sex with TB and want to ramp it up to something more appliance-oriented. It's just that vanilla can be awesome. Especially big ole Wookie vanilla. RAWR!

Speaking of FMS, I haven't posted much about how I have been doing lately. The short answer is shitty. Full-time student teaching, including all the preparation before and after school is more than my body can handle. Trying to "pass" is supremely difficult right now. (By "pass" I mean appear like I am not in a fuckton of pain with every muscle in my body stiff and pissed off at me.) I only taught the equivalent of one full day last week, and I don't know if this week will be any better. At this point my supervisor is in my corner and trying to get me full credit without finishing all the hours typically necessary-due to my disability. She thinks that I am a rockstar in the classroom (she is the one that observes four lessons during the eight weeks and makes sure that I am semi-competent). So cross your fingers for me. At this point I won't go back in the fall unless I get pregnant and go into full remission. I just can't do it feeling like I do. Yay fucked up body failing me!

Damn I sound whiney today, huh? I'd really love a nice, hot bath and a couple of darvocet to take the edge off but the urge for a fetus NOT addicted to pain medication is greater. Speaking of my uterus, it's cycle day 23 and I'm having trouble resisting the urge to pee on anything that remotely resembles a pee stick. Watch out Dude and Reina!

Call Me A Whore

I may not be a whore for advertisers, but thrust a few shiny, pretty things my way and I am instantly horizontal. I have added a "Wish List" button from Amazon.com to the sidebar in hopes of getting cool shit. Like bath towels. Who doesn't love good bath towels?

Teddy Bear has this magical "list" of pretty, shiny things that he keeps. Somehow, even though we are currently broke, the stuff on the list appears. I started putting things on the list and BAM! they arrived. I don't know how it works, or really care about the means to the glorious ends. I just like having stuff I lust after show up in tidy brown boxes. It makes my tidy box happy. And when the box is happy, everyone is happy.

I will be updating the list as I think of things. The highest dollar item currently on my list is a Chi straightening iron for my 'fro. I have realized that because my damn hair takes so much work to tame, and my FMS screams like a fussy bitch when my arms are up for extended periods of time I have unruly hair most of the time. My hair looks like ass without some serious taming. One day whilst visiting my friend Ducky I used her uber cool straightening iron and it was so much quicker. Faster = less pain = cuter hair. I went to get a haircut today and almost had it chopped the fuck off because it is such a (literal) pain to take care of most days. I have a straightening iron, but it is a cheapie one that takes FOREVER to straighten my hairs. I am babbling, huh? Sorry. I'm not good at asking for things. BUT I WANT PRETTY HAIR DAMMIT!!

Too Hip To Be Square

Does the title make me old? I feel young today, not because I am carefree and flitting about like a happy fairy high on fairy dust but because I am looking at how long I will likely live in pain. I went to the chiropractor today, as I do every week, to get a massage and adjustment. Without the 1/2 hour massage I am so stiff that adjusting me is nearly impossible, and sometimes I am still too stiff afterward to do much good. I asked the chiropractor about my hip pain, I wanted a clue as to when he thought my hip would be happy again. He gave me a 50/50 chance of it being pain-free within a year, and if it is not within a year it will likely never stop hurting.

The pain from my hip is greater than the rest of my pain, so even on days that the FMS is not totally fucking me up the hip is there taunting me. Teddy Bear assures me that we will find a way to fix it, and I want to believe him. I really do. But right now I am having a minor crisis and it is hard to believe in anything.

I have had FMS for at least seven years, but due to the insanity of life I have attempted to ignore it. I did not get an "official" diagnosis until this year. I was hoping that it would just go away, and I was afraid that after seeing doctors and trying this and that and the other I would realize that I was stuck in this body of suck and it would be so fucking hard to deal with, much easier to stick my head in the sand. Damn that sentence was long.

Now I know and I am looking at my life looming before me and wondering how I can take so many years of pain and it exhausts me. I am wallowing in it. Eliza was talking about stages of grief, and I feel like I am just starting to grieve my former life. Like Eliza, I am realizing that my best years of health are gone, and that just sucks so much. Yes, I am lucky. My husband is so wonderful and supportive, my son is a pain in the ass but I love him so much. I have a house and a car and a cat that cuddles with me. I do not have to work.

