Rest in peace, Emily.

The Fat Suit

The biggest hurdle to losing weight when you're overweight is the fact that you can't see the light at the end of the tunnel. All you see is that you're wearing this fat suit, and that you can't imagine being thin again--it's so far away. You don't begin because you can't see success. And days go by with your weight only fluctuating a few pounds in either direction.

Stupid Arguments on a Stupid Day, Part III

I understand a physician's reasonable caution when prescribing opioids. I plan on having an honest conversation with my GP where I tell him that if he doesn't believe that I have significant pain that needs to be treated, that if he thinks I'm exaggerating in any way, just don't fucking prescribe the pills instead of trying to emotionally manipulate me into feeling guilty about being sick. My illness doesn't check in with my doctor every morning, and ask, "Is this okay? Because if not, I can scale it back." My pain doesn't depend on his schedule, his comfortable level with prescribing opioids.

Just don't prescribe the fucking pills, I don't want to listen to you whine about that shit.

Stupid Arguments on a Stupid Day, Part II

Besides the usual family bullshit, my GP called me last week, just before the holiday, and told me on voicemail that he would no longer refill my Norco prescription once every seven days (for ten pills), that he would only continue to fill it if I picked up the prescription every ten days (for ten pills). He said over the phone that this is what we "agreed to."

We did no such thing. He just dictated it down to me, and has refused to be flexible enough to even change the prescription to "one or more" pills per day (which is what the prescription said originally back in February).

Eventually, I had to call him back, even though we have an appointment on Friday. I did so yesterday, already angry, and wanted to tell him to go fuck himself (I probably would have if I had been able to get ahold of him). Instead, fairies intervened, and I was only able to speak to his office help.

On a different topic, the guy a few tables down from me at Starbucks is telling the woman that his problem with relationships is that he sacrifices too much. "I know there are sacrifices that need to be made in any relationship, but I can't lose myself," he continues.

He sounds exactly like some selfish asshole.

Stupid Arguments on a Stupid Day

Of course, yesterday, I was intensely angry (watched a recent Stanford health video which discussed the link between anger and an increase in chronic pain) for reasons of which I'm not sure about. While I was at the park that morning, Beck ran across a street, chasing something, and almost got hit by a car--and would have, had not the driver braked. She most likely would have died.

My grandmother (from my father's side) is visiting, and whenever she comes over, she is frequently talkative, politically conservative, and always agrees with whatever my father says. She idolizes him in a way that I believe is unnatural for a parent to feel about a child. My grandmother from my mother's side, the one who recently died, thought my other grandmother was annoying as shit. Sometimes, despite the woman's genuine sweetness, she irritates me too.

My parents came home yesterday at approximately the same time, and immediately started talking about my father's medications. My mother threw out this conspiracy theory idea that the doctors were prescribing needless medications for my father for financial gain on the part of the doctor. She couldn't understand that the doctor had prescribed him high cholesterol medication when he only had high blood pressure. I commented that they were related.

"He doesn't have high blood pressure," my mother answered.

I then corrected her, recently the American Medical Association decided anything over 130 was high. She just kept arguing with me like I didn't know what I was talking about.

I ended up yelling at her that she shouldn't let her "nonsense" influence Dad's medical decisions. I mean, the man's father did die of a fucking heart attack.

The whole conversation reminded me of my late grandmother's insistence that she didn't need to take any of her medications either, and my other grandmother's insistence that having a persistent cough doesn't mean anything, much less something serious. If you're eighty-five-years-old and you have had a cough for several months, maybe you should see a doctor. But, nope, no one listens to me because I'm fucking out of my mind.

Poetry Contest

My mother explained to me that the poetry contest for the community college was just a minor stepping stone, and that I shouldn't place much emphasis on it nor any much energy.

I guess I just don't see it that way. My Creative Writing Professor praised my latest poem, called: "Paresthesia," even though he never said much in person about my two short stories. I decided that I would enter the poetry contest again in the spring. Who knows? Maybe if I win two years in a row, I can call myself a "poet" without inducing an ironic gag in myself whenever I say it like trying to swallow a bitter Norco pill without water.

"Whoever is There, Come On Through"

“Being depressed is like being in a dream. The suspicion is that everyone you meet is actually depressed, too, only they don’t know it. Or worse. The suspicion is that they’re just aspects of you, manifestations.”

--The New Yorker,  "Whoever is There, Come on Through," by: Colin Barrett

The Lazy River

"We’re submerged, all of us. You, me, the children, our friends, their children, everybody else. Sometimes we get out: for lunch, to read or to tan, never for very long. Then we all climb back into the metaphor. The Lazy River is a circle, it is wet, it has an artificial current. Even if you don’t move you will get somewhere and then return to wherever you started, and if we may speak of the depth of a metaphor, well, then, it is about three feet deep, excepting a brief stretch at which point it rises to six feet four."

--by: Zadie Smith, The New Yorker, "The Lazy River"

An interesting story where the narrator talks about a metaphor like it's a real, tangible item.

Because Metaphors Are Bad, Part II

Of course, you want your friends to be honest with you--what else are friends for? Harry's feedback was not unsolicited. He asked to see the short story, and I responded that I wanted his criticism.

We know walking up to a friend and saying, "You look fat today" is at the least rude, and at the most also cruel, especially if said friend has an eating disorder of some type (although all women suffer from feelings of negative self-image, to varying degrees).

If a friend asks you, "Do I look fat today?" And said friend is overweight, the friend knows he/she is overweight, you don't need to remind him/her, "Yes, you look fat today...by the way, that sweater on you sucks."

This is the rationale as to why I very rarely give negative feedback on writing. Most novice writers (at writers' group and in class) understand that they have room for improvement. Coming down on them hard with lots of criticism doesn't do any good--it just discourages them from wanting to strive and become more advanced. In everyone's writing, there is at least one positive thing to say. If I have a negative comment, I try to frame it in a question, to make it easier to digest. In the end, it's not my job to instruct any writer--that's for the professors and for the editors.

That being said, how can we ever improve if someone doesn't tell us what areas we need to improve in? The vast majority of writing I read, I dislike. Often, I even think that certain articles in the New York Times are lacking, but I'm not sure anyone would care if I wrote to the Editor, and explained that to him. People who are successful in writing, who have fans and a following (no matter how few), well, I probably shouldn't go up to them and say, "By the way, just from me, you suck." Why? Because obviously the writing has an appeal that perhaps I just don't understand or just can't see. Most people think that writing at the New York Times is some of the best in the world. If I think it needs more creativity (I'm thinking primarily of the Modern Love column), well, I simply could be wrong.

In other words, I keep my negative views to myself, for good reason.

Again, I haven't been able to get published in the New York Times, and I don't have fans and/or a following, so why shouldn't my fellow writers comment on my work? I don't have a good answer to that. All I know is that when you're fat, you don't need your friends to tell you you're fat even if you ask, "How do I look today?"

Hmmm...perfect, babe.

The Idea of Someone

"From your college partner, you will extract a love for the arts. The Idea of Someone will recite poetry to you, but not the saccharine, rhyming kind, the prose type that’s real. And, in the comfort of your double bed, in a glittering moment of intimacy, you will recite poems back to them, from memory. Finally, someone will understand you the way only an imaginary person can."

--The Idea of Someone, The New Yorker, by: Olivia de Recat

Because Metaphors Are Bad

Most writers have their own demons when it comes to how they view their woeful, troubled writing. Virgil was seriously disappointed in the Aeneid and never wanted it published, even though it would become to be recognized as one of the greatest works of Western literature. Vonnegut would never have been published if it wasn't for his wife constantly pushing him forward and encouraging him. Most of us wish that we had someone who believed in us, our talent, no matter what. I guess you could say that that person for me was Harry, because my parents do not think much of my writing, and while I have recently receive much encouragement from my professors, that was not always the case in the past. Harry historically has always provided positive feedback and much encouragement, and seemed to genuinely like my writing. Back in 2007, sure, I received upwards of 500 hits per day on my Panther in Pumps blog with people sending me emails all the time, praising the blog and perhaps even wanting to work with me on some writing project--but that was ten years ago. Today, few people access this blog, and I assume that most of the people are people who have been following me for a long time like Amara and Rosa, etc, and that I haven't recently received any new readers.

So, when Harry sent me an email consisting of primarily negative feedback on a short story that I was actually proud of, you could say I was shocked and hurt. We're not supposed to take negative feedback personally, after all, there should be a separation between author and work, but no one who writes really believes that bullshit. When he sent the email on December 11, I still haven't been able to digest everything it says, and be okay with it. Theoretically, I should have faith in my own writing, and outside criticism shouldn't influence that. But that's really not the case.

"What you have to do with your writing in other forms is to reach that same level, which you haven't done yet...You're competing with a whole world of polished and published writers, who have all had unhappy childhoods of one kind or another."

The short story called "Because of You" consisted mostly of quick peeks into my troubled childhood. I understand that yes, some people have had more interesting and drama-filled upbringings, but I'm not writing about them, I'm writing about me. I'm sorry if you find it boring, but I have a feeling that I will (again) write about the same subjects if I ever complete my memoir. It was a bit like saying, "Naw, your childhood trauma doesn't count because other people have had it so much worse." I could lie, and say that my grandmother's boyfriend put his hands down my eight-year-old pants, but that would be unethical, wouldn't it?

My mother gives me the same advice that I just need more time in order to be good enough to publish. Honestly, between me and the five people who read this blog, I don't believe that's true. I've been writing since I was old enough to write and old enough to understand how writing was therapy, and many, many famous authors did their best work in their twenties. This is not to say that I can't improve with hard work, all of us can, but if I'm not ready now when in the fuck will I ever be?

"You can't rely indefinitely on the uniqueness or shock value of your experience..."

I'm not relying on uniqueness, I'm relying on connecting with other people through common experience, so that they can relate to the story and draw from it insight into their own emotions. But I get it, right, I can't shock people because every single event that I mean to be shocking has already been done before and with a better author, and therefore I can't compete. What is especially hurtful about this criticism is the idea that I have nothing more to provide to readers but shock. Surely, someday, there would be something profound in writing that is rather ordinary.

