Creative... ness?

I'm having a hard time believing that it's Christmas next week. Even though I take pictures of little kids in their Christmas dresses all day long, in my mind, Christmas is still months away - these people are just crazy early and well prepared. Of course, my mind does not always work properly, as has been seen, heard about, and demonstrated time and again. In my mind, Christmas equals snow. Even though I moved to Portland to escape the snow, the snow means that Christmas is here. I walked by Trader Joe's the other day and smelled the Christmas wreaths only to think to myself "god, they're early about that shit this year." Yeah, a little not with it.

As I walked home tonight, I realized that I've never thought of myself as an artist or a creative type. My walk down the trendy part of town was accentuated by the odd, drunken footsteps of my own feet that would not work properly. The soft scrape of my jeans that were so waterlogged that they were falling off my ass marked one footstep while the other had the soft scrape plus a loud 'thunk!' of my shoe falling off my right foot every step. The only sound on one of the trendiest streets in town is my own drunk ass stumbling home. Classy. I told a friend tonight that I may not feel temperature in my feet, but the moment they stop working is the moment they're too cold. I hit that about 3 hours ago. I somehow made it home, stumbling like the drunk ass I was. I'm not sure why this whole debacle made me think about the fact that I've never thought of myself as creative, but it sure did. I think it was the fact that I'm such a loser I could never be considered cool.

I've been asked to put up more photos.. I'm not sure what I think about that other than the fact that they better be damn good photos. Do I have any of those? In my opinion, anyone could have taken the photos that I have, they're snapshots of life as I see it, not anything special. I'm currently working as a photographer, but it's almost a joke because there is virtually no creative aspect to it - people want good pictures of their kids in their holiday gear, not a creative shot that I may have decided might look good but they don't fully understand. My photos, much like my writing, I have decided, is a window into who I am that many people never get to see. It's not that I'm ashamed of it, necessarily, but rather that I'm just not sure about that side of me - it's part of me, not something I work at or organize, but rather some I am compelled to do. I can go months without taking a single photograph, and then one day feel pulled to wander outside and get some good shots. Writing is much the same way, most of my poems or stories are jotted down on scrap paper that I may have had handy at the time, not in a notebook organized and ready to view. My school notebooks hold a large number of my writings as well as my photos, thrown in, jotted down, and promptly forgotten until I randomly run across them again. I often wonder if I'll look back at them and chastise myself for never actually taking the time to organize them.

Let's be honest though, I'm not really the organizing type. I have a memory problem, for god's sake, I can't remember my own organization system. This can be evidenced most often by my panties. I have three bins, one for t-shirts, one for socks and one for underwear. That system lasts maybe two weeks before I have to pull panties out of the sock bin and socks out of the t-shirt bin. This usually happens around laundry time, which is few and far between due to the high cost of laundry (high cost is measured in the amount of quarters necessary per load, not the actual dollar amount). Instead, laundry is piled into two loads and shoved in the largest washer I can find. It is then moved to the dryer, which never dries clothes to my satisfaction and I end up hanging it around my 400 square foot apartment, looking like a homeless woman airing out her goods.

So, I may take the Egyptian up and post more pictures, I may post shit I've written. I'm not really sure how to go about being the creative type. I know Kaci would love it, she steals photos off my damn walls. Actual walls, not Facebook. I would call her a jerk, but I'm oddly flattered.

I'm rambling nonsense at 1:36 in the morning of my first day off in months. I should go to sleep, but I'm a little too drunk still for that shit. On to the book anyone? The awesome thing about a memory problem is that 20 books becomes a library since you can't remember the plot of any of them. It's a surprise every time! Sort of like the Crackerjack box. While I'm spewing nonsense, I figured it was time to explain my title. Barefoot comes from the fact that I hate shoes, I can't stand the bastards. Punk is simply the nickname my father gave me when I was young, not in the common sense of 'you punk' but just as it is. Punk. Sometimes reverted to 'punkinhead' or 'punky'. But never in the modern sense that holds connotations about the person, just punk. Therefore Barefoot Punk describes me best, wandering through life, milling about smartly (as I have often been accused of doing) and keeping the attitude that I frequently have, trying not to get down.

Brain? What Brain?

This week is finals week. So of course that means I have the first two consecutive postings in over six months. That's just how it works with me, I'm a procrastinator. Let me tell you a little about the last week for me.... I've slowly been losing my frickin mind.

