"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
Thursday, August 24, 2017
Wednesday, August 23, 2017
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.
-- "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.
Tuesday, August 22, 2017
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
--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
Monday, August 21, 2017
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
-- "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
Friday, August 18, 2017
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.
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"
Monday, August 14, 2017
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.
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).
--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).
Wednesday, August 9, 2017
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.
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.
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.
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.
Maybe I'm just upset because I was rejected, and that it doesn't get any more complicated than that.
Tuesday, August 8, 2017
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.
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.
Sunday, August 6, 2017
My Inspiration for the Previous Entry "When Windows Talk"
"When he opens his eyes and resumes breathing,
there she is, Ana, eyes trained on his face, and she is intent on seeing
into him or through him, dissolving the man in all his particulars in
order to find something else. Never mind what.
Maybe she simply wants to see and be seen."
--by Don DeLillo, "The Itch"
Her
face is cool and studied. Is this meant to be some kind of mutual
introspection? Is it a simple respite from the skein of endless human
exchange? He tries not to analyze the matter. A playful fragment of her
childhood, a memory of bittersweet longing.
Is
each of them trying to imagine who the other person is within the
freeze-framed face and eyes? A wordless glimpse of identity or just a
vacant gaze?
He tries to go blank, to drain his eyes and mind of the spatial array of sensation, the mental debris.
--by Don DeLillo, "The Itch"
Anthropomorphism
I tell the LSU Professor sharply that crystals can't remember, that that is a human characteristic. Or more specifically called "anthropomorphism."
He tells me that scientist use these words, instead of coming up with new ones to better fit.
Then, I countered myself when I realized that all memories are--just a cascade of chemical reactions, mysteriously swirling around in our neuro-matter, lighting it up like the shock of a beam.
So, maybe atoms do remember, maybe they just make us believe that they remember.
He tells me that scientist use these words, instead of coming up with new ones to better fit.
Then, I countered myself when I realized that all memories are--just a cascade of chemical reactions, mysteriously swirling around in our neuro-matter, lighting it up like the shock of a beam.
So, maybe atoms do remember, maybe they just make us believe that they remember.
When Windows Talk
I start to cry in my GP's office as I describe what it's like to take a shower. My mother, who is sitting a foot or so away--she grabs my hand, and says, "It's okay."
The GP offers that he likes to "discourage" opioid use, but I do have this back problem, and that he understood it was affecting my "daily life activities" (a phrase I've only heard in psychiatric circles). He says he will write a prescription for Norco.
My mother says that she can keep track of the pills, lock them in the safe, and only hand out a few pills at a time that way he knows that I'm not abusing.
"I'm not worried about her abusing," my GP replies, an unusually kind statement, even for him.
***
I figured if he looked at me, maybe even held a gaze for an appropriate amount of time, that I would be able to unlock some hidden ruse in him, and finally be able to say I know--
But though he looked at me, he betrayed nothing, remained empty of affect as always--maybe he even stared a little too aggressively, not in a sexual way, but in the sense that I was a certain challenge to be undertaken and then dismissed heavily.
Of course, I couldn't know this at the time. Inside, I shuffled from fear to delight, and kept silently asking his eyes to talk to me--they stubbornly refused, and they only further confused me.
The GP offers that he likes to "discourage" opioid use, but I do have this back problem, and that he understood it was affecting my "daily life activities" (a phrase I've only heard in psychiatric circles). He says he will write a prescription for Norco.
My mother says that she can keep track of the pills, lock them in the safe, and only hand out a few pills at a time that way he knows that I'm not abusing.
"I'm not worried about her abusing," my GP replies, an unusually kind statement, even for him.
***
I figured if he looked at me, maybe even held a gaze for an appropriate amount of time, that I would be able to unlock some hidden ruse in him, and finally be able to say I know--
But though he looked at me, he betrayed nothing, remained empty of affect as always--maybe he even stared a little too aggressively, not in a sexual way, but in the sense that I was a certain challenge to be undertaken and then dismissed heavily.
Of course, I couldn't know this at the time. Inside, I shuffled from fear to delight, and kept silently asking his eyes to talk to me--they stubbornly refused, and they only further confused me.
Alone, Shall Come
She says, “But in contentment I still feel
The need of some imperishable bliss.”