And, of course, I myself am not unique. Got it.

"We're left in the dark about basic things. What are your parents fighting about?"

Well, for one thing, I don't fucking remember what they were fighting about, therefore because it is a piece of nonfiction, I just couldn't make up some reason, and then I thought, does it really fucking matter what they were fighting about all those years? I don't think so.

"What did they argue about with your best friend's parents?"

Again, don't remember, and why should there be a reason when it's petty to split up two kids who have been best friends since birth just because you have a disagreement with the other parents? The reason isn't important.

"Instead, you devote a lot of your seven pages to extended metaphors...not much concrete detail."

Because metaphors are bad?

"Take it as your goal to make your readers feel that way too--completely hynotized, carried along with the story--even if you have to rewrite the same paragraph a dozen or a hundred times."

I understand that this is probably good advice--working the page until perfection, but I don't see myself ever rewriting a paragraph a hundred times, not even a dozen times because that's like grilling a nice filet mignon until it's shoe leather.

Harry also suggested that I find a contemporary writer, and emulate him or her. According to the New York Times Sunday Edition, Nora Roberts is number one on the bestsellers' list. I don't understand Roberts commercial appeal, and I certainly don't agree that she is great writer, someone to imitate. There are great writers out there who are currently working (Cormac is at the top of that list for me), but I don't want to be a contemporary writer. I want to write a classic (obviously an ambitious goal for someone who doesn't write well enough to be published outside of a school-wide poetry contest).

In the end, we're supposed to take negative feedback, and keep on truckin' anyway, sending out submissions, taking rejection letters and taping them to our wall, watching as they quickly turn into wallpaper covering our entire bedroom--writing for the sake of writing no matter who reads it. For the art.

Maybe the short story "Because of You" sucked. My creative writing professor only gave it a 90/100, and had a similar complaint as Harry did, that the piece was covering too much ground too quickly.

I will take that into consideration.

Grateful for Poetry

"I suspect every poet understands intuitively that writing poems is a kind of theft in its essence and sometimes in the actual circumstances of its production. I’m stealing time to finish my next book from activities that might benefit me or my family or my students. Writing poetry is a form of confiscation, its returns always speculative. Usually its returns are paid to others, when the author is long dead."

--The Poetry I was Grateful For in 2017, The New Yorker

The Fibromyalgia Diagnosis

On Friday, December 15th, I drove to Los Angeles, and I was seen by a UCLA rheumatologist. After spending more than an hour with me, he told me frankly that I had fibromyalgia. He recommended that I be seen at Stanford Pain Management Clinic (I already have contacted them, months ago, and am currently waiting for an appointment). If you are at all curious about the disease and how Stanford treats it, you can watch this video, featuring Dr. Sean Mackey, MD, Ph.D. himself as he is the director of the clinic. The lecture contains information about fibromyalgia specifically, but also contains information about how to treat chronic pain in general. The only downside of the lecture is that it was filmed eight years ago, a lifetime in modern medicine. The information that Dr. Mackey shares is very similar to what I heard from the Rheumatologist from UCLA, that fibromyalgia is primarily a central sensitization phenomenon, and perhaps not even a muscle tissue or ligament disease as was originally thought. The reason why Stanford doctors believe that fibromyalgia is a central nervous system disease is because there are other symptoms that occur like sleep disturbances and cognitive difficulties.

Unfortunately for me, bad planning as it was, I ran completely out of my Seroquel, and was unable to take my usual dose at night on Monday. I thought that evening that I would be fine as I have slept soundly since being put on the medication. That night, I hardly slept at all, and only got about five hours fitfully. It was a reminder of all the good Seroquel does despite the weight gain. I've been recovering ever since.

I keep telling myself to quit acting like a child, and read the LSU Professor's email--and then I tell myself that I don't want to get all pissed off--all over again.

"Cat Person" from the New Yorker

This short story has been receiving quite a bit of publicity. It's called "Cat Person."

The Case for Not Being Born

People, in short, say that life is good. Benatar believes that they are mistaken. “The quality of human life is, contrary to what many people think, actually quite appalling,” he writes, in “The Human Predicament.” He provides an escalating list of woes, designed to prove that even the lives of happy people are worse than they think. We’re almost always hungry or thirsty, he writes; when we’re not, we must go to the bathroom. We often experience “thermal discomfort”—we are too hot or too cold—or are tired and unable to nap. We suffer from itches, allergies, and colds, menstrual pains or hot flashes. Life is a procession of “frustrations and irritations”—waiting in traffic, standing in line, filling out forms. Forced to work, we often find our jobs exhausting; even “those who enjoy their work may have professional aspirations that remain unfulfilled.” Many lonely people remain single, while those who marry fight and divorce. “People want to be, look, and feel younger, and yet they age relentlessly”...

--The Case for Not Being Born, by Joshua Rothman, The New Yorker

Don't Get Any Pretty Ideas, Part II

When I told my World Literature class what my mother said, everyone burst out laughing. The professor looked a little horrified.

Don't Get Any Pretty Ideas

I was in the local ER because my left hand was tingling, and I (along with my GP) was concerned that I was having a stroke. Instead, I got diagnosed with carpal tunnel syndrome. My mother was next to the bed the whole time. We were discussing my World Literature course, one of which I struggle with constantly.

My mother says to me, "You're not as good of a writer as you think you are. I mean, you're not Edgar Allan Poe...I'm not saying you couldn't get there, but..."

"When I Dream, I'm Doing You All Night"

--Buckcherry

"You're crazy, but I like the way you fuck me."

I have been writing. I went through a paper journal in about ten days. I wrote a couple verses of poetry, but most of it was just about my life and my thoughts. So much negative shit comes out when I'm writing just for myself.

First, I suppose, is the good news. I scored a 100% on my History 207A midterm. I had class high score on my POLS 202 midterm (I only made a 90%, but I guess the rest of the class sucks). For my Engl 245A midterm, which is European Literature (we are just studying epic poems), I scored a 98% on my in-class essays (we had two: I scored 99% on one, and then a 95% on the second, I guess he felt like giving my final grade a little boost). For my Creative Writing short story, the one on my Grandma, I scored a 90%, which I figured was awesome considering he grades the toughest out of all the community college English professors who I've encountered.

On the day I spread my grandmother's ashes (My Uncle B. had her remains, and he asked his brother, the eldest, to spread them. Uncle L. declined, and everyone just kind of stared at everyone else, so I volunteered to do it myself), I had a minor breakdown. My mother was sick with dizziness and nausea. I started crying and yelling that she wouldn't go to the doctor just like Grandma even though I told her to. I crumbled on the ground in the parking lot of a small market, where everyone was waiting for my Uncle B. to show up, and I started sobbing hysterically. My parents kept telling me to get back in the truck, but I just grabbed my wallet and started walking down the road, crying, on my way to a bar. My mother finally caught up to me, and held my hand as we walked back to the truck. I started crying again as I put Grandma's ashes in the creek up in the mountains, just like she asked of me, and saying, "Is this all a life ends up as?" My Uncle B. kept telling me that Grandma was in a better place, but I'm not sure I believe that. I'm not sure he believes that either.

Mom and Dad finally put down PeeWee yesterday. I wasn't particularly attached to the dog, but I walked into the den when I came home from school yesterday, and surprised myself by how much I missed her wandering around brainlessly. I was a proponent to having her euthanized very early on because she would get hysterical and spin in little circles. Valium, prescribed by the vet, didn't seem to do her much good. She was constantly pissing and shitting on herself, and all over the den. By the end, she was almost completely isolated, save for a few minutes that my parents picked her up and moved her in and out of the house. Even if she was able to be around the other dogs, and us, I know she wouldn't interact. She didn't seem to recognize anyone. Her happiest moments were when she was sleeping, and her little legs would kick, and she would bark and growl. I often thought that she was out in some meadow chasing rabbits or maybe even a small deer. I know the ability to sleep has gotten me through many a' days of depression.

The LSU Professor and I have gotten into a terrible fight. I have doubts as to whether or not we'll be able to survive it. He is currently in Australia, although he will be home by Thanksgiving. He kept sending me emails right after my grandmother died, and honestly, I didn't feel like talking to him about what was going on with my life. Finally, as opposed to simply ignoring him, I sent him an email saying, "I just don't have anything to say. Love, [Jae]." For whatever reason, he took that very personal, and sent back an email saying that he thought we should disconnect from Facebook. Shortly after receiving the email, I checked Facebook, and sure enough, he de-friended me. That would make sense if we were arguing embarrassingly in front of an social media audience, but our only interaction on there is very sporadic, maybe giving a "like" or leaving a short comment. Needless to say, it pissed me off. I am technically a millennial, and de-friending someone on Facebook is a major move. I have quite a few of people who I would like to de-friend because they have these extreme conservative views (I'm thinking of a couple of people right now), but I don't because it would hurt their feelings needlessly. I felt like the LSU Professor did this specifically as retaliation, and to hurt me (what other purpose would it serve?). So, I wrote him an email, telling him how I felt, and then I said at the end that even if he replied, I wouldn't read it. He did reply, and guess what? I haven't read it. I also haven't deleted it, thinking that someday when I'm less angry, I will read it and try to mend things.

For the most part, Morpheus has disappeared. I have known for some time that I'm blocked on his cellphone, that he probably doesn't get my TXT-messages, but I can still leave a voicemail. Recently, for reasons I don't understand, I was either blocked on his email account or he's deleted and changed emails. I keep getting a "domain error" on an account that I've used to speak with him with for years. To be fair, I did block both his cellphone and his email account for a while using the Verizon Wireless website family controls (I have no idea if this has anything to do with him doing the same or if it was just a strange coincidence). After a while, I figured out I could block him on my cellphone, using a feature that just sends his calls to voicemail, and then stores TXT-messages away in a special folder (I assume it is similar to the capabilities of the iPhone). I figured out how to do the same to his email messages, they just go to their own folder instead of coming directly to my inbox. I do know, however, that he is not dead. I did see a couple real estate website with a posting of his house. I don't know if that's because other houses around it are for sale or if his place specifically is (the worth is recorded at 1.15 million). I called him a few days ago, and left a voicemail, saying that I knew he had blocked me on his cellphone, and that I was probably blocked on his email account, and that I thought too that it was best if we both just moved on. The message wasn't angry or sad. I don't remember him doing anything similar to this without at least telling him that he wanted no contact or that he would be away for a while.