I've worked 52 hours in the last week. Count 'em, 52. I'm working as a photographer, trying to tell children sit on their ass while their parents yell or criticize them constantly and to look pretty while doing it. Ill behaved kids are bad, bitchy and rude parents are worse. Seriously, can't you see the mob in the waiting room? I can't fix ugly, lady, you're not going to like these pictures no matter what I do or how many I take. Some of the people I see in there are contradictions in themselves. An 'alternative' family who hates the man and professes to thinking corporations are the root of all evil came in the other day. Seriously? Isn't just entering the studio a contradiction to your core beliefs? But who am I to say that, I'm just a lemming pushing a button, right? WRONG! Assholes I have years of experience, and despite working for the root of all evil, I'm a human being that would enjoy some basic respect. Human decency, I've decided, has gone from the world. Not to mention effective parenting.

So while working all these hours, I've been attempting to get graduate work done. This has been especially hard, considering I've already decided I'm not coming back next semester. I'm not a quitter, so I hate the fact that I'm pulling out of the program, but I'm just not happy and I have zero time, I'm running myself ragged and I'm not getting much out of life. No bueno. I don't like that. So, I'm going to start living life a little, work to pay rent and bills, have a little fun in the mean time. Just as an example of my craziness, I got home from work the other night and decided to have some spaghetti O's. I turned on the stove, I kept walking over to stir them... and after stirring them twice, I got up, walked to the kitchen and realized that there was nothing on the stove that I had just turned on.... the pot was still on the counter, sitting there cold, with a spoon. I'm awesome. There was just no excuse good enough for that one.

Can you say.... NUTTY?

My Favorites

Have I mentioned I'm a loser? It's been a month since my last posting. I swear to god I thought it had only been a week. I feel like life is just passing me by and every now and then I turn around and wave at what should have been life. UGH! Anyway.

Life is... life. What do you even say about it? Once again, I'm procrastinating and avoiding homework. Surprising, right? I think what I want to do is put up some of my favorite photos that I've taken. Just for shits. Take a gander.

Loser with a capital L

So pretty much I'm a failure at life lately. Well, as far as this blog goes. I mean, six months? How did they pass by so quickly? I was doing so well. To be honest, though, I was writing these during my work day... and then I got laid off. There went my built in excuse to surf the internet! I had a hectic couple of days during the first week in July. I quit one job, the next day my housing fell through, the day after I was laid off. What did I do? Grabbed a bottle of whiskey and sat by the pool! What better idea has there ever been? What am I doing now that might cause me to restart the writing process, you might ask? Why of course, I'm still procrastinating! Homework instead of work this time.

The last few months have been an experience. I enjoyed my summer for the first time since I was a child - rafting, hiking, general aimless fun. I also started a new treatment. Shots in the ass, twice a week. Who thought that could turn into a fun and educational experience? Oh wait, it hasn't, it's just become fun to explain to people. "Be right back, I have to go get shot in the ass." Priceless. Graduate school and trying to find work while getting shot in the ass twice a week has not been overly fun, or fruitful, but really, what else can a body do?

Grad school is one of those things that I thought would be my calling. I thought I would be happy, that I would find my niche in life... all that good stuff. Instead, I'm feeling like I'm doing even more aimless wandering than ever before. And going into debt while doing it. So I've begun to ask myself... what is it I want out of life right now?

Answers I've come up with:
1. A job I enjoy (turns out the jobs I succeed at and am credible at are all in the photography business. Ok, karma, you win this time. I never pursued photography, it's just something I do. Now it seems I am going to try and pursue it... I'll let you know how it goes.)
2. Time to be with friends (this has become increasingly difficult as I add more and more to the schedule)
3. Time to work out and go to a gym or yoga classes (though I'm in near constant pain, self inflicted pain via exercise somehow makes that all better)
4. Get healthy (an overall general goal that I will probably never accomplish, but would love to some day achieve)
5. Be content in my own skin (something I feel like I once was, but cannot find in myself anymore. I'm hoping this changes as I stop my aimless wandering and begin to find what I want to do.)
6. Get a pet, have time to train them (I'm talking to my appliances. Is there a better reason to get a pet?)
7. Experience Portland more before someday leaving (I love Portland, I love the randomness that is Portland, but I probably won't be here forever. Go forth and multiply. Or live long and prosper. Whatever your slogan is.)
8. Meet the mechanic who posts such inspiring quotes such as "Never rationalize what feels wrong." Right, you're thinking the same thing as me.... a mechanic? really? Apparently they're deep here in Portland.

