About a month ago, at a just-in-the-nick-of-time appointment to get my prescriptions refilled, I finally remembered to ask my doc about that weird mole on my upper thigh (nothing to worry about). As he confirmed my pharmacy for the scrip refills, I remembered the other thing I needed to ask him, and cleared my throat.
"So I've been having issues with anxiety," I said. "I've been medicated for it periodically. It doesn't require daily medication like depression, but every once in awhile it gets bad, and it's been bad lately." He nodded, following me; I'd already outlined for him what my last few months have entailed. "Do you think I need to be medicated for it for awhile?"
His shrewd, brisk eyes took me in for a moment. "Do you want to be medicated for it?"
"Well, I don't want to feel like this anymore," I said.
He assessed me again with that sharp face that I never know quite how to read.
"You drink?" he asked.
I just stared at him for a moment while my entire body clamped down on the impulse to howl with laughter and yell DO I? I had finally cut back on my alcohol intake, which, though never more than a couple of glasses at a time, had been worrying me with its frequency; after all, I had reasoned, I can only moan "the election" for so long as a preamble to a glass of wine. This being the only life I get, I had reasoned further, I would like to enjoy a long length of it without cirrhosis of the liver. I watched Dr. S's face, couldn't hear any reprimand in his tone, and, keeping my face neutral, answered,
"Well, I've cut back a lot. But yeah, I like to drink."
"What do you usually do, when you drink?"
"Well--I come home and pour myself a glass of something after work."
"Glass of what?"
"Oh, just about anything; I like it all. Usually it's wine though."
"Red or white?"
"Usually red. Sometimes white in the summer, like now, when it's hot out."
"Relax you?"
"Oh yes," I said fervently.
He smiled, a quick twinkle. "Can you keep it to one?"
"Sure, that's not a problem," I said.
He shrugged. "So do that."
"Uh -- really?" I resisted the impulse to clean out my ears on an assumed mis-hearing.
"Sure."
"Like -- every day?" This was not the medical advice I had been expecting.
"If you keep it to one it's fine."
"I was--" I cast about for a minute, completely unsure of my footing in these uncharted and unprecedented medical waters. "I, uh, was cutting back because I was worried about my liver."
He shrugged again and started organizing the papers on his clipboard. "Frankly anything I could prescribe you for anxiety would be harder on your liver than alcohol. Alcohol is more natural" [I successfully refrained from rolling my eyes] "and your body is used to it. If one glass of wine a day makes you feel calmer, just stick with what works."
"Oh -- well -- okay. A glass of wine a day. I think I can do that." (I mean, I'm gonna HATE it, but if it's for my health, I guess I can drink.)
I practically skipped out to the parking lot. (Meg, upon hearing the story that weekend, wanted to watch me slap a prescription for alcohol onto a bar counter.) I had never thought of taking anti-anxieties as pleasurable. But my doctor-recommended glass of dry red medicine that night carried me off into a land where I did nothing but smile.
Monday, August 07, 2017
Sunday, August 06, 2017
wonder woman
I have two recently acquired scars over my right eye.
Two days after moving into my new apartment within the Detroit city limits, I went with Steph to a movie theater to escape the godsawful murderous heat and celebrate the arrival of the first female superhero protagonist to the big screen. Having heard of the film's largely positive reception, and enjoying a nerdy superhero movie as much as the next person (though not a comic book reader, I love a good story of conflict-ridden heroism, particularly when sprinkled with Marvel's satisfying grasp of the comedic, although for Wonder Woman I'll venture back into DC land, which I haven't done in awhile), and pleased that a woman finally gets to command the limelight, I bought my ticket and my popcorn with enthusiasm.
Taking advantage of the sparse attendance of a weekday matinee, we selected our favorite kind of seat (or maybe it's just mine), two-thirds of the way up and center, and just as the previews started to roll, I nipped down to the restroom for a pre-movie pee: an innocent decision with rather disastrous consequences.
The pee part went smoothly enough. So did the handwashing. It was the architectural design of the restroom in combination with my habitual assessment of my appearance in the mirror on my way out the door that proved problematic. See, the restroom had one of those narrow cement-and-tile barrier walls immediately opposite the door, dividing the entryway from the stalls in the back, presumably to screen users from the view of the hall. The wall was perhaps six inches wide. It abruptly stopped a few feet past the entryway and opened into the center of the restroom. Along the same wall as the doorway stood the mirrors and sinks. Writing about three-dimensional spaces is not my strongest suit, so please enjoy the below crude diagram:
I have a slight attention problem when it comes to my immediate surroundings to begin with; it is not uncommon for me, lost in thought, to misgauge the location of a desk or a doorway, bounce off a solid surface, and sport the evidence of my ongoing struggle with physics and geometry in huge bruises on my legs and upper arms. And my stride is, without any shadow of a doubt, a STRIDE -- powerful, decisive, commanding, confident, with shoulders thrown back, head held high, and a long-legged, ground-eating swiftness born of a lifetime of running late.