Death is the mother of beauty; hence from her,
Alone, shall come fulfilment to our dreams
And our desires. Although she strews the leaves
Of sure obliteration on our paths,--"Sunday Morning" by Wallace Stevens
Here Comes the War on Stupid People
"Instead of bending over backwards to find ways of discussing
intelligence that won’t leave anyone out, it might make more sense to
acknowledge that most people don’t possess enough of the version that’s
required to thrive in today’s world."
--"The War on Stupid People," by David H. Freedman, The Atlantic
--"The War on Stupid People," by David H. Freedman, The Atlantic
Saturday, August 5, 2017
Hearing Yourself Say "Stupid," Part II
"What if I told you that I hated you? Would you believe me or would you just think I was angry, and saying something that I didn't mean?" I ask the LSU Professor.
"I don't do that...that's not something I was raised with..." He replies. "You've said that before?"
"Yeah, my mom, and I love her more than any other person on this planet," I confess. "It was a long time ago, I mean, I was a child when it happened." Out of all the memories I've lost, I didn't lose that one. I was young, standing just outside of the gate of the backyard, chain linked fence, and my mother turns to me and says, "Don't you ever say that again." I focus back on him, "Haven't you ever said something in anger that you didn't mean?"
"Yes," he nods.
"I don't do that...that's not something I was raised with..." He replies. "You've said that before?"
"Yeah, my mom, and I love her more than any other person on this planet," I confess. "It was a long time ago, I mean, I was a child when it happened." Out of all the memories I've lost, I didn't lose that one. I was young, standing just outside of the gate of the backyard, chain linked fence, and my mother turns to me and says, "Don't you ever say that again." I focus back on him, "Haven't you ever said something in anger that you didn't mean?"
"Yes," he nods.
The Skinny Pride
"Each time I came to a meeting, I was seduced by the possibility, by the
clean, Calvinist logic, that if you ate less you would weigh less, that
your body would feed on itself and its fat reserves until you became
smaller and smaller and more pleasing to the world and its standards —
until you practically disappeared (we are a culture that fetishizes
something called Size 0)."
--"Losing It in the Anti-Dieting Age," by Taffy, the New York Times Magazine
--"Losing It in the Anti-Dieting Age," by Taffy, the New York Times Magazine
No More Skinny Pride, Part II
"What was Oprah, a person whose very brand meant enlightenment and
progress, doing on another diet? It was hard not to suspect that she was
trapped, like so many of us are, in a culture that says one thing about
fatness and means something very different."
--"Losing It in the Anti-Dieting Age," by Taffy, the New York Times Magazine
--"Losing It in the Anti-Dieting Age," by Taffy, the New York Times Magazine
No More Skinny Pride
"If you had been watching closely, you could see that the change had come
slowly. 'Dieting' was now considered tacky. It was anti-feminist. It
was arcane. In the new millennium, all bodies should be accepted, and
any inclination to change a body was proof of a lack of acceptance of
it. ‘Weight loss’ was a pursuit that had, somehow, landed on the wrong
side of political correctness. People wanted nothing to do with it.
Except that many of them did: They wanted to be thinner. They wanted to
be not quite so fat. Not that there was anything wrong with being fat!
They just wanted to call dieting something else entirely."
--"Losing It in the Anti-Dieting Age," by: Taffy Brodesser-Akner, The New York Times Magazine
--"Losing It in the Anti-Dieting Age," by: Taffy Brodesser-Akner, The New York Times Magazine
Hearing Yourself Say "Stupid"
I wanted to write the English instructor an email that asked, "Did I do something wrong?" Then, I realized I didn't want an actual answer to that question. I read in some late-nineties relationship self-help book that you should never ask a question you don't want the answer to. I took that little bit of advice at eighteen years old as golden.
***
The LSU Professor and I met at the Brown Mustang. I really didn't want to go, but I couldn't find a good enough excuse to dodge seeing him. After all, friendships are sometimes burdensome, and sometimes we have to listen to people we don't want to.
I understand that it's not appropriate to criticize your friends on a blog because they never have a chance to defend themselves, and overall, my friendships are healthy and productive, and I don't want to misguide the readers by complaining about relatively minor events. But somehow, I still can't get the interaction out of my head. I wanted to say a bunch of shit that would be judgmental and, maybe, even cruel, so I stuffed it down inside. After all, what right do I have to criticize a seventy-year-old man, who has been married longer than I've been born, and has two graduate degrees. Isn't he the wise, ol' man, and I'm the young, eager student? At least, that's how the relationship started.