I'm think I'm done with this rant, but hopefully this will kick start my butt back into writing... I like looking back at what I've written on this page... it's kind of fun and I'm not such a bad writer. When I can spell. Apologies now.

Just My Luck

Well, it's been a little while. I wish I could say it was because I was lazy, but it's actually the opposite - I've been working my ass off for work. It's been a crazy week, I went on my first real first date (ie, you haven't known the person for years and it was an actual 'get to know you' kind of thing). Too say I was nervous would be putting it mildly. I had the classic girl freak out about what to wear. Nothing calms you down quite like your mother and her golfing buddies suggesting you wear fishnets, stilettos and pasties. First, how the hell do you even put on fishnets? Don't they get stuck on your toes trying to pull them on? And stilettos... shit I trip over my feet when there's nothing on them, let alone heels of death. And pasties.... are just strange. Needless to say, it was a fun, good, albeit awkward time. I'm apparently a very awkward person.

Anyway, today has just been one of those days. Actually, I have those days all the time, so it's really just one of those lives. I got the results of my EEG back, I apparently have an earthquake in my head. There's an epicenter in the middle that is building tension and creating seizures when it breaks. I even saw the brainwaves for it. It doesn't have anything to do with the rest of my 'quirks,' so I'm having a rip-roaring good year. My neurologist was wondering why I reacted so well to the news that I will be on anti-seizure medication indefinitely. Really, it's just another thing on the list. Kaci decided I was probably a mass murderer in another life - I'm hoping for Genghis Khan. Or, someone out there has really awesome luck and they need to send me a thank you note. So do it. Now. And maybe a gift card or something. Preferably to a book store.

It's been a rough couple of days, but for some reason, the godforsaken light bulb is what threw me over the edge. More like found the biggest canyon in the world and just shoved me over the edge. So about ten minutes before I have guests coming, not one, but two of the lights in my apartment go out. I only have like five, so this is a big deal for me. Anyway, I finally got the chance to run to the hardware store, which I did earlier today, got a couple bulbs and replaced the lights. As I am putting in the track light that went out, the one next to it starts to flicker.... and then goes out. So as I'm swearing at the light in my kitchen, I nearly fell off the chair... and I realize that in the grand scheme of things, it's a freaking light bulb, I have much bigger problems to worry about. But for some reason, I have no idea why, that's what set me off today. So I hiked my ass back to the hardware store, got yet another $8 light bulb and replaced the damn thing.

So now me, my lumpy head with an earthquake inside and my fully lit apartment are going to bed. Did I mention I replaced three bulbs in an apartment I'll only be in for another three or four weeks? That sort of irks me too.

Borderline

Have you ever had one of those days where nothing seems to be going right? I frequently have them, so it's just standard. If there's a cute guy in the room, it's pretty much guaranteed that I'll make an ass of myself. I'm the girl that falls out of her chair in class while staring. Never on purpose, it just seems that I draw the short straw. These comical shortcomings are just that - comical. If you can't laugh at yourself, how do you expect someone to take you seriously?

I didn't actually mean to get on that tangent, but it seems as though that's a good way to start. I'm having one of those days were I'm on the border of a bad mood. I'm tired, I'm in pain, I have a headache and I really just don't want to do anything. I think it's worse when you can feel your mood tipping. If you wake up in a bad mood, you have the excuse of waking up on the wrong side of the bed (I'm weird, but I've always thought of this as the left side of the bed, because if you woke up on the right side of the bed... well you get the picture, I've already admitted to being terrible at word association games). Unfortunately, my schedule doesn't want to cooperate. It knows no breaks, doesn't care that you have a headache. It doesn't do the dishes when you're too lazy or tired to do them after a long day of work. Jerk. I sometimes wish I had one of those really big Hobart dishwashers that act as a car wash for dishes. That's beside the point. How exactly do you stop from slipping into a bad mood? I'm in pain to the point that I can't stop moving and I've probably freaked out my coworkers with my cubicle yoga moves.