I have a bunch of negative thoughts that go along with Morpheus' disappearance, but I will not share them here for the simple fact that repeating them only entrenches them.

My pain is not getting any better, but I have an appointment with a rheumatologist at UCLA to decide if I have fibromyalgia. I'm still waiting to hear back from the Stanford new patient coordinator to schedule an appointment with Dr. Sean Mackey, MD, Ph.D. at Stanford Pain Management Clinic.

By chance, I did manage to run into the English Instructor as he was locking the door of his classroom after his lecture. He even smiled at me (that, honestly, doesn't happen that often). He said that this was his busiest semester ever. A few hours after I saw him, I sent him an email, offering to volunteer to help with his classes (for the price of a letter of recommendation), that I could record grades, check for completion on journal entries, and to correct basic, minor grammar and spelling errors on papers, leaving him more time to write more detailed feedback. He politely declined and then said he would write me a letter of recommendation anyway.

A few days ago, I decided that I would take all of the Morpheus emails, and put them in that special folder. I started from the least recent, and moved forward. Depressing shit. After a while, I just couldn't do it anymore.

Boom: The Problems of Being Poor and Being Ignored

The Pain Managment Clinic was unruly. There were two small waiting rooms, one inside and one outside. They were packed with mostly elderly folks, some in wheelchairs. There were quite a few people filling out new patient packages, which I took as a sign of a high turnover.

Before I ever even saw the doctor, I had to take a piss test.

I had a bad feeling going into this because I had seen the Indian doctor (as in "India") before, sometime during 2008--and I never returned, which is a good indication that I didn't like the man. My mother, along with other people, as they've commented over the years, insist that I simply don't get along well with doctors. There may be some truth to that, but I always clamor that when they treat you like you're stupid, I tend to get upset.

So, a medical assistant takes a quick history of me, the general, typical questions, like where's your pain located, and do you have any other medical illnesses that they should know about (I only admitted to having "anxiety and depression," not wanting to get into my entire psychiatric history).

The doctor comes in, and immediately fusses around with my legs and then asks me to stand up, so he can poke around on my back (which hurt, by the way). He doesn't spend five minutes examining me. "You have some inflammation in your back, and a spasm. Alternate heat and cold. Take over the counter anti-inflammatories, you know, like Tylenol. I can help you by giving you an injection, and then see you in six months."

I know about injections. Veterinarians use them constantly in horses who perform because they quickly alleviate lameness, although the results only last for a few weeks, and ultimately, the corticosteriod injections cause arthritis by damaging the joint they're injected into. So, no, am I going to have an injection? I don't think so. Besides, he's assuming that my pain is caused from the herniated disc, and two doctors already have decided it wasn't likely. "Would you be willing to continue to prescribe Norco?"

"No, with your level of pain, you don't need Norco."

"How would you know what my level of pain is?" I say defensively. I can tell he wasn't prepared for this reaction.

"Because of the results from the MRI's, my examination and I'm a pain management doctor."

I'm immediately thinking every bad thought you can have about someone (short of wishing death or harm). I'm even considering a few racial slurs (when I told my mother this after I returned home, she thought it was funny that her "pacifist liberal" daughter was a racist). "You didn't even examine me for five minutes."

"You don't need the Norco, now, if your GP prescribes you it, that's one thing, but I am going to give him my recommendation."

In other words, fuck you, Jae. I'm sure he feels like he's doing some good, stopping me from becoming a potential drug addict. I mean, fast food kills more people every year than opioids, and my god, does the government do anything to restrict fatty, fried foods and sugary sodas? I can guarantee you that it costs society more to handle the consequences of obesity and an unhealthy diet than it does to put a few thousand people through rehab (if need be). But, alas, who cares about fat people?

So, if Mr. Pain Management Specialist (he doesn't deserve the title of "Dr.") sends my GP a little note, saying that the Norco was unnecessary, that pretty much kills me every getting another opiate, ever, in my whole fucking life.

When it comes to back pain, chronic pain, often you can't see it on an MRI or scan. We haven't developed the technology yet to look at someone and pinpoint exactly where the pain is coming from and why. Someday, probably, but today, and in the near future, pain is a subjective experience. You take two people with the same lumbar spine MRI, and they will have different pain levels (or even one person who has pain, while the other complains of none). Pain is individualized because our brains are unique from person to person (even recently read an article that says the active DNA in each neuron is different). There are, of course, obvious exceptions to this. People with broken bones or cancer. You can see their pain, all lit up like crazy (they now have the ability to see the pain center of the brain in f-MRI's, and the differences between individuals in that). So, how can a doctor look at you for five minutes and determine your level of pain? Well, they can't.

Mr. Pain Management Specialist claimed to have solved a mystery that has taken other doctors months, and they still haven't come up with any answers (doctors like The Neurologist). I mean, isn't that a little arrogant on his part?

The Neurologist's latest idea is that I have fibromyalgia. I know very little about the disorder, just what I've read doing a quick google search, and the stories I've read. But, neverthless, I have almost every symptom, which the exception of the cardinal sign which is joints that when you press on them, they're painful. Besides that, I have it covered. Women with fibromyalgia tend to have painful periods, suffer from sleep disorders, fatigue, anxiety and depression and diffuse pain, spread out all over. What doctors have come up with is that narcotics don't help much. Although, in some cases I read, there was use of opioids anyway. So, I'm going to see yet another doctor to determine if there's anything to this fibromyalgia diagnosis. It's scary, but it fits. Unfortunately for me, all the drugs doctors use to treat this disorder with--I'm already taking.

In the mean time, I'm kind of fucked. I looked up yet another pain management specialist in town, but bouncing from doctor to doctor in search of opioids is seen as a warning sign of abuse or possible addiction. It's called "doctor shopping," and people in the medical profession really frown on it.

Boom: The Problems of Being Poor

I usually make fun of people who do stupid shit like forgetting to check the oil level in their cars, only to have it blow up a few months down the road. I mean, that is stupid, right?

But, anyway, that's what happened. The motor is ruined in my Mazda Tribute, and in all honesty, I only have so much money to replace it with.

I guess that's one lesson learned in life when owning a SUV with more than 250,000 miles.

"Success doesn't change you, but fame does."

--Whitney Houston

I did submit my short story "Rendering" for consideration at the New Yorker (an essay that was largely about the English instructor, and already sent to the New York Times). As my friends at writers' group have already explained, I have a better chance of winning the lottery than having them actually publish it.

The Ugly Things We Never Share, Part IV

"You need to take responsibility for pissing him off," my mother tells me over the phone.

"I am not responsible for how he reacts!"

"I think you're being very judgmental."

I hang up on her.

The Ugly Things We Never Share, Part III

Unless you lived on Mars during your childhood (which, someday, even in my lifetime, may become a reality) or were completely isolated, you know being submerged in fighting and strife early in life affects you greatly and negatively. One the scale of horrible childhoods, mine probably barely matters (my first psychiatrist disagreed with this strongly). So, my parents fought. So, Dad occasionally put a hole in the wall. No one slapped me around, I had enough food to eat, and my parents made sure I got to school every morning.They bought me clothes and horses, and a brand new Camaro for my 16th birthday (which I didn't find to even be that unusual). However, even though psychiatrists have moved away from this model, many have wondered openly what happened during my childhood to cause me to have such severe mental illness. Even the Stanford doctors don't blame it purely on biochemistry or genetics. There might have been a trigger somewhere at some point.

My first psychiatric symptom was anxiety. At a young age, I was obsessed with food-borne illnesses and overwhelmed with a fear of vomiting (which, I found out, wasn't just me--other people deal with that phobia specifically too). I was especially concerned about expiration dates.

Mom comes up to me on Sunday in the kitchen, and asks, "Why don't you put milk in your coffee?"

If there's some in the house, I like to add whipped cream to my coffee. "Because the milk is expired."

She looks in the frig, seeing the milk carton. "Well, that had been frozen."

The expiration date for the milk was over a month ago. "Yes, but no one knows how long it had been frozen or when it was put in the frig."

Over the weekend, my mother comes up to me while I'm in the front room, and says solemnly, "You know, the past two mornings when I walk into your room..." She pauses slightly.

She found rats? A couple of severed heads?

Then continues, "your heating pad was left on...Remember to leave the auto-off on, so you don't forget. I don't want to hear your Dad complain about the two hundred dollar electricity bill again."

When you live with your parents as an adult, you concede to a few realities: one, you can never bring home that guy from the bar, and fuck him in your bed, and two, if you do go out and don't come home at a decent hour, you have to tell your parents at least something or your mother will drill you about your alcohol use mixed with your meds. Three, you have to follow their rules, even when their rules are excessive for someone who is (supposedly) a rational, thinking adult. In exchange, hopefully, you have a more secure supportive network.

The Ugly Things We Never Share, Part II

"So, did Dad tell you anything about last night?" I ask my mother. I called her to see if we could talk about what happened.

"Yeah, he just said that you pissed him off by throwing away his brushes again," she answers.

Shouldn't he have some sense of shame over what he did?

The Ugly Things We Never Share

I perform most of the kitchen cleaning, and I'm usually the only one who disinfects it (I use bleach and 409). I threw away the dish brushes because they were filthy and discolored from who-knows-what, although it's likely it was spaghetti sauce. They were also about six months old, and plastic, which absorbs bacteria and viruses.

I put them in the garbage, and then the next day, found them magically back in the sink. So, as I was cleaning yesterday, I threw them away, again.