And so, dominant left eye focused on the wall-length mirror to my left as I prepared to make my way back to the theater, I was sizing up my reflection and its disheartening revelations regarding the effect of two years without exercise on my physique as I strode powerfully, decisively, commandingly, and confidently headfirst into the barrier wall.
I want to write about this like it was hilarious, because thanks to our primate nature nothing is funnier than someone walking into something, but holy shit it hurt. The tile slammed into my right eye; a shattering crack told me my glasses had snapped in half; I fell to my knees and with my only cogent thought -- my glasses oh my god this is my only pair -- managed to pull my glasses off my face, though my hands were too stunned to hold onto them and they clattered to the floor in front of me where they lay badly bent but not broken. Confused about what had made the cracking sound (I realized later it was my skull), I became aware of a horrible pain in my brow bone and, holding back tears, pressed the heels of my hands gingerly to my forehead. A warm liquid squishing led me to pull my hands away from my face to find them awash in blood.
Forgetting my glasses, I leaped to my feet and staggered to the mirror, where I saw blood sliding down my face from two gouges above my right eye, one glaring darkly red from its deep trench in my eyebrow. As I reached for paper towels to staunch the flow, bright blotches splashed onto the marble-white counter like the opener in Dexter; holding the paper towel to the cuts with one hand, I mopped up the counter with the other. After retrieving my glasses I returned to the mirror in a glaze of pain to stare dumbly at the damage as I pulled the paper towel away. My head felt thick and muddled, but I knew to stay put to stem the bleeding, and I knew to be vaguely grateful that no one was in the bathroom to witness my absurd mishap. I wanted to laugh at myself -- cutting my head open in the women's restroom just before seeing Wonder Woman, honestly -- but it hurt too much and mostly I just felt furious.
"Where were you?" Steph whispered as I slid into my seat five minutes into the movie, holding the paper towel pressed to my eyebrow, and holding my glasses onto my face at the same time. "I thought you got lost."
"I ran into a wall and sliced open my face," I whispered back.
"You--what? You're bleeding?"
"Profusely."
"Jesus."
"Yeah. So what'd I miss?"
She caught me up on the exposition, and I managed to enjoy the film immensely, though I couldn't help wishing I had stopped a mugger or lifted a vending machine off a child or any number of heroic things I could have done to earn a lacerated, swollen and rapidly blackening eye before seeing goddamn Wonder Woman save the world onscreen, instead of knocking myself out in a highly dramatic homage to a deeply socially instilled concern for public appearance that constitutes one hallmark of the experience of womanhood.
I did feel a bit grimly badass for watching a gloriously badass woman singlehandedly end a god and a world war while wounded in my own (admittedly much smaller and stupider) battle with the patriarchy, at least.
And I also felt a bit grimly badass sporting my first shiner two days after moving into actual Detroit, and then I felt all full of subterfuge when I bought a palette of pink and purple eyeshadow and managed to match my eyes on both sides so the bruising didn't even show when I returned to work two days later (and then I felt angry thinking how many women have mastered that precise skill because of human harm rather than ridiculous run-ins with bathroom walls).
And now I have two new scars above my right eye, physical markers of the first female superhero movie on the American cinema in the 21st century. Woman's experience, carved right into my skin. So that's something too, I guess.
Two days after moving into my new apartment within the Detroit city limits, I went with Steph to a movie theater to escape the godsawful murderous heat and celebrate the arrival of the first female superhero protagonist to the big screen. Having heard of the film's largely positive reception, and enjoying a nerdy superhero movie as much as the next person (though not a comic book reader, I love a good story of conflict-ridden heroism, particularly when sprinkled with Marvel's satisfying grasp of the comedic, although for Wonder Woman I'll venture back into DC land, which I haven't done in awhile), and pleased that a woman finally gets to command the limelight, I bought my ticket and my popcorn with enthusiasm.
Taking advantage of the sparse attendance of a weekday matinee, we selected our favorite kind of seat (or maybe it's just mine), two-thirds of the way up and center, and just as the previews started to roll, I nipped down to the restroom for a pre-movie pee: an innocent decision with rather disastrous consequences.