A lot of people just bitch about it and sit on their butt. I'm not going to lie, I do that at times. However, if you can force yourself to do something (like cubicle yoga) without alerting others to your almost bad mood, it will bring you out of it. By the way, never talk to my mother if you're in a borderline bad mood. She's an interesting person, one of those 'well it could always be worse!' types. If you tell her about one thing that is stressing you out, don't worry, she'll think of 50 more to nag you about just in case you forgot. I told my dad once that she should never become a motivational speaker and he said that besides having ADD, she's more of a 'put duct tape on it then rip it off' kind of mother than the 'put a band aid on it and pat your head' kind. Sometimes, I really just need a band aid. A Superman one. Not a littany of the million other things that are being put on hold in favor of the current crisis. That's one thing I've noticed about myself in the last year - things that wouldn't have bothered me before have become daily crises. However, the fabulous thing about a memory problem is that by the next hour or so, you completely forgot what the crisis was about.

Today I'm having trouble keeping my eyes open. This is due to my crazy monster dreams on the sleeping medication. I keep having dreams that someone has snuck into my apartment and is running a finger down my back. It's got me triple-checking my doors like a crazy person. Add to it a dreary day in cubicle land and it's just a bad match for productivity. I would almost be better served picking my nose and staring into space. Although I do feel better complaining for a little while, and let's face it, life could be worse - I could have to deal with this woman on a daily basis: http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/2009/may/24/meme-roth-obesity-nutrition.

Are You Happy with Your Life? Circle Yes or No.

I think one of the most inane questions a doctor's office can ever ask you is "are you happy with your life?" Would I be in the freaking doctor's office if I was? The questionnaire had "yes" or "no" that you could circle. I decided not to circle either, but instead wrote "this is a relative question" along the bottom. Apparently, no one has thought to question the validity of this question (yes, I know, how many more times can I say question?). The nurses and receptionists cackled for five minutes over my answer, but I'm not sure this is a new concept. Is there really someone out there who can honestly check "yes" or "no" when asked if they're totally happy with their life? I would like to meet this person and then check them into the nearest mental hospital because obviously they are delusional. Not that I don't think people can be genuinely satisfied with their lives, but as an overarching theme, life isn't rainbows and butterflies all the time. Why would one of the most popular phrases in English be "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger"? Butterflies don't kill. To the best of my knowledge, as long as you don't find the scary little man at the end of the rainbow, they won't kill you either.

What is the definition of happiness anyway? For me, contentment sometimes means complacency, happiness is but a moment, and trials are just plain bad luck. However, in order to have bad luck you must also have good luck, it's just logical, therefore bad luck will eventually turn around. I've met people for whom happiness is a fat bank account or a nice car or house. Happiness is succeeding in a job or as a parent. Not to be a pessimist, but these are all relative as well. Someone will always have a nicer house or more money (except of course Bill Gates or Warren Buffett). Whether or not you're good at a job or as a parent is pretty subjective.

I think instead you have to hold on to the moments that make you smile. A first kiss, a promotion, a laughing child. Everyday things. Something as simple as someone who loves you telling you so can make your day. The flip side is, you're going to have to deal with that jerk in traffic or a stubbed toe or people you feel are stupid. There's quite a few out there. I have a bad habit of becoming melancholy which is really just forgetting your good moments. For now, the fact that the cable guy asked me if I 'wanna go for a ride' will make me smile for at least a week.

I smell like old people

I finally managed to get a doctor to call me back and I landed at the hospital again today for an EEG. I'm not sure what I expected, but it wasn't to be covered in waxy goo that smells like a stale nursing home. Apparently, once you're all hooked up, people enjoy taking pictures and sending them to relatives. The woman conducting my test kept asking if I wanted a picture. I've been trying to figure out since then what exactly people are thinking when they take a picture of themselves hooked to 30+ electrodes with waxy goo and red oil pencil marks all over their head. I felt like an alien, so I suppose that could be a draw, but I felt absolutely no need to even look at myself in the mirror. Instead, I fell asleep.

The technical term for the test is sleep deprived EEG, so naturally you would think that they expect you to fall asleep during the test. But she kept waking me up! What's up with that? The test lady was the talkative sort, so I quickly found out that I share a birth date with her youngest daughter. I also found out that I have one of the thickest heads of hair that she's seen in a while so of course the wax and papers got stuck in my hair where they stayed until about a half hour ago. Actually, despite 30 minutes of scraping my scalp with a fine toothed comb and using all my hot water, I still have wax in my hair. No more paper though.