I've been trying to figure out why I'm so angry, but I haven't come up with any answers. Mostly, I'm disappointed in me. People who know me almost expect that I overreact in certain circumstances because I have a form of bipolar disorder. People write off these swings of anger or madness on the illness. But when someone who doesn't have a mental illness says something unbelievable, what is the proper response?
"You mean to tell me that you were going to throw away a twelve-year relationship over one sentence?" I ask the LSU Professor, trying to understand exactly his motivations were.
He just stares at me blankly, a reaction that I got frequently during the conversation like when you speak to an A.I., and all it says, "I do not understand. Try again later." (aka, Alexa from Google) "Yes," he says finally.
Okay, well, that's stupid, I want to tell him. I try other words in my mind like foolhardy or something less insulting, and I can't come up with anything, so I stay silent. Just stupid. I do not think that the LSU Professor is a dumb person, he's obviously very bright to get where he is in life, and I even believe that he's an unusually self-aware person with strong emotional intelligence. But sometimes even smart people say stupid shit. So, what bothers me the most, that he would cut me out of his life because I asked him, "What do you care?" to his response to my ideas about going back to sex work.
That's all I fucking said, "What do you care if I work as an escort?"
"Yeah, but you are telling me that I don't care about you..." The LSU Professor says. "You can't tell me how I feel..."
I pause again because I'm about to call him stupid again. "Okay, asking 'why do you care' implies that you care to start with, otherwise, why would I be asking for the reasons you care?"
He just stares at me some more like I'm speaking some fucking foreign language. Maybe Mandarin.
It amounts to emotional manipulation, although I don't think that the LSU Professor had any nefarious intent. I think he did it without even really thinking about his deeper motives. "I expressed my caring and sadness, and if I cannot express those to you, don't answer this and I won't bother you again, because somehow I've become a bother," his TXT-message said.
Of course, what he wanted was for me to reaffirm my love and affection for him. He didn't really want me to say that he's a pain in the ass, and not worth my time. The problem with this tactic is that people who are angry or upset--they don't like their backs pushed up against the wall, and forced into anything. A common response might be (and that was my initial thought), fuck you, dude.
It's meant to incite pity, but it just shows the depth of brewing insecurities that this man has. Tell me how wonderful I am, and then everything is alright between us.
"Do you really think it would help if I emailed [Morpheus], and asked him if I'm a bother, and then to have him reply, 'yes, [Jae], you are a bother.' Do you really think that would help me out in my life?" I ask the LSU Professor.
"At least you would know where you stand," he replies.
Okay, maybe, but what good would it do me to hurt myself purposefully like that? I know Morpheus doesn't want to talk to me because otherwise he'd be talking to me--to make him say it outloud would just be cruel to me, and totally unnecessary.
"Would you really take twelve years of [Jae] showing you that she cares about you, she wants to spend time with you, would you really take that evidence and throw it out for one sentence? How much sense does that make?"
The LSU Professor then explains that his ex-girlfriend, Greta, said it better after he pulls that trick with her.
Which pissed me off, but moving on--I thought I was being really clear--but I know I can never live up to Greta--
Then, I got into the wisdom that says, we don't always tell our friends what we're thinking or feeling because it could needlessly hurt them. I presented the case of what would happen if I was marrying someone who the LSU Professor thought was a real asshole, would you tell me so on my wedding day? No, you would congratulate me, and wish me the best of luck, realizing I'll figure out he's a dick in enough time.
He just stares at me some more, and says, "Well, hopefully, I'd tell you before your wedding day."
But it's my fucking wedding! You don't get to decide who I fuck and why, and, in addition, who I fucking marry. (I didn't say that, but wrote similar in an TXT-message by explaining that he didn't have the power nor the authority to choose what I do with my body, and how much I sell it for).
I tell him that his attitude about sex work has been socially programmed into him, and does not necessarily reflect the true nature of the business. I tell him that he's received data from only two sources, the stuff I've told him, and the stuff our culture has. "You don't have a full understanding of how dangerous it is or isn't because you have never been directly involved in the industry. I mean, if you became a driver or something like that, then sure, you'd know more about it..."