The problem is that I want to work. I want to be productive and useful to society and to my family. I want to make dinner every night and have the energy to go on dates with my husband, to go out and do something physical (like riding bikes or jogging?) with my son. I want just one day without any pain. I want to do things.

I have decided, with the help of my friends and my husband, to not start the teaching credential program next semester. I just cannot physically do it right now. I will start substitute teaching in January, as often as my body lets me. I am hoping to get a gauge of how much I can do, and right now my gauge is saying that full-time school is not doable. I might decide to start in the fall, but I don't know. I don't know if I will ever be able to teach full-time, I might just substitute when I can. If that is what I ultimately do, what good will a credential do? I am going to talk to my advisor at school and tell her I am withdrawing my application for spring semester.

Although it feels like failure, part of me is so relieved. The thought of school next semester was overwhelming. I love school but my body says "Fuck no!" and I can't attend school without my body. I have even gotten to the point of having to stand in class occasionally. Because my hip screams at me when I sit for too long, and then my FMS screams because standing just takes so much energy. I am well and truly fucked.

I am going to find a shrink this week. I haven't had much luck with shrinks since my favorite one moved to North (or South?) Carolina back in 1999 or 2000, but I have this gaping hole in my schedule and I figure it can't hurt anything.

On the good side of things, after my recent vomit-fest here about my father I feel like the pain of his death has lessened a bit. I know that I will always have times where it comes out of nowhere and kicks my ass, but it feels somewhat healed right now. Just in time for me to complain about feeling like shit.

I starting taking darvocet for the nighttime pain because vicodin keeps me up for hours. It's not the greatest pain killer, but I am stoned enough that I don't really care that I am in pain. And no, I'm not taking it every night. I have to keep the nights I get drunk and blog free so my liver doesn't up and leave me. This sucks. Also, it might be good to note that I am currently enjoying the bliss of darvocet and therefore am not to be held liable for any and all rambling, including overuse of commas and poor grammar and run-on sentences.

Oh, another thing. I am going to be contributing to a web zine soon and I am not sure whether I want to write under my blog name or my real name. Any thoughts?

Pissing In The Wind

I have several posts coming up the pipeline, and since I am fucking tired as all hell I am going to post the easy cut-n-paste one first. A few people (online and IRL) have asked me what the fuck happened with Specialist Douchebag #2 and I did not want to dreg up the horrible badness ever again. However, I needed to write a letter to aforementioned douchebag and his clinic so here it is, edited only to give me a small amount of privacy.

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Arthritis Center of Riverside
4000 14th Street suite 511
Riverside, CA 92501

October 28, 2007

To Whom It May Concern,

I have been a patient of this medical establishment since April 2007. Last month I met Dr. Franco for the first time. Although he appeared to be an intelligent man, I was thoroughly unhappy with his care. For the sake of brevity, I have composed a bulleted list of my concerns:

• He berated me multiple times for not visiting the clinic frequently enough, even though I attempted to explain that I was merely following the schedule suggested by Dr. Lallande.
• I was kept waiting for more than 2 hours for my scheduled appointment and was told that this was commonplace in Dr. Franco’s practice. As someone who drives an hour each way to reach the office and suffers physical pain from sitting in a chair for an extended period of time I found this to be unacceptable.
• Dr. Franco had obviously never looked at my file before and wasted more of my time attempting to read it as I was (still) sitting there in front of him.
• Dr. Franco accused me of lying when I said that I had been taking medication for my Fibromyalgia continuously since it was prescribed by Dr. Lallande.
• Dr. Franco stated that the medication that I had been purchasing locally was low quality without knowing what I purchased and where, when fact one of the medications that I had purchased locally was the EXACT medication that had been recommended by Dr. Lallande.
• Dr. Franco appeared to be more interested in hearing himself speak than to listen to my concerns. I had to repeat myself several times and in the end I did not feel heard.
• Dr. Franco repeatedly asked me questions that were in my medical file in front of him. I attempted to explain that exact dates were difficult due to “brain fog” caused by the Fibromyalgia and he did not appear to listen.
• Dr. Franco asked me to pull up my shirt so he and the male P.A. that was with him could see my naval piercing. I felt that this request was not appropriate and it made me feel uncomfortable.
• Dr. Franco told me that he was going to prescribe me an antibiotic for a low-level infection and yet forgot to write the prescription.
• I requested that Dr. Franco write a prescription for Celexa (40mg) so that I could continue taking the medication under the supervision of his office. He stated that he would but did not like prescribing this type of medication for someone that he “did not know.” Celexa is not a commonly abused drug, is not a narcotic and is frequently used to help treat Fibromyalgia symptoms.
• While reviewing my file, Dr. Franco noted that the steroid shots I had been receiving were not an appropriate method to treat my condition, even though I had explained that the shot were for a hip problem not related to the Fibromyalgia.
• Dr. Franco forgot to review my open prescriptions and renew the necessary ones. I had to call in & ask when I ran out the next week.
• I requested an overall pain medication that doesn’t keep me awake, and instead was prescribed Lidoderm patches. I tried to explain to him that fibromyalgia means you feel pain EVERYWHERE and not in one specific spot, but he did not listen.
• Dr. Franco eliminated me from possible treatment options without asking if I would be willing to go through them. He assumed that I would not want to come up weekly for shots, even after telling us how fantastic they can be for some people & our interest in the subject.
• When it came time to review my x-rays, it was again obvious that he had never reviewed them. He whizzed through them faster than the nurse could put them up on the board which made me feel uncomfortable and unimportant. I don’t want to come to a specialist just to feel ignored.
• I attempted to get a prescription for a migraine medication as the one previously prescribed by your office (Imitrex) was having unwanted side effects. I tried to explain the type of headache/migraine that I had been suffering from and he was dismissive, saying that without “auras” my headaches were not migraines and that I should consult a neurologist. Auras only occur in 20-30 percent of migraine headaches and are not the sole defining symptom.
• I again tried to discuss the headaches with him and he indicated that the pain caused by not having adequate medication would surely make me go to a neurologist sooner rather than later.
• Overall, this experience was horrid. I had greatly appreciated the skill and demeanor of Dr. Lallande and his staff, while Dr. Franco’s behavior and demeanor were unacceptable. I felt belittled and not listened too. My husband sat in on my appointment, he is a very direct and assertive man, yet felt ignored as well, even though he was constantly asking Dr. Franco questions and trying to redirect the conversation towards my treatment and away from such segues as my naval piercing. I have no interest in seeing Dr. Franco again. If it is necessary to see Dr. Franco to remain a patient at this clinic then I will find another practice.

Sincerely,

Sam I Am, Muthafucker!

Pondering Picnics

I feel like shit. I don't talk about it very much because I try to remain positive and funny and nekkid whenever I can, but holy craptastic I am done. The fibro is kicking my ass up and down and I'm not sure why it is flared up so badly still. I understand that living with the in-laws and job hunt was stressful, but the new house (and did you appreciate the picture I posted of it? No, you didn't! buttholes!) back to school, better finances, possibly new car, possible baby-making in the new year...I should be doing better, right?

But here I am, thinking "How the fuck could I even take care of a baby in this state?" Because the pain is unrelenting and I walk like a zombie I am so stiff and sore. The supplements I take for my brain help, and I am thankful for that. Just now I couldn't remember the word for "zombie" and I asked Teddy Bear "What is the name of the thing that eats brains" and before he answered I remembered it was ZOMBIES! Yay for words.

When I forget to take my brain meds my typing goes to shit. My fingers forget where the letters are, and I type away like normal except the words look like fuckall. How can you forget how to type? I do it every day. I guess it is no different than, "How can you forget the word for 'zombie' when you were just eating brains last week?!"