But the cherry on the top of the banana split was when she told me that I should never go bald - it would just be a scary sight. Why? Because I have the lumpiest head she's ever seen while doing these tests in her 33 years of experience. Lumpy! Despite everything, despite the fact that I was scared shitless hooked up to a machine analyzing my brain by myself, I had to start laughing. I know I have an extremely lumpy head, I'm clumsy, I run into stuff all the time. I knocked myself out with a fire hydrant once. A fat kid another time. It's a long story.

No offense to any doctors but.....

Despite this week not including any medical surprises, it's been a rather tough week. As my mom says (not always in the most sympathetic tone) "your bad days are getting worse." And it's true, the wild mood swings that first marked a change in my brain chemistry over two years ago have become increasingly more and more annoying to those around me. There is, however, a reason for the insanity this week (a reason, now there's something rare). I can't get a doctor to call me back if my life depended on it.

I've never understood this phenomenon of being at your doctor's beck and call. Are they not the ones that are charged to help you? They're being paid large sums of money to make sure you are well taken care of. Even hypochondriacs have great doctors. But no, instead, nearly every week I have the same problem - I call one of my six? seven? doctors designed to help me out and I don't get a call back. My specialist is the WORST. I understand I'm not high on their priority list, but let's be honest, I at least deserve a call back. If only to say that they don't have time for me, which I would accept and move on. But no, three phone calls later, still no return call. It's a lot like waiting for a phone call from a guy you're not even sure wants to call you back - hopeful and disappointing, but you always manage to come up with the best excuse for them. So this week marks my search for a new specialist which if possible is even more irritating than waiting for the previous one to call.

I hate new doctors. There is no doctor that will treat me here in Oregon, so I'm currently traveling to Seattle to see one, and the next closest is San Francisco. In my mind, I might as well go to the east coast to see someone who actually knows what they're talking about. It's become a more and more viable solution as time wears on - there's even an awesome research center in NY. I wouldn't mind going to NY. After filling out all the paperwork several times over, when people ask your birthday it automatically comes out "08/31/86." And you're quick about it. (This usually saves you from even more waiting room time). But no, new doctors and their eternally perky assistants have no idea what your information is. Because it's so hard to make a damn copy. I should just print up labels with my name, address and birth date on them and stick it on the top of questionnaire. Or tattoo it to my forehead.

Speaking of questionnaire, I've filled out several of those in my day as well. It's always relatively comical how they're set up. I had one that asked me if I still had all four limbs. Is that a problem somewhere in this country? Random limbs just lying around with no body attached? I understand a war zone might have that problem, but Washington State? Really?

(Just to connect this next thought, I should say that I suck at word association games. The first thing that pops into my head is never what is supposed to... I blame my horrible SAT and GRE scores on this quirk of mine.) When I was 13, we moved to a new town. It was a huge deal to me then, but really, it was a grand total of 60 miles. It seemed like a different planet to my 13 year old mind, and I was terrified. However, half of this had to do with Kaci Boyd. She tried to scare me into leaving town by screaming like a loon on the front porch of a neighbor's house. I was pretty sure that the rest of the town was just as crazy. Anyway, the first day of school was my 13th birthday (another tangent, big school days tend to fall on my birthday, kindergarten on five, Dayton on 13 and college on 18) and we had a questionnaire in my social studies class to determine our level of intelligence on the subject. One question that was on there was "Name two countries the US fought in WWII?" What was the general consensus of most of my new 8th grade class? "Germany and Virginia." I had no idea that Virginia had seceded the union. Again.

Random fun filled tangents aside, this week has been a little crazy. I've been doing some more research, but one of the problems with memory issues is that once you finish one paragraph, the previous one is a total mystery. If you like to read, this becomes funny because you have an endless library with just a few options. Trying to research a disease that's trying to suck your blood, not so much. Researching makes me feel slightly better, but honestly, it's endlessly frustrating to know that you get paid every day to find information for people, but you can't find something to help yourself. Most of this is because it's just not out there. There are very few studies on Lyme that have definitive answers and results. I have access to multiple medical journals, but the reports come down to the same thing - doctors are biased about the disease and there's evidence to both support and contradict the current method of treatment that consists of multiple antibiotics and supplements (I'm up to 33 pills a day). This is, however, the only method of sorta maybe kinda treating the disease that might work.