"Where are the brushes?" My father asks me while I'm in the other room, hanging up laundry. He's in the kitchen, presumably making dinner.

I knew this was the start of a fight. "In the garbage," I say.

He walks around the corner, and he's facing me as he's yelling, "Goddammit! You had no right to do that! I soaked those in bleach!" His face is red, and he looks threatening. (Just minutes before, he was taking his handgun out of the sleeve, and playing with it.

I asked at the time if it was loaded.

"Yes, of course," he answered then. )

I just stand there, mute. The idea crosses my mind that he could hit me, not that he has ever before. I have no emotional reaction. I finish hanging up the shirts, and then I go back to my homework in the den on the work desk.

What I Want for "But a Whimper"

What I want is for my short story titled "But a Whimper" (from T.S. Eliot) to win the contest for the college's yearly literary journal. In order to do that, I need some feedback. I walked into the Poetry Professor's office before his official office hours, and found him looking at the screen of his laptop that was sitting next to the screen from his desktop, apparently using both at once. "Are you multi-tasking?" I ask him.

"Always," he says with a smile. He talked about how busy he was with grading and with students needing help. He drove to a nearby town, and met up with a student for an hour. "She got an hour's worth of instruction for free." Another student arrives outside his doorway, so he says, "Send me that short story."

I take it as my hint to leave. I did, of course, send the piece to his email account, but realized a day later that he shouldn't do something like that for free. I thought about offering him money directly, but assumed that he wouldn't accept it. So, I sent an email saying that I didn't like the idea of professors working for free, so would he accept me buying him lunch? I hope he didn't read it as me coming on to him, although even if he did, there was probably no harm done.

He replies, "Ha! No worries. It's not for free. I get the street cred of saying, 'I knew her when...' :)"

Which I just thought was overwhelmingly sweet. I've been trying to figure out a way to stay at the community college instead of transferring back to The University (just down the road) or perhaps even going to a UC. I don't know anyone at the University in the English Department, and most of the people I knew in Animal Science, like The Advisor, have retired. VN probably still teaches classes. I would have to start all over again, trying to get to know the faces of the faculty.

Of course, I thought about sending "But a Whimper" to the English instructor, since I value his feedback so much, but I know that he is working three jobs, taking classes himself, and dealing with his personal life. So, asking for him to spend an hour on something he's not getting paid for seemed almost cruel. I thought about offering him a $100 to review and edit it, and saying that he didn't need to meet with me in person, I could drop off payment either through the mail in a form of a check or put it in his faculty box. However, he hasn't responded to my last email, asking him to join the faculty poetry reading contest, so I doubt I will even ask. But $100 for an hour's worth of work (he obviously could spend more time than that, if he wanted) isn't bad money, unless you're a prostitute (in which you should make a lot more than that for "full service"). I couldn't help but find parallels between the two types of work. I realize that most of the time, editing between friends is free or at most, considered a favor repaid by a drink. But I'm not exactly the type of friend to either the English instructor or the Poetry Professor in which you can ask those types of favors.

The Slope, Sliding Down, Part II

"I mean, that's what happens, people get started on prescription drugs because they have some pain, and then when their disorder is supposed to be over, and the doctor stops giving them opioids, they just move on to heroin..." My POLS professor told the class.

Okay, it happens. We know the vast majority of heroin addicts start with prescription opioids. Fair enough. But what is misleading about this statement is that the pain patients aren't the ones getting addicted in the first place. It's the people who steal/borrow pain pills from family members and friends. They get hooked and then move on to heroin (the CDC has research on this).

At the beginning of the argument, I said, "The 'opioid epidemic' is overinflated, especially when you consider that hundreds of thousands die from alcohol abuse and tobacco." The class room suddenly got very noisy.

"Would you like to talk to the sheriff here in [blank] county?" The POLS Professor challenges me.

I could. But he's not a medical doctor nor a researcher, so I'm not sure why his opinion or what he think he observes in the community is really all together that fucking important.

The Slope, Sliding Down

"I'm only going to prescribe one Norco per day," says the GP. "Because it's just a slippery slope...but after you see Pain Managment, it's a different scenario."

Interestingly, we discussed the "opioid epidemic" in POLS class where I was shouted down by my own peers, and the professor (who after he made his argument, told me to speak, and I refused, feeling like it was a lost cause--who am I to educate people who have already made up their minds? And for that matter, am I not just the slightest biased on the whole topic? Luckily, I'm not alone. I know of patient rights groups, chronic pain lobbying groups, who have the same thoughts I do, and are actively trying to save one's ability to find and secure pain relief. Granted, if one of those pharma companies finds some drug that silences pain better than an opioid, they'll be sure to put it on the market with a decent generic a year or more away from coming onto market).

I mean, isn't "slippery slope" just a logic fallacy? Why treat all patients like potential drug addicts? The addiction rate for heroin is at most 18%, still a minority, but a high enough percentage to give anyone pause. I've read from research articles, especially in the early 2000's, that the addiction rate for prescription opioids is as low as 2-3%. I don't believe those numbers, it has to be greater than that, but, well, they are researchers after all. You would like to hope they are not falsifying their data because they are in the back pocket of some drug company.

And who here would say, while screaming in pain at an ER, "Please, don't give me morphine. It's addictive. Give me, hmmm...how about a placebo? Even better, do you have some pot lying around?" 

At Liberty, Part II

It's only funny because it's creepy.

It's okay, I can still flirt with the Poetry Professor, who takes it in stride and finds me slightly charming.

At Liberty

I had a dream about him. I don't believe that our dreams necessarily mean anything. I don't follow Freud, but sometimes I feel they are creative material (I constantly dream I'm a man with a real package and everything--but does that mean I'm trans? Probably not). So, I had this dream. I was in his class, visiting and I refused to look at him. In fact, during the entire dream, I never saw him at all. I was in the back, and I was coloring with real Crayons. At some point, he came up behind me and held me, and then, I realized immediately, that it was a dream--not reality. I highly doubt he would ever do such a thing, but it's even less likely in front of other students.

When I saw him sitting down on the ledge of the bushes, and talking to his students, I wanted to walk up to him, kiss him on the cheek, and say, "Hi, honey, how's work?"

But I'd probably had to deal with the English Division Chair over that one. Some lecture about how I can't harass the good, god-fearin' folk of English professors.

Another B Work? Probably

My creative writing professor looked more distracted than usual.

I stopped by his office during office hours. I could just tell something was wrong. "Are you okay?" His office reminds me slightly of how the Adivsor kept his. There are lots of papers and books, and an eccentric mess. I use to walk into the room to see the Advisor, and be comforted by his disarray. It wasn't military neat (even though the Advisor was in the military); it was normal, human, most of all.

"No," he says while looking at the computer screen. "My father died Saturday."

I had heard stories of his father, how he was starting to lose his wits, and seemed to display some odd behavior. "Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that. How are you dealing with the news?"

He seems even more despondent. "I can't concentrate. You know, I start to read something, and then my mind wanders..." After we talk for a while, he asks me what I need help with. "You said you wanted to talk about your 99." He assigned an essay that could only be 99 words.

"Yes, I know. I got a B."

"A B is good."

"Yes, but I want an A in the class...I wanted to bring by my short story to see if you had any hints to help me get an A on this assignment."

He reads it, and says flatly, "Well, it's not finished."

It wasn't. I would later finish it, and it would end up to be nine pages (the max. was only supposed to be seven pages). It was about my grandmother, and the more I wrote, the most disgusted I became with the work. It's impossible to explain my grandmother's situation (while she was alive) and her relationship with her kids and her grandchild (me) in seven pages. Somehow, at the end, I'm supposed to put it in perspective, and write some great revelation or at least end it on a good note--like, Grandma died in piece. But she didn't die in peace. She died alone in that awful house, and no matter how many times I say it or write it, that painful thought never becomes any easier to swallow. In many ways, it becomes worse. My parents can't relate to my guilt. They don't understand it, and they don't share it. So, I thought if I wrote a story about how sad she was, how sad she made me, maybe people would realize that she was suffering, and no one did a damn thing about it (including me)--in the story, there's the conversation that I have with her doctor where the doctor told me that Grandma was not suffering. She did, and she died a few months later. (If anyone wants to read the short story titled "But a Whimper," they can, but honestly, the blog entries are better.)

"You need to flesh out the conflict," he continues. "I mean, you say right here, 'I tried to convince my grandmother to move.' "

In the final draft, I deleted that sentence because after nine pages, that part was obvious.

POLS [REVISED]

I can tell he's in a hurry to leave. He came dressed up in a suit, so he probably had to be in court today. "You wanted to talk about the Federalist Papers."

I showed him my book. Flipped through it. 

"I didn't know you were going to read all of them. I thought just the ones in the back of the textbook. No. 51."

"No, I plan on finishing it. It's four hundred pages, and I thought I could get it done over break, but as you can see, that didn't happen...I want to negotiate with you."

He nodded at me.

"How much is this worth to you?" I was referring to extra credit. Watching a movie (with, at the very least, political ideas) and writing a couple page brief is worth 15 extra credit points. I probably could have watched over ten movies with the amount of time that it's taking to read all the Federalist Papers. 

"Well, I mean, it's not someone's interpretation of the material, it's the source document itself, so yeah, I would give it a lot of scholastic value. But you did well on the midterm, you're not going to need extra credit."

POLS Midterm

After handing in my scantron and blue book, I was stopped by the professor .

"It was too easy, wasn't it?"

I was one of the first to finish. "I guess we'll find out."

Today, he told me I had the highest grade in the class (on the multiple choice section; he hasn't graded the essays).

Honestly, I thought I was going to end up with a B-. That white horse question really tripped me up.

Grambo is Dead, Part XI

Grandma appeared to me in a dream, she looked neat, healthy and composed. She was happy to see me. Then, I woke up, and realized all over again that she was gone.