I've been wandering around the blogosphere lately, and realized that there is something (else) wrong with me and I'm not sure what it is or how to fix it. I have a doctor's appointment on Monday with the Good Specialist so hopefully I can figure some things out with him. For years (or longer? decades?) I have trouble with sensory input. I thought it was simply anxiety, then I thought it was being overly sensitive (hypersensitive?), now I have no clue. Environments that are too "busy" (sight or sound) are totally overwhelming to me. I thought busy stores were overwhelming because PEOPLE! BAD! SCARY! but now I wonder if it is just too much "stuff" for me to handle.

In addition to the sights and sounds, I get too much input from people. It is hard to describe, but when people are feeling something I feel it too. Oh, I have an example: Let's say that you are with two people that are having issues with each other and no one else notices except for you. And you notice it so keenly that they might as well be shouting "I'M TOTALLY PISSED" at each other and it is painful to be around, like a mental assault. Teddy Bear used to think I was totally nuts when I first told him about it, until I started meeting his friends. After we met someone I would describe that person perfectly, with details that I got from the brief meeting. Or one of his family members would say something and I would say "But he/she really means XYZ" and I would be right. Every time.

When Teddy Bear talks to his father about something and then comes to me with the information/advice I can hear his father in his voice. It is creepy when I say "You have been talking to your father" and he says "WTF? Yes, but wtf?" He finally admitted that I just paid more attention, or was more "in tune" with shit that was going on around me. But sometimes I want to make it stop. It is too much for me to handle and maybe that is why my fibro hates me. Maybe I'm internalizing too much input. How can I be blunted to all the stuff I don't need without being blunted to my feelings for my family and ordinary things that I need to notice?

Which leads me to Xanax. I started taking Xanax two-ish years ago knowing that it was very addictive. I have a legal and legitimate prescription, I also took less than was prescribed, I didn't take it to get "wheee" but after two years I knew that my body was addicted and I can't do the baby thing loaded on Xanax. Of course, my environment is much easier to deal with when the Xanax blunts everything. I started to taper slowly off of it and the physical withdrawals sucked (hot/cold flashes, cranky, irritable, BITCHY, overwhelmed) and now I'm done and started back using in emergency, as in "I am going to fucking lose my mind" which I primarily do when I'm PMSing and otherwise I just monitor my situation (stay out of Wal-Mart on the weekends). Sorry for the run-on sentence.

Other than the Celexa, how can I manage the onslaught of sensory stuff? Part of my problem that compounds it is the fibro, which makes many physical, normal sensations (like the feeling of clothing) hurt. Add that to the internal, muscle and joint issues and cluster headaches and I would like to order a new me, please and thank you.

Also, I keep missing Eliza on Gmail chat and it is making me pouty.

Chicken

We were vacationing in sunny [redacted], California with Teddy Bear's mom and step-dad. Well, not vacationing as much as visiting the In-laws. Saturday morning, a pleasant car alarm went off at 7am. Over and over we listened to that fucking thing beep and whine and SHUT UP I AM SLEEPING YOU FUCKER! Chicken came into the room sleepily saying "your car alarm is going off, Mommy". Uh, well son, my car is in [redacted]. We didn't drive it here. His reply: "Oh, I must have really good hearing, then." Yes, you're just that special, huh? I love that kid. A sense of humor even the the godforsaken morning. So, the wakeup call sucked ass, but he end result was a warm and snuggly Chicken. My Chicken was carrying a chicken named Cluckles. I'm not sure why my kid was carrying around this Beanie Baby, but it sure makes for a good laugh every now and then. I love me some chicken jokes.

The hilarity began when Chicken got into bed with us and Teddy Bear attempted to delicately explain that he was without clothing. Chicken's response was: "Oh my God you mean I'm in the bed with my naked step-dad?!" Yes, Chicken you are in the bed with your naked step-dad. Luckily the pajama-clad mommy was in the way. After some much needed clothing was donned, the Chicken and the Teddy Bear began to wrestle (with me stuck between them) when "Sqwak!" Chicken exclaims, "Don't touch me there!" Uh... where was that Chicken? "Due north of Nutsville" he proudly proclaims. Nice. Then there were the endless jokes that come when one is ten years old and holding a chicken:

"I just de-virginized your nose with my pecker!"
"Look at my comb over!"
"I have a cock on my head/nose/ear/elbow/back/ass!"
"What the cluck?!"
(Later playing Risk with Cluckles on the board) Attila the HEN!