It's a little like covering your eyes with your fingers spread wide during a scary movie. Not that effective, but people pretend that it might work.

Do we really need help breathing?

So I took a breathing class today. I'm not sure I needed to learn how to breathe. It seems a pretty natural thing, just in and out. In. Out. Not too difficult to comprehend. Except that I nearly pass out every time. Apparently, the concept is just too difficult for me to grasp.

I have done a few yoga classes in my wild and crazy search to discover new things. You walk into class, a little self conscious about your lack of clothing and the VERY LARGE mirror in front of you and then you start with a breathing exercise. Expand your chest, feeelll the breath reach your toes.... About this time, I start seeing spots. Again, it's deep breathing. Something you're born knowing how to do. Maybe I just get self conscious and forget how to do it when you really have to think instead of just... well, doing.

It's like when you're in the doctor's office on the bed/bench/medieval torture thingy-mabob. The doctor comes in, leans really close to check your eyes with the light and then uses the coldest stethoscope they can find. Breath in deeply... tick tock tick tock... and here come the spots. My heart always speeds up too, I'm pretty sure every doctor I've seen thinks I have a heart defect until I argue that I don't. On a random side note, I've always wondered where the bed/bench/medieval torture thingy-mabobs end up. Is there a special graveyard for them? Or do they end up in third world countries painted strange bright colors like buses?

Tangent - back to breathing. It's always very relaxing once I get a grip on my consciousness. And then, out of nowhere, comes the most random thought of the day. I'm totally relaxed, so of course I have to start thinking about the nasty old pasta salad I have to clean out of the fridge. Or someone I haven't talked to in weeks, but just HAVE to call in that moment of complete relaxation. Makes total sense, right?

Maybe the class shouldn't be so much on breathing, but more on controlling vagrant, out of control and irrelevant thoughts. Where's that class when you need it? I could teach Distraction 101: The Art of Being Sidetracked and Taking People Down With You.

On Ambien

do you know when you really feel good about life? when your smile makes their day and you get giddy just thinking about them? combine that feeling with free floating craziness and you get my joy at the end of the night with the sleeping pill. Watch out for the crazy green monsters in the closet! They've got slimy claws and big teeth. You may think I'm crazy, and be right, but those monsters scare the shit out of me.

Eric, this one's for you. Just because I"m that kind of crazy and I feel like you need cheering. I know law is your side, but what about white knights to kill the green monsters? Fresh out?

I should apologize here and now to anyone I may insult throughout this blog. I promise to have fun, attempt to be polite, but always honest.

Starting Out

So. This is supposedly cathartic. I guess it could be similar to therapy, but I never really thought about blogging. Sending personal information into space wasn't appealing. It still isn't, but there are multiple things that spurred me to begin this. First of all, my thoughts get jumbled in my head, I hate burdening people with them, but my fingers itch to put my thoughts into words. Second, I can write a mean email when I really get on a rant, but the people who receive them don't really count themselves lucky - just on the receiving end of a crazy person's rant.

I've had a rash of bad luck this last year. And not just the regular bad luck where you step in dog shit, but truly bad luck. I'm such a believer in karma that I'm pretty sure that someone out there has had the best year of their life, or I was an axe murderer in my last life. Anyway, my bad luck actually started years ago. I began to wake up in the middle of the night with knee pains. My parents didn't think I was making it up, they just figured there might be some exaggeration going on. I went through high school with the pain, thinking it was relatively normal and everyone else had it too, I was just this big baby. Going to college, I was sick for about two months without explanation my freshman year. From there, symptoms got progressively worse and more aggressive. Instead of just my knees, my lower back to my ankles became inflamed. Headaches began to get worse and I thought I was going crazy. I jumped in and out of therapy, physical therapy and specialist's offices who all came to the same conclusion - I was just making shit up.

One thing you should know about me is that my sanity lies in my ability to distract myself. I ended college with two majors and close to six minors because I just kept going to class. I'm one of those nerds that really just loves to learn. Anyway, I moved to Portland last June. My symptoms got worse to the point that I couldn't get out of bed and my legs just wouldn't hold my weight, which has never been substantial. I've always understood why some people's mind snaps when pain gets too bad... I've been way to close before. My head would pound to the point that I couldn't stand to be around anyone or do anything. And all you're left to do is sit and ruminate on the pain. I've had broken bones before (a result of being a huge klutz) but I would take a broken bone to the endless pain. I walk everywhere, not because I particularly enjoy not having a license, but a small part of me wonders how much longer I'll be able to do that.