My Theory on Pain Killers, and the Unfortunate Requirement of Being Passed From Doctor to Doctor

After meeting with the Neurosurgeon in Santa Barbara, I decided to try to see someone at the Stanford Pain Management Clinic (I asked to be seen by the doctor Sean Mackey, MD, Ph.D. himself because I've read about him, and watched his lectures, and I'm in love). Unfortunately, the new patient coordinator told me he'd call back in about two or three weeks, and yes, Stanford Pain Managment wouldn't be able to see me until February or even possibly March (he said it would take longer to see Dr. Mackey).

My GP wants to stop prescribing me Norcos because, as he's explained, he's concerned that I'm developing a "dependency" (I've written about this before). So, he's passing me off on a pain management specialist here locally until I can be seen by Stanford. My experience with pain management clinics has not been positive. They see patients in pain (obviously), and I believe that the patients all tend to blend in together after a while. Dr. Mackey has stated (one reason why I love him) that if you don't believe your patient is in pain or don't believe that they are telling the truth about the extent of their pain, you as a doctor shouldn't be treating them, and should send them to someone else. I believe in that wholeheartedly, and wish I had the power and means to make every doctor I see live up to that example. "If you don't believe me, fuck you, send me to someone better."

The Neurologist completed a nerve conduction test on my legs (which, by the way, feels like you're being shocked by an electric fence), and quickly became bored, and said out loud for her notes, "Nothing remarkable." Now, she's debating if I had any neuropathy at all (it was either Dr. Allan Basbaum or Dr. Mackey who said that any time you have a burning, stinging pain, it's neuropathy). If it's not neuropathy, what the fuck is it? The paresthesia is extremely painful, and that symptom alone is worth a several month wait to see a real pain specialist at Stanford.

At one point, while in debate with him over the dosage of the Norco, my GP refused to refill my prescription at all. I thought that my argument was rather sound and logical. Every seven days, I refill my Norco prescription; it's ten pills that is prescribed for one per day for ten days. Obviously, I'm taking more than one a day (I prefer to take two, as this is about the amount to suppress the pain). My doctor knows that, and in not complaining or refusing to refill my prescription every seven days, he is indirectly condoning it. However, the pharmacy started asking questions as to why I'm refilling my prescription early (they will only allow it to be refilled three days early). I asked my mother if the pharmacy could refuse to fill it, and she said yes, if they suspect abuse. So, I called my GP, and asked if he could please write the prescription for one to two pills daily, this way I'm not refilling "early," and the pharmacy will be reassured. I told him I'm not going to take more pills per day, and that I'm not going to refill the prescription any earlier than I already do. He refused. So, we got into a fight, via leaving messages with each other. He told me to go see a Pain Management Specialist.

The Neurosurgeon I spoke to said that taking one to two Norco's per day (especially the fact that they are five's; I indirectly--I swear!--found a message board that was selling five's--illegally, and the people remarked that no one who likes opiates will even buy Norco #5 since they are so weak--I had to agree with that assessment).

The interesting conclusion I've reached after reading and listening to Dr. Allan Basbaum and Dr. Mackey is that the pain killers work in two ways. One, it lessens the physical sensation of pain. That part is obvious. However, also because the opioids work on the brain, it lessens the emotional suffering of the pain. Perhaps this is why even when my Norco doesn't lessen the pain, I feel better because the emotional consequence of this trial has been reduced. With this logic, I don't see any harm in "getting high" while taking opioids as long as you're not taking the opioids just to get high. Getting high, as stigmatized as it is (no chronic pain patient I've ever read has dealt with this subject directly since we're all supposed to pretend that we don't get high because getting high would mean we're all drug addicts), helps with dealing with the psychological impact of the pain. Chronic pain patients will say, over and over again, that their pain interferes with their life. Often it's impacting their emotional health as well as their physical fitness. Honestly, opioids numb the experience of being in physical and psychological pain.

About Beck [REVISED]

Just before I went to the hospital the last time, December of 2015, my mother and I got into a huge fight. She was convinced that I was neglecting Beck by not spending enough individual time with her. During the fight, Mom locked Beck up in the kennel outside of the house, and left her there. After we finished arguing, I let Beck loose from her trap, never knowing why Mom would punish her over my mistakes and carelessness.

I remember waking up most mornings at four am, getting out of bed by five thirty, watching the local news in my parent's bed with Dad sleeping next to me. By seven am, Beck was ready for a fresh, new day, and she would rest her chin on the bed with a ball in her mouth, nudging me strongly, sometimes whining or crying, and sometimes taking the ball and tossing it under a piece of furniture. And then crying more loudly.

At the time, in deep depression, I found the behavior highly annoying. Despite this, I still managed to take her for short walks most days in the field behind our house.

Mom yelled that if I wouldn't take care of my animal, then I should give her away. A part of me agreed with her. I didn't have much energy for anything, much less devoting that energy to my dog.

After spending almost three months away at Stanford Hospital and then a month in residential care at Morgan Hill, I came home and Beck regarded me cautiously, as if I had been gone longer than what was reasonable in her mind, and she was upset with me. The only dog to immediately greet me was Wilson, who jumped up on my leg, clawing me. Beck pretended she didn't care one way or another, and I personally avowed to spend my free time with her, from now on.

Tales

My mother told me recently that if I had been a boy, my father probably would have kept me.

Grambo is Dead, Part X

Mom refused to set up a service for Grandma. "If you really want one, talk to Uncle [name retracted] and do it."

"I don't want to talk to Uncle [name retracted]."

"Well, I'm not going to do it."

Grambo is Dead, Part IX

"Stop yelling," My mother tells me. We're both standing in the back yard.

I had just gotten news that Grandma's body, when found, was too decomposed to perform a full autopsy on. The cause of death was little more than a mere guess. It stated coronary artery heart disease. I'm sobbing at this point. "I can yell if I want to. You do all the time!"

Grambo is Dead, Part VIII

"She doesn't show it, but I've seen her break down, and it isn't pretty," Dad says referring to Mom. "It was her mother for God's sake."

Grambo is Dead, Part VII

"How do you know she didn't just say whatever would shut you up and make you go away?"

"Because we didn't have that kind of a relationship."

"Oh, I'm sorry. Your relationship with her was different from everyone else's."

"It was!"

Questions on POLS Midterm

Literally, one of my multiple choice questions for my POLS midterm was, "What color was George Washington's white horse?"

I'm thinking to myself, is that a metaphorical "white" horse, a symbol of purity and goodness? But for my answer, I just filled in on the "white" option.

"Well, Whatever, Nevermind"

--Nirvana

I'm sure I don't have appropriate expectations for community college writers. What exactly is good writing at this level? In my Creative Writing class, I was appalled by how awful the writing was for our next assignment, a short story (three to seven pages). One student, during peer review, wrote a short story about a guy hooking up with a girl at a dorm after a party (original, right?), but the weird part is--is in the first paragraph, the narrator explains that his father is a serial killer. Way out of left field. The story might be interesting if the son was contemplating the possibility of being just as cruel and merciless as his father, if genetics passed down a certain temperament and tendency towards violence. Or while he was being raised, he recalled certain behaviors from his father that made one suspicious that this man was a real psycho. If he experienced the trauma of abuse, and was eternally changed for the worst. None of that was touched upon. I was asked to review her story, and yet, I had nothing to say. I wanted to tell her to ditch the entire project, write something else, and please, god, go to the writing center on campus. The student had no idea to include line breaks during dialogue, and she also didn't know how to italicize for internal dialogue. And was quite fond of run-on sentences, without it adding to any poetic element.

One of the male students in my class at least had an authentic voice (I told him so after class, and encouraged him to develop it), he wrote about Latino gangs in the Central Valley (he was raised just thirty miles from where I was). I'm assuming with his name, he is also Latino. He had great insights into these young men because he works at a juvenile hall. At least, that was a particularly interesting topic. I told him (after class) that most people had no idea about that world, they only understand what they saw in the media. However, his mechanics of writing are behind, I would say, others his age and education level. He too didn't realize you needed line breaks for dialogue, and made other common grammatical errors--all of that you can train into a person, but voice? I don't believe learning to explore one's voice comes from the dry instruction of professors. You either have it or you don't.

Of course, it's easy to criticize. The student poked holes into my story, which was far from being finished. It was meant to be a snap shot into the life of my grandmother during her final year. The students realized that there wasn't much for want, obstacle, action or resolution (they complained mostly that the story had no point). One student told me to reduce my description to a couple of paragraphs, an idea that I find would be said by someone who mostly read dime novels and/or trashy, empty works. Another student (the Latino man) told me that the description was great and necessary. The same girl, who told me to gut my story, also said that my foreshadowing was too abrupt.

"But it's foreshadowing," I explain.

"Yeah, just make it more mysterious."

I thought about all this after I walked around campus to drop off some books in my car, and pick up others, and I ran into the English instructor, who was surrounded by a group of students. I walked past him without making eye contact. At least his criticism is useful. 

"Not a Single Lesson Was Learned..."

--Shinedown, "Through the Ghost"

The doctors, searching around my thoracic spine, looking for some reason for my middle-to-upper back pain, well, they found fluid in my lungs (my GP described it as being a small amount, which makes sense since I'm asymptomatic).

"You know, I don't mean to sound melodramatic, but I could be dying," I tell my mother over the phone while sitting in a study room next to the computer lab. The assistant of the lab comes by, looking sheepish, and then closes the door on me.

"You're going to be just fine," my mother retorts.

I explain to her that I didn't mean I was going to die tomorrow or even in the next year, but if I have congestive heart failure, I probably won't make it to sixty, much less like my grandmother from my father's side who is eighty-five, and has no (read: none whatsoever) chronic conditions. I told her that sure, they can treat heart failure, but it still kills you anyway. Towards the end, you have all sorts of problems, including shortness of breath (I've read of people afflicted who could barely get out of bed without getting winded) and extreme exercise intolerance.