The pee part went smoothly enough. So did the handwashing. It was the architectural design of the restroom in combination with my habitual assessment of my appearance in the mirror on my way out the door that proved problematic. See, the restroom had one of those narrow cement-and-tile barrier walls immediately opposite the door, dividing the entryway from the stalls in the back, presumably to screen users from the view of the hall. The wall was perhaps six inches wide. It abruptly stopped a few feet past the entryway and opened into the center of the restroom. Along the same wall as the doorway stood the mirrors and sinks. Writing about three-dimensional spaces is not my strongest suit, so please enjoy the below crude diagram:
 |
| An unexpectedly murderous layout. |
I have a slight attention problem when it comes to my immediate surroundings to begin with; it is not uncommon for me, lost in thought, to misgauge the location of a desk or a doorway, bounce off a solid surface, and sport the evidence of my ongoing struggle with physics and geometry in huge bruises on my legs and upper arms. And my stride is, without any shadow of a doubt, a STRIDE -- powerful, decisive, commanding, confident, with shoulders thrown back, head held high, and a long-legged, ground-eating swiftness born of a lifetime of running late.
And so, dominant left eye focused on the wall-length mirror to my left as I prepared to make my way back to the theater, I was sizing up my reflection and its disheartening revelations regarding the effect of two years without exercise on my physique as I strode powerfully, decisively, commandingly, and confidently headfirst into the barrier wall.
I want to write about this like it was hilarious, because thanks to our primate nature nothing is funnier than someone walking into something, but holy shit it hurt. The tile slammed into my right eye; a shattering crack told me my glasses had snapped in half; I fell to my knees and with my only cogent thought -- my glasses oh my god this is my only pair -- managed to pull my glasses off my face, though my hands were too stunned to hold onto them and they clattered to the floor in front of me where they lay badly bent but not broken. Confused about what had made the cracking sound (I realized later it was my skull), I became aware of a horrible pain in my brow bone and, holding back tears, pressed the heels of my hands gingerly to my forehead. A warm liquid squishing led me to pull my hands away from my face to find them awash in blood.
Forgetting my glasses, I leaped to my feet and staggered to the mirror, where I saw blood sliding down my face from two gouges above my right eye, one glaring darkly red from its deep trench in my eyebrow. As I reached for paper towels to staunch the flow, bright blotches splashed onto the marble-white counter like the opener in Dexter; holding the paper towel to the cuts with one hand, I mopped up the counter with the other. After retrieving my glasses I returned to the mirror in a glaze of pain to stare dumbly at the damage as I pulled the paper towel away. My head felt thick and muddled, but I knew to stay put to stem the bleeding, and I knew to be vaguely grateful that no one was in the bathroom to witness my absurd mishap. I wanted to laugh at myself -- cutting my head open in the women's restroom just before seeing Wonder Woman, honestly -- but it hurt too much and mostly I just felt furious.
"Where were you?" Steph whispered as I slid into my seat five minutes into the movie, holding the paper towel pressed to my eyebrow, and holding my glasses onto my face at the same time. "I thought you got lost."
"I ran into a wall and sliced open my face," I whispered back.
"You--what? You're bleeding?"
"Profusely."
"Jesus."
"Yeah. So what'd I miss?"
She caught me up on the exposition, and I managed to enjoy the film immensely, though I couldn't help wishing I had stopped a mugger or lifted a vending machine off a child or any number of heroic things I could have done to earn a lacerated, swollen and rapidly blackening eye before seeing goddamn Wonder Woman save the world onscreen, instead of knocking myself out in a highly dramatic homage to a deeply socially instilled concern for public appearance that constitutes one hallmark of the experience of womanhood.
I did feel a bit grimly badass for watching a gloriously badass woman singlehandedly end a god and a world war while wounded in my own (admittedly much smaller and stupider) battle with the patriarchy, at least.
And I also felt a bit grimly badass sporting my first shiner two days after moving into actual Detroit, and then I felt all full of subterfuge when I bought a palette of pink and purple eyeshadow and managed to match my eyes on both sides so the bruising didn't even show when I returned to work two days later (and then I felt angry thinking how many women have mastered that precise skill because of human harm rather than ridiculous run-ins with bathroom walls).
And now I have two new scars above my right eye, physical markers of the first female superhero movie on the American cinema in the 21st century. Woman's experience, carved right into my skin. So that's something too, I guess.
Climb Ev'ry Mountain (now it's stuck in your head, sorrynotsorry)
Holy shit it is so good to be home.
Of course, "home" right now, to the stranger's eye, would translate roughly to "a senseless conglomeration of oddly assorted piles of way too much crap" but after a week and a half of hospital and hotel rooms and guest beds it is close enough to heaven to sit in peace in a living space that I can call solely mine that it almost makes me remember faith with fondness. (Lol but not really.) Currently Simon is curled up on the new, beautiful alpaca blanket that my work friend Maggie brought me back from her trip to see her daughter in Ecuador: a lightweight, beautifully striped creation which shielded him from viewing the scary world outside the car window yesterday and now lies heaped on the couch; I'm sitting out on the balcony for the fourth straight hour marveling at how much quieter my city neighborhood is than my parents' small-town block off Main Street.