Yeah, that's all I've got. I'll see ya in two weeks, okay? Remind me to tell you all about my doctor's appointment, where my new doctor tells me that my migraines are NOT migraines because everyone knows that migraines are always accompanied by auras. They are merely headaches, even though Wikipedia seems to think that auras only occur with migraines in 20-30% of the time. What fucking ever. He also recommended that I see a neurologist because since I haven't always had migrainesheadaches, the onset of them could mean a tumor in my brain. Asshole. Also, he won't give me a new migraine/headache medication because the pain of the headache/migraine will force me to visit the neurologist sooner. Even though I have a prescription from his partner for a migraine medication. Fucking asshole. He wouldn't even listen to the fact that my symptoms are classic. CLASSIC. ARGH. Yes, I'm getting a different doctor. Because this story? Has more fun and yummy parts to it that you will hear on a day that I don't have important television to watch with my Teddy Bear.

Drugs, Life and Rest in Peace

It seems like I've been talking a lot about drugs lately. To some, it may seem that I'm a proponent of massive drug use for recreational fun and games. Actually, I'm not. I'm a proponent of drug use for recreation just like some people will have a beer or three with friends. Things like an occasional vicodin or smoking a bowl are fine with me. I see no difference between that and alcohol. They're all drugs, only some are more socially acceptable.

A few posts back I showed a picture of my prescription drug stash. Although 5% of me thinks "FABULOUS! PAINKILLERS! WHEEEEE!" the rest of me is saddened. I take Rx drugs for my asthma, my allergies, my anxiety/depression, my pain, my energy level and to sleep. Most of it is FMS-related. If I could pop a vicodin or tramadol to get a buzz once in a while I would be happy as a clam at high tide. Which, if you are curious, is the full expression. "Happy as a clam" by itself has no meaning, but a clam at high tide is a happy one, indeed. (Clam digging is done at low tide) Back to my story.

I don't take vicodin or tramadol or anything else at this point in my life to get high. I take them to function and I hate it. I've added some natural vitamins and supplements in the hopes of reducing the more harmful drugs, but at this point there are layers and layers of drugs and side effects and drugs to counter the side effects and sometimes at night I wonder to myself, "Am I lost in all this? Who am I, really? Without any drugs, who is Sam?"

A major part of the problem is that I'm in a bad place right now mentally. I've been out of work since the beginning of March. While Chicken loves me being at home and I love being there when he walks home from school, not working equals not paying off the debt I have accrued. And... no babies for Sam until my debt is greatly reduced. What? That tick-tock you just heard? That was my biological clock telling me my next birthday is number 34.

Also, Teddy Bear and I are heading to Grand Junction, Colorado in three weeks to bury my father. Before he died, we talked about his wishes and he wanted to be cremated and buried in the Veteran's State Cemetery in his home town. Although I could have let the funeral home ship his cremains to Colorado, I wanted to bring him myself. I want to visit his home town and hopefully meet cousins that I didn't know existed. I find myself a year and a half after his death picking out a headstone and making arrangements and it's all so horrible.

Which leads back to the drugs. FMS is very, extremely, terribly linked to your state of mind. Stress and depression worsen symptoms, which worsen depression, which creates a downward cycle of suckage. I want off the meds, I want a job, I want to stop crying over my father. I want to take a vicodin to go WHEEEE!! and not to stop the throbbing pain. I want a baby. Is there a world where all those things can happen? I hope so.

PS Funny post below. Sorry for the melancholy.

Well Shit

Note:
This post is not responsible for either grammar or spelling issues. My hands and brain are sucking today.