But I explained to my mother that that's the crux of modern medicine: we have the diagnostic tools to find something wrong with everyone (with sole exception, of course, of my father's mother). The problem is sorting through the data, and deciding what is really clinically significant. And from there, finding effective treatment. It's easy to hop on some test-this-test-that bandwagon because doctors want to feel that they're doing the best possible job, and they don't want the patient to think he/she is being undertreated. It's easier to justify an MRI than to tell a patient to take aspirin and go home. People want to know. We have this insane desire to escape death, that medicine can grant us this gift, we just have to be observant and proactive. We just have to take this pill and walk two miles aday.

We can better detect breast cancer, but it still kills the same amount of people every year. Same with colon cancer. Why? Well, that's out of my realm of expertise.

So, is fluid in the lungs clinically significant? In a thirty-four year old, it is certainly odd. Does it mean that I have congestive heart failure and will die in a few years? Well, I have no idea. Dirk had/has (if he's still alive) congestive heart failure, but had no symptoms. He was overweight, sure, but his cardiac problems stemmed from an undiagnosed sleep apnea, which went years and years without treatment.

And, oh, yes, I haven't contacted Morpheus for five weeks (and, technically, one day), and I figure I only have two people on this planet who I have to avoid, this should be easy right? I have thought about emailing the English instructor because the poetry professor has decided to hold a faculty poetry reading (I've been invited). I emailed the poetry professor, and asked specifically if he could include the English instructor. I didn't get a yes or no on that answer. I thought about encouraging the English instructor to attend either way, but I decide that I should just keep my mouth shut.

Grambo is Dead, Part VI

"Do you cry?"

"Yes, sometimes."

The Speed of Pain, Part II

Of course, I drank until I was properly intoxicated. I had dinner by myself at a good Italian restaurant, since my parents were up North dealing with my uncle.

I cried about my grandma. And then at some point in the night, I went to bed to read and then to fall asleep.

Children

During the weekend, while my mother and I were watching TV, she asked me if I would like it if she adopted a child.

"Not one who needs diapers," she explained to me. "What are you thinking? Are you thinking you won't get attached to it? Sometimes the older children have a hard time finding homes." She explained to me later that she was afraid I would end up all alone--since, well, I haven't dated in years, and it's now officially been more than a year since I've had sex (and that sex didn't last long, only a few minutes). Most people close to me know that it would be difficult for me to carry my own child because I would have to go off all of my meds and risk psychosis or depression.

"This is a conversation you need to have with Dad," I finally said.

"Oh, he always wanted more children, it was me who only wanted one."

I seemed to cheer her up some when I said that perhaps I would adopt after I was finished with school.

The Speed of Pain

--Marilyn Manson

"Just remember when you think you're free..."

The first thing I realized--I wanted a drink--

The community college campus is relatively small, and I'm there on campus everyday for hours on end. During the past four weeks, I've ran into all my former English professors--the Poetry Professor, my Engl 201B professor (now my Creative Writing Professor), and my Engl 201C Professor (who is now my World Lit Professor). Everyone except the English instructor--

Until today.

He's easy to spot. He's taller than everyone, and he has this signature stride, very long like a gangly  three-year-old Thoroughbred, fresh on the track, overconfident and striking.

I spotted him many feet away, and I knew I was easily recognizable--I have my dog always with me. So, I stopped at a patch of grass, and pretended to be occupied by Beck--I looked down at her, petted her head and her ears.

The English instructor disappeared behind one of the faculty buildings.

I ignored him, and he did the same.

Seeing him was like being squeezed around the heart, quickly losing oxygen and suffocating, a struggle for something clear and definitive, preferring a sharp pain to the dull.

Grambo Is Dead, Part V

I was in high school at the time, and I was taking a Bible class, probably as a sophomore or junior. We were taught by a Dutch Reformed Protestant viewpoint, and told that God fulfilled His will everyday, and that this was our fate, inescapable. One student, or perhaps it was me, asked, "Why then do we pray if it won't make a difference?"

My Bible teacher, Dr. Trout, replied because God loves hearing from His believers.

But if you listen carefully, you can concede that nothing in life matters--you are predestined to go to hell, or heaven, depending on some weird Godly luck, and then your death is written in some big book in the sky, you can't access it, you can't read it, but God knows. He allows the sinner to wallow in sin. He punishes according to some Master Plan, and often people don't get what they deserve, although this fact of life appalls us, and causes us to lay blame on anyone in our path.

I wrote a short essay during Creative Writing class on Monday about my grandmother, and I described my uncle as a "coward." To me, he is. He could have visited his mother more often, but he was unable to reach closure with her, to mend that relationship, and he is suffering now because of it, although I aptly warned him to settle things months ago. He lacked the emotional maturity. I'm being harsh and judgmental, but I feel that I am right. He contributed to their conflict, although I've never heard him admit such. And if I'm being honest, there were times when my grandmother and I shared harsh words, especially this past year. My grandmother would ask me, "Are you mad at me?" Not remembering our last conversation or even what she said. I, too, lacked the fortitude to deal with her on a daily basis. Her mood swings disrupted my entire emotional balance. I told my mother that unless something changed while Grandma visited, that I was going to move out, and live in County housing like my case manager wanted. Would I have done a much better job than my uncle? Probably not.

Grambo is Dead, Part IV

My mother is bending down to tie her own shoes, and as she's leaning over, she says, "Grandma is in a better place now. She's with her mom and her dad."

I can't tell if she really means it or wants to believe it or just wants me to believe it. Of course, I don't. I'm a materialist. I don't even submit to the idea of having a soul. We're just a long train of biochemical reactions. I find the idea of free will hard to defend, although not for religious reasons. Perhaps I believe more in deism, that God is there, but He just leaves the world to run on the premise of physical laws and chemical principles, and the other elements of natural order. But does He love us? Clings us to His bosom? Does He breathe everlasting life into us?

Grambo Is Dead, Part III

I have been throwing up, without fever or chills. I know it's not opiate withdrawal because I have been taking that somewhat regularly, and it's not correlated with any drinking I'm doing (I haven't had more than a glass of wine at one time). My mother has said that it's caused by the stress of my grandmother dying.

One thing that struck me hard was how my friends reacted to the news of my grandmother passing. Lucky happened to message me on Facebook on the day I found out. He said "I'm sorry" and then went on talking about himself, as if that was all anyone needed to say. The Advisor sent a TXT-message, saying, "Hope it was an easy trip." I hope too that my grandmother didn't needlessly suffer, but nevertheless, it sounded odd to me. The LSU Professor initially expressed concern for my mother, not talking at all about my feelings on the subject (he later said he was concerned about me, multiple times, over the phone).

Probably the people who handled it the best was obviously Amara, who TXT-messaged me all that day, as I ranted about my feelings, and Brandon, who sent a concerned email, and my other grandmother, who was genuinely worried about me. Harry also sent a caring TXT-message. Other people left wonderful notes on my Facebook page, and it was hugely meaningful to me--just to know that someone out there cared, people who I haven't spoken to directly in months or even in years.

What the Neurosurgeon Had to Say

I went to Santa Barbara to meet with a neurosurgeon who was highly recommended by my father. He had minor back surgery years ago, and it helped tremendously with his pain. In fact, rarely does my father ever complain of pain. That occupation is held by my mother and myself. One of us is always in physical pain. Mother suffers in the mornings and afternoons, and I suffer in the evenings.

The Neurosurgeon told me directly that surgery would not help my pain. He said he didn't know for sure if the herniated disc was causing pain, but it probably wasn't the major contributor. I have pain in other places that are unexplainable (if you just look at a MRI), and also I have peripheral neuropathy, which is not helped by anything other than CBT (cognitive-behavorial theory) and drugs like gabapentin and Cymbalta and sometimes opiates. He ordered an MRI for my cervical and thoracic spine, although the Neurosurgeon mentioned that it was likely to come back relatively normal. However, he wanted to rule some things out.

The vast majority of his argument had to do with what's called "central sensitization," which is basically how the brain processes and reacts to the pain signal. Initially, pain is sent to the medulla, and from there it goes to the high functions of the brain because pain is one part stimulus, but it is also an emotional phenomenon. And it's that emotional component that is probably the most difficult to treat. People with depression and/or anxiety interpret and experience pain differently than the normal population. The Neuorsurgeon spoke to all of this, and I eagerly sounded back with bits of learning I've gathered over the past month (I had a very rudimentary understanding of the nervous system). The Neurosurgeon said that while he was concerned about the psychosomatic aspect of the pain (how my disorder interacts with pain), he knows that it's no less real--it's just that surgery at this point won't help at all. He mentioned a man in LA who he sends patients to when he can't help them, and he also mentioned going to the Stanford Pain Clinic and potentially seeing Dr. Sean Mackey (I've listened to a couple of his lectures), who is constantly doing research on chronic, noncancer pain.

The Neurosurgeon didn't see any problem in taking a couple of Norco's a day. He said he would call me when the results of the other MRI's come in.

He's probably one of the best doctors I've ever met. 

The Neurologist is concerned that I have some type of demyelinating disease, and in a couple of weeks, she's doing a nerve conduction test on me with hopes of finding what neurons are affected. 

Grambo is Dead, Part II

Heading to school with Beck in the backseat, I was talking to my mother.

"I don't understand why she didn't just call you...I understand her not wanting to call me...but why not you?" My mother says, her voice heavy with emotion, and that troublemaker, the ol' guilt.

Grandma never called me, or at least it was so rare, I can't remember her ever doing it. The day she went to the ER because of chest pains--I had happened to call her that evening, right before my calculus class. It was just pure luck on my part. She told me about her chest pain, and asked what she should do. I, of course, freaked out, and drove immediately to Ridgecrest after explaining that she needed to go to the ER right now. It was that day that we found out she was diabetic.

Over the past year or even more, both my mother and my uncle made extensive efforts to call her on a frequent basis, only she never answered. After a while, she didn't pay her Mediacom bill, so her house phone was turned off, even though her cellphone bill was directly coming out of one of her bank accounts--so it always worked. But she didn't pick up her little flip phone either. A few times, over the months, my uncle and my mother called the police to do a "wellness check," and at one point, a few months ago, my mother rang the police with the specific purpose of them picking up Grandma on a 5150 because Mom suspected Grandma was "gravely disabled" (the police disagreed, and never did anything).