Is being an escort in Yuppieville really dangerous? I'm sure it's somewhat dangerous, but I wouldn't be working in some high crime area by hanging out on a street corner with a drug habit and a pimp. The agency would pre-screen clients, and men (or women) who pay that much would often treat you with respect. Do women get raped in Yuppieville? Yes.
"I could hire a driver, and then there would be very little risk involved, but I never did because they're expensive, and eat your profits..." One quote I received was $50 per show, which is about half of your usual tip for an hour long show. I always just took my chances.
A lot more staring went on, until finally, I just started petting and playing with my dog.
***
The LSU Professor and I met at the Brown Mustang. I really didn't want to go, but I couldn't find a good enough excuse to dodge seeing him. After all, friendships are sometimes burdensome, and sometimes we have to listen to people we don't want to.
I understand that it's not appropriate to criticize your friends on a blog because they never have a chance to defend themselves, and overall, my friendships are healthy and productive, and I don't want to misguide the readers by complaining about relatively minor events. But somehow, I still can't get the interaction out of my head. I wanted to say a bunch of shit that would be judgmental and, maybe, even cruel, so I stuffed it down inside. After all, what right do I have to criticize a seventy-year-old man, who has been married longer than I've been born, and has two graduate degrees. Isn't he the wise, ol' man, and I'm the young, eager student? At least, that's how the relationship started.
I've been trying to figure out why I'm so angry, but I haven't come up with any answers. Mostly, I'm disappointed in me. People who know me almost expect that I overreact in certain circumstances because I have a form of bipolar disorder. People write off these swings of anger or madness on the illness. But when someone who doesn't have a mental illness says something unbelievable, what is the proper response?
"You mean to tell me that you were going to throw away a twelve-year relationship over one sentence?" I ask the LSU Professor, trying to understand exactly his motivations were.
He just stares at me blankly, a reaction that I got frequently during the conversation like when you speak to an A.I., and all it says, "I do not understand. Try again later." (aka, Alexa from Google) "Yes," he says finally.
Okay, well, that's stupid, I want to tell him. I try other words in my mind like foolhardy or something less insulting, and I can't come up with anything, so I stay silent. Just stupid. I do not think that the LSU Professor is a dumb person, he's obviously very bright to get where he is in life, and I even believe that he's an unusually self-aware person with strong emotional intelligence. But sometimes even smart people say stupid shit. So, what bothers me the most, that he would cut me out of his life because I asked him, "What do you care?" to his response to my ideas about going back to sex work.
That's all I fucking said, "What do you care if I work as an escort?"
"Yeah, but you are telling me that I don't care about you..." The LSU Professor says. "You can't tell me how I feel..."
I pause again because I'm about to call him stupid again. "Okay, asking 'why do you care' implies that you care to start with, otherwise, why would I be asking for the reasons you care?"
He just stares at me some more like I'm speaking some fucking foreign language. Maybe Mandarin.
It amounts to emotional manipulation, although I don't think that the LSU Professor had any nefarious intent. I think he did it without even really thinking about his deeper motives. "I expressed my caring and sadness, and if I cannot express those to you, don't answer this and I won't bother you again, because somehow I've become a bother," his TXT-message said.
Of course, what he wanted was for me to reaffirm my love and affection for him. He didn't really want me to say that he's a pain in the ass, and not worth my time. The problem with this tactic is that people who are angry or upset--they don't like their backs pushed up against the wall, and forced into anything. A common response might be (and that was my initial thought), fuck you, dude.
It's meant to incite pity, but it just shows the depth of brewing insecurities that this man has. Tell me how wonderful I am, and then everything is alright between us.
"Do you really think it would help if I emailed [Morpheus], and asked him if I'm a bother, and then to have him reply, 'yes, [Jae], you are a bother.' Do you really think that would help me out in my life?" I ask the LSU Professor.
"At least you would know where you stand," he replies.
Okay, maybe, but what good would it do me to hurt myself purposefully like that? I know Morpheus doesn't want to talk to me because otherwise he'd be talking to me--to make him say it outloud would just be cruel to me, and totally unnecessary.
"Would you really take twelve years of [Jae] showing you that she cares about you, she wants to spend time with you, would you really take that evidence and throw it out for one sentence? How much sense does that make?"
The LSU Professor then explains that his ex-girlfriend, Greta, said it better after he pulls that trick with her.