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I was talking to a certain scrapper person yesterday and she mentioned reading my blog and the funny!! and laughing!!! and WOW!! and then I realized that lately my blog sucks. I mean, I knew that my blog was sucking and depressing (reflecting the blog owner maybe?) but I really thought about it and decided that if I avoid my blog because it sucks then maybe I should either write something or walk away. And we all know that I can't walk away because it's Sam's Stories dammit and there is no life without the Stories or the Sam.

I am frequently accused of turning everyday shit into a Sam's Story in real life and while people laugh and laugh (and cry and beg for me to stop being so great and wonderful) they yell "Just get to the fucking point!" (occasionally or VERY OFTEN) What I am trying to get across is that Sam's Stories are just me. I tell stories, hands waving and hips thrusting without any rhythm just to make my story entertaining. I speak to entertain, that is my goal 90% of the time when I open my mouth. The problem is that when I mix my speaking with painkillers. The equation goes something like this:

painkillers + Sam = slightly hyper with a fervent NEED to talk + little or no filters

Let's talk about Vicodin and Tramadol, my current fighters of pain and suffering. There are two distinct groups of people that take Vicodin, and about Tramadol I know only of my own, limited experience so we'll ignore it for now. The people that take Vicodin are either trying to stop pain or get high. High as in hazy and fuzzy and happy and warm and the world is good, good, good. Wheeee! Vicodin! (That's why, Essie! You're SUPPOSED to feel that way, it's called DOING DRUGS)

Back to me and my experience with Vicodin, which bears no resemblance to the previous paragraph. I talk and talk and talk and I cannot fucking shut up. If I am alone I will talk to animals or myself. The worst part is that I'm high (speedy high, not stoned high) and I want to talk and do things and I seem to have lost internal filtering mechanisms.

For those of you that are scratching your noggins right now, a filtering mechanism would stop one from saying each of the following things in a large group of scrapbookers that are strangers in tight quarters and very many are older women:

• This crazy menopausal woman was there!
• Don't you remember the CRAZY MENOPAUSAL WOMAN?
• When my husband plays certain video games in bed it reminds me of him beating off and I slightly lose my sex drive.
• Oh, your husband, too?
• We call my cats' assholes pink star fruit.
• Anything about anal sex. I'm sure the two or three or twelve of us discussing it were okay, but the rest of the room could have lived without it.

There was much, much more and supposedly I greatly amused my VERY new scrappin' friends but the rest of the room? They would have appreciated a little better filtering on my part. Am I long-winded yet? No? Good. So I was hoping the new pain warrior, Tramadol would be a better friend. A calm, filtered friend. Oh no. Not a bit. So now I have to go back to the doctor and ask for a painkiller that doesn't make me tell inappropriate stories out loud in front of strangers while wanting to clean and work and DO!! all sorts of things. I want to be calm and quiet and pain free. Is that too much to ask?

And Then I Got Syphilis

You know the posts where you really, really want to say something to the Internets but just can't bring yourself to type it because when the Internets know something it becomes real. Like, my right boob could up and run the fuck away and I would be SO sad but until I type it and hit publish it's not real. My boob could come back, lonely without the other boob to hang out with and gossip about other boobs and their size or elasticity or OMG please put them away you cleavage exposing nipple peaking boobies! You understand, right?

It is also that way with me and doctors. I've made a few feeble attempts in the past to express the feeling like painful, steaming shit that is my life, but doctors tend to need actual WORDS and then SENTENCES to understand what is going on with a patient. Therefore, for seven years I've been struggling with what is most likely fibromyalgia syndrome without an official diagnosis. I've had many, many great excuses for not getting diagnosed, but the primary one is this: Maybe my body is just temporarily fucked and I'll wake up one morning and feel GREAT and FINE and FANFUCKINGTASTIC and then my evil stepsisters will have to clean and cook and live with rats or mice or whatever. But if I get diagnosed? Not going to happen.