I told my mother today that I am guilty of "inaction." I wanted to have my grandmother conserved as early as December of last year, but I didn't follow through on that for a variety of reasons--one, my mother was venomously against it, two, it would cost several thousand dollars, money I didn't have, and three, the last time Grandma visited her GP, the doctor told me that Grandma wasn't disabled enough to merit such a drastic measure--that Grandma was in no "danger of eminent death" (she died about three to four months later, anyway), and lastly four, was I really ready to take care of my grandmother's health full time while I was barely hanging on to my own recovery (My mother thought it would be too much stress for me, just a few days ago, she called me "fragile")? The problem was, someone had to take care of her, and out of everyone in our family, she liked me the best. She expressed to me the last time that I saw her that she wanted to move to Yuppieville, and buy a condo where just the two of us could live since she made it clear to me that she did not want to live with my mother or her son. Such a solution would have been possible, at least for the next two years, but eventually, I have to leave Yuppieville because I'm planning on going to grad school.

My uncle is dealing with similar feelings of guilt, and from the TXT-messages I've seen of him talking to my mother, he is undergoing a huge emotional blow, with massive feelings of regret. While I do blame my uncle to a certain extent (he's the only one retired, and he had a new truck that could easily make the trip, two qualifications that I currently do not have) because he should have made a larger effort to go see her these past six months, but honestly, my grandmother refused to live with him, so he can't be held accountable for grandmother's nasty attitude. She had delusions concerning him that he stole her truck, that he ripped out a phone in her house, that he stole her TV (actually he bought her a bigger, nicer TV), and that he was violent when he lost his temper (he probably was at some point in his life).

My grandmother only told me that my mother was "too high strung," and that she didn't like being around her for large portions of time, and that my other grandmother irritated her, and Grandma refused to live with Grandma J for any length of time.

Over the weekend, my uncle threw a fit, and demanded that he and my mother and one of my cousins go to Ridgecrest, and clean up the house. Grandma was probably dead for days before anyone bothered to call the police. In fact, we're not sure who called the police or why. Apparently the smell in the house is unbearable, and my father couldn't walk inside, he was so taken back. There are large amounts of dead flies all over the floor. My mother told me that the carpet will have to be replaced, as the smell of death has permeated it. My uncle apparently was emotionally wrecked, and that only my cousin and my mother worked on cleaning the house. My mother, for good reasons, suggested to everyone that we just pay a professional to clean up the mess that dead people leave, but my uncle didn't want to pay the money. I told my mother before she left that seeing the house in that kind of shape could be highly traumatizing. She said that she conveyed similar to my uncle.

He just didn't listen. Just a day after he found out his mother was dead, he had to drive to Bakersfield to start the funeral arraignments. I mean, can't we just grieve for one fucking second before we get in a hurry to put her in the ground?

My mother told me today that Grandma "just gave up [on living]." I know my grandmother was a victim of learned helplessness, and of catastrophizing, two gateways to depression. Last time I visited her, she frequently told me that her "life couldn't get any worse" (actually, it can, try diabetic neuropathy, or a large stroke, etc). Despite this, she refused to let me help her by taking her to a doctor and getting some help for her chronic pain. She wanted nothing to do with it.

Grambo is Dead

Apologies to Amara, who I promised an entry days ago.

***

Today, while I was doing some weight training, I dropped a twenty-five pound disk on my foot, which now is swollen and has some zig-zag mark across the top of it.

***

Mom told me to sit down on the bed.

"What?" I thought this was some family intervention about my drug use, you know, a kind, concerned lecture about the dangers of addiction. She did look concerned.

"Sit down."

"The dog is in the way." There's the weaner, swagging her tail ferociously.

"Move her."

So, I sit down.

"I have some bad news about grandma."

I think that maybe she's just in the hospital, and it's interesting that we both know which grandma we're talking about.

"She passed away."

I put my head in my hands, and say, "I fucking knew it!" I leave the room, and go into my bedroom, where I start sobbing hysterically. This is, of course, the grandmother with dementia, who refused to move in with either my mother or her son, my uncle once it became obvious that she was sick.

She's gone.

I had been planning to visit her, but she lives in the desert, and my SUV needs a new radiator. My parents didn't think it would be wise to travel all that way in something as worn as my Mazda. The engine might overheat. I didn't have the money to replace the radiator until Tuesday of this week. So, I just didn't go. Weeks had passed since anyone had stopped by her house, then it became months. There are other family members who could have gone--but they didn't. Grandma made everyone around her upset and angry. No one really wanted to go. Even I was constantly consumed by the ideas that I really couldn't help her beyond driving her around, and paying her bills, using her checkbook, and assuming her identity. Her illness made her think that she wasn't sick, that she didn't need anyone to help her--that in fact, some of us were plotting against her in some degree or another.

The New Semester

My political science professor is a lawyer with a law practice a few towns to the south. He's probably the most lively character so far this semester.

I asked him before class if Beck, who was resting at the head of the room, if she was in the way.

He answered curtly, "Probably."

Days later, I sent him an email, letting him know ahead of time that I would miss class by driving to Palo Alto. In turn, he called me, although I'm not entirely sure how he got my cellphone number, which might just be in my student information that he can access. I figured he would be friendly since he went out of his way to personally call me, but instead, he was rather direct and to-the-point.

After mentioning a few recent political events, bits of news, he turned to me during class, and said, "I know you're going to read."

In his syllabus, he requires or recommends that we read the newspapers. I'm sort of ahead of the curve on that.

A Lot of Norco?

My GP called me today, and left a message, saying that he would refill my Norco prescription but that I'm "taking a lot of Norco" (which, in my humble opinion and from the research I've read--I'm not), and that he's concerned that I'm developing a dependency.

I guess, I can't come up with some kind of response without being condescending. I realize a little bit of knowledge (like I've obtained about opioid addiction and the physiology of chronic pain) is dangerous, making us think we know more than we actually do (I'm sure I've mentioned this phenomenon before). However, dependency is different from addiction, and dependency doesn't mean misuse or abuse; in fact, it's almost always happens with continued opioid use. Do I have a physical dependency? No, because I can go off of it, and suffer no ill-effects or withdrawal symptoms.

Tardive dyskinesia

On Wednesday while at Stanford Psychiatric Outpatient Clinic, I was diagnosed with tardive dyskinesia because I have a minor twitch on my mouth, close to my lips. This is caused by antipsychotic medications, although it's at all possible that the twitch is from some other disorder.

CNCP, Part IV

"The results of this study support the findings of earlier surveys...that there exists a group of CNCP patients whose long-term opioid consumption can be beneficial and remain moderate without them suffering from the consequences of problematic opioid drug use."

-- "A Randomized, Double-Blind, Placebo-Controlled, Cross-Over Pilot Study to Assess the Effects of Long-Term Opioid Drug Consumption and Subsequent Abstinence in Chronic Noncancer Pain Patients Receiving Controlled-Release Morphine" by David T. Cowan, BSc (Hons), PhD, Dame Jenifer Wilson-Barnett, MSc, PhD, Peter Griffiths, BA (Hons), PhD, David J. A. Vaughan, MBBS, FRCA, Anjalee Gondhia, MBBS, FRCA, and Laurie G. Allan, MRCS, LRCP, MBBS, FRCA

Pain Medicine Volume 6 Number 2, 2005

CNCP, Part III

"Although it is important to carefully select and monitor the use of opioids for treating CNCP, under prescribing opioids for the reasons cited has likely resulted in needless suffering for some patients..."

-- "Changing Residents’ Beliefs and Concerns about Treatinh Chronic Noncancer Pain with Opioids: Evaluation of a Pilot Workshop," by Craig S. Roth, MD, and Diana J. Burgess, PhD, Pain Medicine, Volume 9, Number 7, 2008.

What you must keep in mind that 2008 was the height of the OxyContin craze.

CNCP, Part II

"Experience gained from observing the longterm effects of opioids in surviving cancer sufferers suggests that fears of problematic use were often unfounded."

--comment on treating with opioids;  "A Survey of Chronic Noncancer Pain Patients Prescribed Opioid Analgesics," by David T. Cowan, BSc (Hons), PhD, Jenifer Wilson-Barnett, SRN, FRCN, FKCL, DBE, PhD, Peter Griffiths, RGN, BA (Hons), PhD, and Laurie G. Allan, MRCS, LRCP, MBBS, FRCA

CNCP [Chronic Noncancer Pain]

"Two (2.5%) patients reported a general increase in physical function on cessation of opioids. In a recent reappraisal of opioids in CNCP, it was questioned whether palliation or rehabilitation should be the main issue to consider when prescribing[12]. It has been suggested that increased physical function should be a mandatory requirement for opioid therapy to be considered successful [3,27]. However, it should be remembered that persistent pain can cause significant impairment to physical function. Furthermore, if the choice is between minimal function accompanied by severe pain or minimal function accompanied by mild or no pain, then surely, for most patients, the choice would be the latter."

-- "A Survey of Chronic Noncancer Pain Patients Prescribed Opioid Analgesics" by David T. Cowan, BSc (Hons), PhD, Jenifer Wilson-Barnett, SRN, FRCN, FKCL, DBE, PhD, Peter Griffiths, RGN, BA (Hons), PhD, and Laurie G. Allan, MRCS, LRCP, MBBS, FRCA, Pain Medicine Volume 4 Number 4 2003

Medical News

Yesterday, I took my first dose of Horizant, which is just an extended release version of gabapentin. In exchange, since the drug causes weight gain, the Neurologist (the same one I've had for over ten years) said that it would make her feel better if I joined Weight Watchers.

She, of course, heard the thundering hooves and saw stripes, not mangy Mustangs. First, she was considering that I might have cancer somewhere, but then was convinced when I told her the doctors did a thorough exam, including ultrasound, well, she then abandoned that idea. However, she was rather stuck on the fact that I had low levels of calcium in my blood. She mentioned that certain kidney diseases cause a loss of calcium in the urine, and she signed me up for a 24-hour urine catch, which sounds as bad as it is. However, if I have kidney disease, it's better to know sooner rather than later.

