Posts Tagged ‘rally’

Tender

April 11, 2018

A belly full of fire.

A throat torn asunder.

A back knotted in pain.

All my emotions so close to the surface I laugh exuberantly and then tear up and cry.

I’m so tender and tired and worn out from the reflux.

I’m tired of writing about it, but not as tired as I am of experiencing it.

This constant pain and soft torture.

I called the GI’s office today that I was referred to and to my dismay I was told to have my doctor fax over my referral and then the doctor would get back to me in 24 hours.

I told the woman on the phone that my doctor did that yesterday and the person at her office I had spoken to had told me I would be contacted today.

And I wasn’t.

Not by three p.m. so I called.

Fortunately this woman who I spoke with got all my information down and promised I would hear back within the next 24 hours.

I am so ready to be seen, fixed, cured, helped.

Whatever it takes.

Until that time though I am trying to be gentle with myself.

I find that I am ok then something slight will set me off emotionally, and I don’t have as much patience with the kids and I want to check out and not be present.

I have not allowed myself to wander off too much internally and I have stayed pretty present and helpful for the mom and the family.

I’m getting by chewing gum and taking shots of vinegar.

I took one about an hour ago and it’s not working, but I did it anyway.

I took the new reflux medicine the new doctor prescribed a second time today and it’s not working either, but I did it anyway.

I don’t want to write my blog, but I’m doing it anyway.

I had both my clients cancel tonight and I thought I was going to go do the deal but I got so overwhelmed looking for parking I just cut and ran.

I drove home, parked, got to my house, got the mail, realized I had forgotten I had groceries in the boot until I was inside, went back, out, retrieved my groceries, came back home, and put them on the counter.

I was on a phone call and trying to be emotionally even keeled, but that wasn’t working either.

The sun had not set yet and I sat down on the chaise by the back door and soaked up some of the setting rays, got warm and cried soft slow wet tears talking to my friend.

I’m running a fever again.

I got off the phone put away the groceries, heated up some dinner.

I got a text from my person asking me where I was, was I going to the 7:15p.m.?

That had been my original plan, but I told him that I had come home, was feeling really sick, was eating dinner and crying and was trying to rally to go back out and hit an 8p.m. in the neighborhood.

Which.

Well.

I did not do.

I did not rally much.

I rallied enough to wash my dinner dishes.

And to open this page and write.

The writing helps, but it doesn’t stop the pain, it just gives me something to focus on for a while until I notice it again.

I’m being eaten from the inside out.

I feel like I’m aging.

I feel like I’m getting more gray hairs and definitely more wrinkles.

I feel old and depleted and tired and rotten inside.

What is wrong with me?

Oh God.

And now I just sound pitiful.

I hate feeling powerless and this is definitely me being powerless.

I just have to keep pushing through until I can be seen by the specialist and I will take whatever I can get as soon as I can get it.

He calls and says come in today I will leave work, cancel clients, and fucking go.

He says endoscopy tomorrow, I’ll fast the night away and cancel it all.

I have just got to get some relief.

“I could just kill myself,” a little voice said in my head as I got off the phone with my friend.

Great.

Suicide because of reflux.

What a pitiful way to go.

“How’d she die?”

Heartburn.

Nothing romantic there.

No.

I’m not going to kill myself because of this, but I am going to go to bed early tonight and I’m going to harass the hell out of doctor’s office to make an appointment.

I was asked to come in early to work tomorrow, so an early bed time isn’t a bad thing.

I’ll just wrap up some emails and call it a day.

Drink some hot tea and curl up in my bed.

Tuck my pink stuffy bunny under my arm.

And prop my pillows up high.

I’ve become a five-year old in my illness.

And I don’t fucking care.

Not one fucking bit.

Ok.

Maybe not a five-year old.

But

A seven-year old with a profanity problem.

Or rather.

A forty-five yearl old who just really needs to be babied for awhile.

Sigh.

 

 

Whistling in the Dark

February 1, 2015

That was the thought I had when I suddenly food myself crying into a bowl of beans.

Nice beans, mind you.

Slow cooked pinto beans with onions and garlic and chicken breast, carrots, turmeric, sweet corn, simmered down tender and paired with some organic brown rice and the smallest, most perfect Haas avocado I have ever seen.

Adorable.

So cute I almost could not cut it up to eat it.

But I did.

And then I watered it with my tears.