I went in for an MRI last August, which found a small pituitary tumor. After being poked and prodded for three months solid, my doctors came up empty handed on what would actually cause the symptoms I was experiencing. The only progress I made was that they admitted that something was wrong with me - they just didn't know what. I about gave up hope when my mother (god love her) was gossiping about my problems with a coworker and discovered that my symptoms and those of her coworker's daughter's were eeirly alike. Her daughter's recent diagnosis? Lyme Disease. Mom calls and tells me about this and I start to look into it. The list of symptoms sound familiar, but I live on the West Coast of the US, which means that no doctor really knows about Lyme. Despite this, the diagnosis was made. I now get to go to Seattle every month or so just to see a damn doctor.

By Christmas my list was up to late stage Lyme and a tumor that just sits there. Mom and Dad call it Mr. Lumpy. I began the long term (2 year) intense antibiotic treatment in January. Lucky me, it makes me nauseous. So on top of being in pain, having headaches, and extreme fatigue, I now have nausea to contend with. Which, honestly, was another great distraction. Puking has a way of taking your mind off everything else. I figured this would be enough to contend with, but apparently the forces that be thought to throw something else in the mix. Last Wednesday, I 'woke up' on my couch to find I couldn't remember the last hour. I couldn't see straight to save my life and felt like I was a drunken sailor wearing 3-D glasses without the movie. Everything was turning to the left (I wonder if that says something about me). I couldn't hear, and couldn't speak. I don't remember opening my email, but slowly began to realize that I wasn't make any sense. My writing was sort of like a dyslexic third grader who was just learning English. I kept writing that something was wrong with me. I hadn't taken any medication that would have caused it (and I have my fair share of those) so I stumbled to bed and that's the last I remember of Wednesday night. I emerged Thursday feeling completely exhausted, but thinking the whole night before had been a dream. It wasn't until I read that damn email that I realized something had gone very wrong. I spent the majority of my Friday night in the ER (a great place to people watch, FYI) and discovered that I had had a seizure. What scares me is that I was completely alone, and didn't remember it for two days. Could someone have just found me in my apartment?

Life has taken some strange turns lately. I enjoy writing, but hate telling people about this side of me. It's a weakness. I've never blamed anyone for my being ill, not doctors, not parents, not even the damn sixth grade teacher that decided to squish the tick instead of pull it out. It's my weakness, and mine alone. I've never called anyone when I'm having a particularly bad episode and I can't move. I've never told anyone that I lay on the floor and just sob, the pain is so intense. But I've discovered that it eats at you. So, even though I hate asking for help, I'm asking now. I need to be able to share this, to realize that while my body is failing me, it is not something I've done. Logically, I know this. Emotionally... well, it's hard to remember sometimes. I try to keep a positive attitude, and in public, I laugh instead of cry. At home, curled in bed with a bear that's older than me, there's no one to smile for. Just the mirror. And the eyes in the mirror stare back out at me, helpless to mask the pain and fatigue.

I've come face to face with my own mortality lately. I'm not scared of it, just nervous about losing my independence. I hate having to depend on someone else for my own well being, even if it's just my parents. I love them dearly, but the ultimate failure in this fight would be to go home. If treatment doesn't work... well, the bacteria will slowly continue to take over my body. I imagine it as little green monsters attacking my blood cells. The same green monsters that pop out of my closet in the middle of the night after I take a sleeping pill. Maybe this says something - that I see the disease as a living organism that is after me.

Now, I write this not for pity, but to try and cleanse myself of the depression. Talking about it always helps, and I appreciate honest feedback. I hate pity, I don't want it, but I love understanding. Something to know about me is that I love passionately, but enjoy being alone. Not to wallow, just hide. I hate to think of those I love being burdened with my problems. This blog developed out of the helpless feeling after the seizure and an article that headlined MSNBC this morning: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/30725967/. I wouldn't wish this on anybody, but a small part of me knows I'm not alone.

So here I go, this is my story. I hope it doesn't freak you out or make you treat me differently. :)