One could say "But if you get diagnosed you could be treated and be ALL BETTER." Nay, my good blogger friend. As a general rule, what you do for FMS is this:

1. No smoking
2. No drinking
3. No caffeine
   
4. Eat healthy
5. Exercise VERY lightly when you can get out of bed
6. Take an anti-depressant
7. Take sleeping pills
8. Take pain killers (the prescription needed addictive type)

Well, I did #1. I've done #3 on and off and didn't notice a difference. I do #2 for months at a time and then I crack because the Goddess that is alcohol takes the pain away. With pain killers you can live on them all the time (thus addicted but with less pain) whereas alcohol is a nighttime only solution (being drunk interferes with things like parenting and driving and functioning) so I only can do it so much. Make any sense? My new doctor calls it "self-medicating" which is much cooler sounding than "alcoholism" isn't it? I try to eat healthy-ish and I exercise several times a week (sex counts, right?) and I take anti-depressants and sleeping pills.

So...if I do just about everything I can do for my fibro, why the fuck do I need to go to a doctor? Well, Teddy Bear wants babies. Plural. Currently, I don't know how well I can do the whole pregnancy thing and MANY of the drugs that I am taking don't jive well with creating a little Sam. *sigh* Also, Teddy Bear wants me to be HEALTHY. Fucking irritating request, huh? Take care of yourself because I want you to feel better? What. Ever.

I asked the Internets "Where in [redacted] is there a doctor that specializes in fibro?" and Google gave me some answers. In the top five sites returned from my search, THREE of them are Sam's Stories. You might have noticed that Sam of Sam's Stories has no fucking clue as to where a fibro doctor is located. Fucking Google. I widened my search and I found a clinic in Riverside, California that specializes in various fucked-up things in the rheumatology field. The clinic, The Arthritis Center of Riverside is a big of a jog from my house, but what the fuck else do I have to do with my day?

The scary thing about the clinic is that among their specialties, three are conditions that are in my family. My dad was diagnosed with Rheumatoid Arthritis, my maternal grandmother died from Scleroderma, and my mother has fibromyalgia. Yes, that mother. The frozen yogurt wedding gift giving mother. So I needed to go to the clinic because they explore things from a multi-faceted approach and have some interesting treatments and blah blah. But I didn't want to go. NO, NO, NO!

Then Teddy Bear laid the smack down on me and said "if you don't go I'm going to give you a sad face and how will you bear my legions of little Teddy Bears?" So I went, but not without a bribe. I instructed Teddy Bear to give me a little something for facing my fears and being a good girl. He then gave me syphilis.
Go to ThinkGeek.com and you can have your very own bacteria or virus to cuddle and love. Because nothing says "I love you" like a little STD. As far as the doctor visit, they examined me, took many, many pints of my precious blood to test, laughed silently as I peed on my hand while attempting to give a urine sample and then charged my insurance just over $2100. Next month I'll have a few answers I hope.

Fuck It. I Lied.

Yeah...so um well there ya have it. I thought I was going to start posting again and being functional and full of vigor and that certainly didn't happen. I'm hoping after having a decent day today, and partially decent day yesterday that I am going to feel better-ish for a while. You see, this whole global warming thing that doesn't exist and the weather is perfectly normal and la la la? My body says FUCK YOU George W. Bush, because the 90 degree one day and cold, miserable rain the next is not normal, even by California standards. The weather is fucked and therefore my body is also fucked. Not in the fun, wow there's a penis inside me way, but in the I'm still in bed way. Alone, in the middle of the afternoon, in pain. Then there's the migraines that are slamming my ass even more frequently than usual. Migraines mean I cannot blog, because I can't fucking READ the computer screen. And yes, I actually read what I write. Sometimes. So, enjoying the bitch fest yet? How about something mildly amusing? With pictures? And furry animals? Come on, you know you want it!