I saw my ex today on his motorcycle.

In fact, I did something rather inane, or so I thought as soon as I did it, I waved in traffic from my scooter.

I then blushed with mortification as I killed my scooter.

Then flooded my scooter.

Then killed it again.

Yeah.

That was me, on the side of the turn by Great Highway and the gas station, praying and trying to breathe and not sprain an ankle getting the thing started again whilst all the traffic in the Western world streamed by after a day of sunshine, high 60s temperatures, and beach action.

No fog today, despite the horns blaring melancholic last night around midnight.

“What are you doing up?”  The message, almost indignant, read, this morning when I checked my phone.

I was up late last night, slight insomnia, trolling the internet for hotels and bed and breakfast’s and AirBnb’s and the like for Atlanta, then I just had a hard time going to sleep.

Social fucking media time stamps.

Yes.

I was up late.

I heard those fog horns, but they were not to be heard today, today was all about that California sunshine.

And the joy I had taken in riding my scooter earlier today up to Tart to Tart to make my usual Saturday appointment to get right with God and do some reading about humility, oh, humility, we meet again; all that joy was gone.

I was miserable.

On the side of the road with two half gallons of unsweetened vanilla almond milk and bottle fizzy water in my messenger bag, trying to start my scooter and just get home.

I didn’t realize I was sad.

I didn’t realize that I was missing my ex-boyfriend.

Then I did.

And cue waterworks, adding that finishing touch of salt to my meal.

Tears are so tasty with avocado.

Ugh.

I knew the sad had to come out and I was a little taken aback, I really thought I was done with the grieving of the relationship and ready to move the fuck on.

MOVING ON.

It’s a huge bulletin board in my brain.

Let’s go, lady.

MOVE ON.

As though there isn’t merit in acknowledging that for a little while I had a passionate relationship with someone who meant something to me.

Yeah.

We needed to break up.

That was the right thing to do, the relationship was not working for either one of us, but to deny the experiences that did work is not fair either.

There was something there and it was delirious fun for a little while.

Then it wasn’t.

Then it was uncomfortable.

Then it was out right painful.

And, well, my pain tolerance is nowhere near as high as it used to be.

Anyway, I belabor the point, which is that I am allowed to have sadness for the passing relationship.

Thankfully I also have some smarts and intuition that I have worked hard on developing and I knew, knew deep in my heart and body, that I was done with the scooter for the day.  I was not going to ride her up to Noe Valley for my evening commitment.

Do not pass go.

Do not collect $200.

Do not ride up and over 17th street and kill yourself to make a point.

Get on the MUNI and let yourself be carried where you need to go.

This also allowed me time to check in with a dear friend and just let it out and then see how she was doing and commiserate on the wonkiness that happens with our emotions and brains and thank God for girl friends and perspective.

The actual ride on MUNI was quick and the transfers easy, and I was to my destination much faster, and quite safer, than if I had taken my scooter and did something silly.

The fact was I was not in a place to be riding around the city at night with my heart on my sleeve.

That’s a way for me to really cause some havoc.

When emotional do not operate moving machinery.

Especially not touchy, vintage, 50 year old scooters that need a little babying.

“Do you still have your Vespa?” A dear friend asked me last night.

“I do!”

We talked and it turns out he just got a vintage, BRG (British Racing Green) 150, 2 stroke Stella.

We’re going out next Sunday.

And he’s going to help me adjust the idle so that it’s not so jumpy and I feel like I just need a little someone by my side for a few minutes and I will work out all the kinks.

And if the kinks don’t get worked out, well, I sell her, I’m not super mechanically inclined and I love how sweet she is and how sexy and cute, but I also don’t want to be constantly killing it and stalling out in traffic.

Tonight I am just going to give myself gentle props for having the soundness of mind to know that it wasn’t safe to ride it out at night and that I don’t have to be a hero about it.

I had some feelings.

They reminded me of what a great experience I had dating my ex, even when it went south it was a fantastic learning curve for me.

I learned so much about myself, and I learned that I get to continue to speak up for myself, to be myself, to step further into my personality and really embrace all that is me.

The sweet, the sad, the joyful, the glitter, the me of it all.

With no reservations and with complete faith that I am right exactly where I am supposed to be.

Even when I stall out on the side of the road.

I am still being perfectly held.

Cared for.

Loved.

My scooter always starts up again.

So shall I.


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