"I really love this kind of stuff," the Neurology says, smiling at me.

Finally, we arrived at the real reason why I was there: because of the nerve pain, or better known as paresthesia.

Of course, the neuropathy has no known cause. We ruled out iron deficiency and hypothyroidism. The Neurologist order a nerve conduction test, which I will have during September, but she offered no guesses as to why my nerve pain is so bad, and furthermore, why it manifests all over my body (with except of my face, my hands, and my feet), instead of taking the typical route, and just harassing the feet and the hands, like what happens in diabetes. 

Man of Mystery

"Why, then, would any of us leap into marriage, knowing that the future is unknowable, knowing our spouse is a mystery we can never fully understand?

I suppose it’s faith. Belief that there is something deeply good in the mysterious heart of the infinitely knowable other. And hope that this goodness will be enough to face the future together. Sometimes that works out; sometimes it does not."

--The New York Times, by: Kerry Egan, "Married to a Mystery Man"

What It Really Looks Like

I submitted a work to the "On Campus" column at the New York Times. I was told from an automatic email that I will be contacted by Wednesday if they planned on publishing my essay.

Of course, after I sent it in, I realized that if you look closely at the NYT, there's a paragraph break every two sentences, sometimes there is only a sentence in a paragraph. I assume this is so it's easier to read, giving the impression that the work is shorter than it really is.

So, I had a big, block paragraph starting my essay, and perhaps, that will be held against me. It was also over 1,700 words, and although the NYT says it will consider any length, they held that usually an article is 500-1000 words, leaving mine enormously big. I wanted to shorten it, of course, but had no idea what parts should be left out. Plus, as the English instructor once told me, removing parts of an essay is painful. And of course, I would have liked his feedback, but that's not possible (although I'm sure if I sent it to him, he would respond in some way, probably with his usual break down, sentence by sentence), but it would be odd for him to edit a work that is solely about him in English 156.

I left out the parts of English 156 that I didn't like and did not include the rabid remarks from my classmates about bipolar disorder, the very illness that was intertwined in the essay. Instead, I spoke highly of the English instructor, leaving the reader wondering why the narrator and he never got together romantically, although that was the desire of the student. If there was a happy ending to tell, I would have written it. But none exists. I realize that a student falling in love with her English professor is not exactly extraordinary news, I'm sure it happens all the time, but I was hoping to provide a different perspective to the situation anyway.

I have ideas for submitting to the NYT's "disability" column, although I haven't started editing my essay yet (I wrote it in 2013, and I'm planning on just taking the best bits out). The newspaper has re-opened submissions for their "Modern Love" column, supposedly their most popular article. I don't see why I can't keep writing and sending my essays in as I receive each rejection.

While a lot of students have gain affection for one of his/her professors, few can accurately describe what real psychosis looks like. I plan on just writing about my psychotic episode that gripped me in 2011.

Complicated Credit

"This is more complicated than you credit it. He did sort of lead you on..."

--The LSU Professor in one of his emails

I ended up writing an apology to the English instructor, and I told him that a response was not necessary.

When the LSU Professor and I met up for tea at the Brown Mustang, he reiterated that I "should not email him," even though I'm fully capable of doing so. He assumes like I do that communicating with him will only bring more hurt.

Of course, I don't believe that he led me on. He would only be guilty if every professor who spent time both in and out of class to talk to me is also leading me on (maybe they are, but I doubt it).

Therapists And Their Stupid Bullshit

During our coffee together, the English instructor confessed to me that he had to come up with ten reasons why someone would want to date him (I believe this was part of his therapy, but honestly, I don't remember where the remark came from).

I hate it when therapists insist on stupid shit like that. First of all, in order to come up with the list, at least for me, I'd have to lie--because I think it's completely improper to brag about yourself to some mental health professional, who is sitting there, and silently judging you. For instance, what if you say, "Hey, I've got great thighs" (which, I don't, but anyway). "That's one thing."

The therapist is secretly glancing at your thighs, in a totally inappropriate manner, and then says to herself (yes, this is a woman), "[Jae] doesn't have great thighs. She's deluting herself, but that's okay, because it's a positive untrue thought, and we want those to swim around in [Jae]'s head." Because you are gullible, and I'm the wise, thoughtful, rational, never-yell-at-my-husband, educated bitch. Point for me.

I mean, I could come up with a lot of reasons for dating the English instructor--even though in my last email, I told him that "you don't have to send me an email, telling me how much you don't want to be with me, because I am, of course, a student, and you're a professor (reasons which I think are bullshit..."

Again, I could name some positives, I mean most people don't get to be smart and good looking all at the same time. Sometimes, you get one or the other, and then again, for less fortunate people (yes, I'm an elitist), you get neither. You fail algebra exams, and the girl with the cute skirt next to you, well, she just gave you the ugly eye when you asked if she would tutor you. Totally innocent, by the way.

Okay, maybe, he's a little abrasive, at least when you're trying to get to know him. As I said in the email yesterday, "If we're being honest, you're not the easiest person in the world to get to know. But I figure, you already know that." But he quotes poetry, and that's sexy. I can't explain it. It's like an orgasm of the brain to sit across from someone who actually knows literature and art and--gasp--poetry.

Instead of naming a few of his more attractive qualities, I just told him about how recently I had to do a similar exercise, and it's way easier to come up with the five weaknesses than the five strengths. There's a running joke between my last therapist and I--I listed one of my strengths as "cooperative." She heard that, and snorted and then laughed because she understood I was kidding. For my final therapy session, I was asked to draw and paint a fish, and then next to the fish, I had to write my biggest strength.

I chose, what?

Cooperative. 

Killing Dogs, Part II (It's Called Irony)

Then Mom comes home, sees PeeWee in her little pen in the den, and then complains that she's too cold.

Fuck.

Killing Dogs

The double doctorate at Stanford tells me that my writing will make my depression worse.

I know what she is saying: dwelling on negative thoughts tends to make them grow and multiply. And then, soon, you have no escape. These thoughts are the soldiers just over the ridge, on their way down into the valley that you call your sanity.

***

My dad comes into the house, and tells me, "You almost killed PeeWee." He wanders back into the den, and then says, without appearing before me, "You just can't leave her out there, [Jae]."

I find this to be interesting because we're both home, how is it my responsibility to bring PeeWee in from the kennel? Isn't she his dog?

I wait stubbornly on the couch. Finally, knowing I had to do something, I walk into the den, watching Dad stroke PeeWee with a small towel. "Give her to me," I say. "I will take her out back and hose her with cold water."

We go to the porch, and I sit PeeWee down. I start the water first on her legs, and then massage in the cold into her back and sides. Within a few minutes, she stops panting. She's relaxed. She'll be fine.

Love and Drugs, Part II

I wrote to the LSU Professor, sending a copy of my letter to the English instructor, and I asked the LSU Professor to let me know if he thought I was overreacting or if I said something out of line, I would promptly apologize to the English instructor.

Maybe I'm just upset because I was rejected, and that it doesn't get any more complicated than that.

Love And Drugs

Last time I met with the LSU Professor, he asked me, "What has been the overall effect [Morpheus] has had on your life? Is it positive or is it negative?"

I don't answer right away. I think a little. "Negative."

***

I've spent hours on the couch today, miserable with back pain. The GP wants me to re-consider having surgery.

I asked my mother (since she's had three back surgeries) if I would need to miss a semester of school because of it. She told me that it depends on whether or not I could sit through lecture.

The facts are in: often back surgery doesn't work. From what I've read about chronic lower back pain, the only thing that does work is exercise, any type of exercise, although yoga is often recommended. The research behind using opioids for chronic pain isn't good. However, if you dig deep enough, some medical scientists still say it's an option, and often, doctors prescribe them anyway.

***

I thought about the email for a long time, deciding that I was going to walk the dog and run errands in town before I actually replied. I tried to come up with ways to sound assertive without coming across as angry or insulting.

Sitting down and writing the damn email took about an hour. In the end, I couldn't help but sound frustrated or mad. The letter started off as being considerate and even sympathetic, but then in a couple of paragraphs it turned to an inevitability. Frankly, I'm pissed that we had a cup of coffee, and then I didn't hear from the guy for a month. I had no idea what to make of the absence. I told myself that he was just busy, wasn't checking his school email account because he's not actually teaching classes there this semester, and it's break, and maybe--

Maybe he didn't know what to say, so he chose to say nothing. I could accept that.

I felt like I had suffered an indignity, a feeling that I am somewhat familiar with. For anyone who's my close friend or a reader of this blog knows that Morpheus regularly disappears for a month or even a few months, and then pops back into my life when it suits him. He makes excuses, he even may apologize, but it happens again and again. I suppose my stupidity allows this since everyone who I've ever told the story to has recommended that I refuse to speak a word to this man. I wish I could do that, and maybe, someday, in my recovery, I'll have the strength to.

But honestly, another guy who just disappears because he doesn't give a fuck? Addressing this issue with the English instructor, I started off by saying, "In the future, I just wish to be treated with more consideration and respect..."

But, I was high, or maybe I was confusing two men into one big, bad example, and I was taking it out on the English instructor when I really wanted to talk to Morpheus. It's all a psychological, interpersonal blur. "I know you don't like talking about this shit, even though you'll have to deal with it for the rest of your life, I will be blunt: don't email me unless you have some kind of personal interest in me."

When you think about the words "some kind of personal interest," then that doesn't actually say anything specific or anything clear. Personal interest can range from friendship to fucking, and back again. But what personal interest does translate into is personal investment. You just don't leave your friends hanging, wondering what you're doing or what they did wrong, and so on.

"That being said, however, I am not a good mind reader...I had no data to understand why after we met in person for a cup of coffee that I didn't hear from you for a month..."

Honestly, I get it or at least I think I do (which is dangerous). He probably just wanted to put some distance between us, kind of like the push-pull dynamic that goes on so often in relationships.

But I didn't think that was fair either way.