Here's Reina:See the line the red arrow is pointing to? That's where the great room ends and the hallway begins in our new home. It also marks the line that the dogs cannot cross. There used to be a gate at the line, but the dogs (Fred and Rusty) are now trained not to cross the line. So where does Reina like to hang out? Right at the line. Occasionally she will saunter into the great room just to prove that she IS the queen of the world. The dogs want to touch her and sniff her and lick her but are generally fucking TERRIFIED of Reina. She spits and hisses, their tails go between their legs. They are cowardly dogs. Meet Fred and Rusty:

Rusty is a Rhodesian Ridgeback and Fred is a Bernese Mountain Dog. For those of you that are not familiar with these breeds, let's just say that they are HUGE. Fred and Rusty are both just over a year old, and they probably weigh 100lbs each. Rhodesian Ridgebacks are historically lion hunters. Lions, people. And this lion hunter? Scared of Reina. Reina the fierce kitten. My favorite pastime of late has been putting Reina on the hardwood floor about six feet from the "line" on her side, and sliding her towards the line as fast as I can. Her body crosses the line and the dogs scramble for cover. It really never gets old. I'll video it one of these days and post it for your enjoyment.

Oh, and one other small bit of news? Teddy Bear and I set a date for the wedding. May 12, 2007.

Note: Anna, keep yer knickers on, I will recover from moving madness and you WILL see me. Whether you like it or not.

Insomnia

One of the most irritating issues with FMS is the insomnia. Specifically (because I'm sure you're dying to know about my sleep issues) the inability to fall asleep, then difficulty staying asleep and trouble reaching that level of deep, healing sleep. I hang out in the crazy-assed REM sleep a whole lot. While it makes for fun or horrific stories, doesn't really help with my overall functioning.
If you take a gander at this handy graph, imagine staying at stage two or three and above most of the time you are sleeping. Lots of dreaming, easily woken up, and not a lot of rest. The deeper stages are where you heal mentally and physically. A normal sleep pattern means that you can spend time in various stages, whereas my sleep pattern means that I wake up feeling like a train wreck most of the time. Also, where many of you can sleep for six to eight hours and wake up refreshed, it takes me twelve to get enough deep sleep to feel like I actually slept. Which results in "your problem is that you sleep too much" or "you're tired because you sleep too much" or "usless assvice insert here". Because I know my fucked up body. I know what I can and cannot do to help it. It's not depression or laziness or the love of being horizontal (but fuck ya I like being horizontal) it's a constant struggle to get REAL sleep and feel rested when I wake up.

I swear I did not intend to write a post about sleep. I was going to talk about sex and big televisions and Anna and maybe my hair. However, last night I was up doing taxes at 1am because I couldn't sleep. Tonight? It's 12:20 and my taxes are filed and my paperwork is done and I'm exhausted but AWAKE. I already took my sleeping pill, but it only can do so much when my brain is working overtime about EVERYTHING.

OH! Something note-worthy and important. Listen up, Anna. You listening? Okay. Here's my plan. Saturday night we (you, me, Ewe Girl, Teddy Bear and Chicken) eat at Outback Steackhouse ( because they have a gluten-free menu) and then you and me and maybe Ewe Girl if she chooses to attend go to a local pub and proceed to get shitty and laugh at with people. Return home through crawling or taxi or Teddy Bear. Why, you ask my dear readers? What is the point of all this madness when I'm moving in a matter of weeks? Because I am turning the big three three next Monday.

I suck ass at birthdays. Thirty-two I was still reeling from the death of my father. Thirty-one I spent helping my short-lived boyfriend puke his guts out after drinking too much (did I mention the horrific surprise party? gawd it was bad). And? I was getting over the whole my dad accidentally lit himself on fire a tad bit and spent a month in the burn unit and almost died and I spent three weeks at his side and I must tell that story sometime soon. For some reason whenever I mention it in real life people laugh. I guess I AM that funny. Because it wasn't funny. It was horrific and terrible.

Thirty-one I don't even remember. But the big three-oh? H2 made me a nice dinner at the last minute. After I made a HUGE FUCKING DEAL about his thirtieth nine months before. I was pissed for a long time. Bastard.

So, I want 33 to be fun. Not the crazy shit of I'm 21 and I must puke all night long, just the happiness of being loved by friends and the positive outlook of Pollyanna that I will master. I will. Dammit. I will.

Post Script
I am typing this on TB's laptop which is not nearly as familiar as mine, so any and all typing/grammar/stupidity errors I blame on the fact that it is a DELL. Rhymes with HELL. I wonder why?