Settling into my new home will take, almost certainly, the remainder of the year. With three years' exhaustion sagging from my bones and dragging at the corners of my consciousness, a whirlwind of purposeful activity will elude my capability for some time. But I don't mind, much; I keep reminding myself that I have no deadline, and as busy as my job keeps me during the week, I need to focus primarily on catching up on the rest that I have missed while surfing the constant upheaval.
Not that I'm complaining; the last three years have held their share of challenges, but I look at it as a growth spurt. When I recall my physical growth spurt back in fourth grade, at a literal bomb shelter of a school long since demolished and replaced with a park, I mostly remember intensive discomfort -- particularly in my knees, which ached so badly that they felt hot to the touch and kept me awake at nights. The last three years have had their share of discomfort and aches and sleeplessness, but as I survey my current position in life, I feel just as I did when my knees finally stopped hurting: taller, stronger, and proud. Hell yes, this was worth it. In three years I have nearly doubled my income, found a career and begun to climb ladders with alarming rapidity, and adopted a city that I absolutely love. I have shed dissatisfying boyfriends (and hopefully, at this point, the inclination toward them, because I am tired of wasting my time and emotional capital on fruitless, doomed, and frankly stupid endeavors). I have made a place for myself into which I can now settle, and begin to build my own little empire.
Man, it's good to be here. Poised on the brink of something spectacular, and excited for the experience. For the whole of my time on this planet, I have been waiting for life to start; and nine years ago I realized that I would have to be the progenitor, and it's taken me this long to make the journey to the mountain I am finally equipped to climb. I'm not sure what's at the top, but I'm going to work hard and have a whole lot of fun finding out, and the path, for the time being, is challenging, but clear.
It's good to be here, and it's good to be now.
Friday, August 04, 2017
oh my god fuck this year
Maybe this is a bad time to start blogging again hahaha. I'd love to have something optimistic and cheery to present to the world, but oh my fuck I am done with life right now.
Let's see. So far in 2017, the country has gone to abrupt and sickening hell and every day the news headlines read like the writers for The Onion are running out of ideas and diving headlong into the absurd; I entered and exited another disappointing relationship characterized by extreme stress and emotional chaos; my mother was diagnosed with, treated, and is currently recovering from surgery for ovarian cancer; I moved out of one apartment and into another, with attendant unnecessary drama; and I received a promotion at work which while totally YAY THIS IS AWESOME also means more upheaval and adjustments and additional responsibilities without leaving any of my old responsibilities behind and the old responsibilities were highly hectic to begin with.
And each one of those things comes with its own pageant of additional stress factors.
I am tired.
Everything is moving in a definite good direction; by the end of this year I will have lined up nearly all my life circumstances to exactly where I want them. I just have to survive long enough to get there.
No part of my life has remained untouched and free from change this year. Settling into the new things will take awhile. Change is always stressful. And I didn't have a lot of emotional capital to spare going into any of this, because of how the last three years have gone.
Fortunately, as far as I can see ahead, there is no further urgent thing coming down the pipeline; it's all just a matter of adapting to the latest changes, and there's no huge rush on any of that. So I can settle in, get a shit ton of rest, and try to recover and reestablish myself in a way I haven't been able to do since 2013. And that part is exciting - or would be, if I had any capacity to feel excited right now.
It'll probably take the better part of the remainder of the year to rest up. But that's okay. It is nice at least to finally have some time on my side.
Let's see. So far in 2017, the country has gone to abrupt and sickening hell and every day the news headlines read like the writers for The Onion are running out of ideas and diving headlong into the absurd; I entered and exited another disappointing relationship characterized by extreme stress and emotional chaos; my mother was diagnosed with, treated, and is currently recovering from surgery for ovarian cancer; I moved out of one apartment and into another, with attendant unnecessary drama; and I received a promotion at work which while totally YAY THIS IS AWESOME also means more upheaval and adjustments and additional responsibilities without leaving any of my old responsibilities behind and the old responsibilities were highly hectic to begin with.
And each one of those things comes with its own pageant of additional stress factors.
I am tired.
Everything is moving in a definite good direction; by the end of this year I will have lined up nearly all my life circumstances to exactly where I want them. I just have to survive long enough to get there.
No part of my life has remained untouched and free from change this year. Settling into the new things will take awhile. Change is always stressful. And I didn't have a lot of emotional capital to spare going into any of this, because of how the last three years have gone.
Fortunately, as far as I can see ahead, there is no further urgent thing coming down the pipeline; it's all just a matter of adapting to the latest changes, and there's no huge rush on any of that. So I can settle in, get a shit ton of rest, and try to recover and reestablish myself in a way I haven't been able to do since 2013. And that part is exciting - or would be, if I had any capacity to feel excited right now.
It'll probably take the better part of the remainder of the year to rest up. But that's okay. It is nice at least to finally have some time on my side.
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