Which pissed me off, but moving on--I thought I was being really clear--but I know I can never live up to Greta--
Then, I got into the wisdom that says, we don't always tell our friends what we're thinking or feeling because it could needlessly hurt them. I presented the case of what would happen if I was marrying someone who the LSU Professor thought was a real asshole, would you tell me so on my wedding day? No, you would congratulate me, and wish me the best of luck, realizing I'll figure out he's a dick in enough time.
He just stares at me some more, and says, "Well, hopefully, I'd tell you before your wedding day."
But it's my fucking wedding! You don't get to decide who I fuck and why, and, in addition, who I fucking marry. (I didn't say that, but wrote similar in an TXT-message by explaining that he didn't have the power nor the authority to choose what I do with my body, and how much I sell it for).
I tell him that his attitude about sex work has been socially programmed into him, and does not necessarily reflect the true nature of the business. I tell him that he's received data from only two sources, the stuff I've told him, and the stuff our culture has. "You don't have a full understanding of how dangerous it is or isn't because you have never been directly involved in the industry. I mean, if you became a driver or something like that, then sure, you'd know more about it..."
Is being an escort in Yuppieville really dangerous? I'm sure it's somewhat dangerous, but I wouldn't be working in some high crime area by hanging out on a street corner with a drug habit and a pimp. The agency would pre-screen clients, and men (or women) who pay that much would often treat you with respect. Do women get raped in Yuppieville? Yes.
"I could hire a driver, and then there would be very little risk involved, but I never did because they're expensive, and eat your profits..." One quote I received was $50 per show, which is about half of your usual tip for an hour long show. I always just took my chances.
A lot more staring went on, until finally, I just started petting and playing with my dog.
Tuesday, August 1, 2017
"I Don't Like the Drugs, but the Drugs Like Me"
--MM
When I started crying, it was as much of a shock to my mother as it was to me. I covered my eyes with my hands, and felt the tears leaking through my fingers.
I supposed that yesterday was a somewhat bad day in the history of recent days. It was bad enough that I called my mother while I was drinking a glass of wine at a local, small Italian restaurant, waiting for the pizza to come out of the oven that I was planning on going to Stanford sooner than expected. Today, I made an appointment for the second of August (tomorrow). I just feel like I'm losing control.
I'm sitting there, drinking this wine that I hate (wasn't worth the seven bucks for a single glass) that I could, technically, TXT-message the English instructor, but I did say never--I would never call him (TXT-messaging is naturally included in this)--unless he gave me expressed permission to do so. I'm pretty sure I would get a response of some sort (the English instructor is more direct than Morpheus, but that's not saying much), but I doubt it would be a good response.
I looked him up on Twitter, and found his "educational" twitter feed. In one of his tweets, he used "lol," which I always thought was beneath him--but--whatever--I hardly know this man.
I'm sitting there, and I call Morpheus, knowing that the call will just go straight through to voicemail, even though Morpheus told me--to my face--that he doesn't know how to block calls (I just happen to have the unfortunate talent of always calling when his phone is turned off, right? Right.)
But, I guess, that was only part of the reason why I ended up crying that night. The LSU Professor and I got into a fight about how I found a local escort service for the county, and I told him through TXT-message that if I lost some weight, the cash would be nice to have. Of course, for whatever reason, the LSU Professor objected wholly, telling me he was sad at this choice, and that he was concerned that I would get hurt. In the years as a private dancer and as a stripper in a club, and then the years I spent hooking up with strange guys at a bar, well, in all those years, I've never been once assaulted or injured. I send him a flippant, "What do you care?" That was like pouring gasoline on the conversation. The LSU Professor told me that I could not command his feelings, and then sent me an even more emotional TXT-message, saying that he wouldn't bother me again since he's become such a bother to me.
What the fuck?
I want to send him a paragraph about asking how he would feel about me working at McDonald's, working shit hours with shitty pay, and dealing with shitty, condescending customers (I've worked fast food, so I have some experience with this), and behind an equally shitty frier. All for, what, ten bucks an hour (I don't even remember the minimum wage here in this county). You wouldn't be sad then? Why? Because you're clinging to the stigma of sex work when sex work generally pays pretty well, especially at the upper levels, and you work very few hours. You can make twenty bucks by grinding on some guy's lap for twenty seconds.
That's not fucking sad? Maybe I should mop floors for a living.
I hate the argument that I should respect myself well enough not to objectify myself. Oh, most of us end up on our knees at some point.
But what really pushed me over the edge was the fact that my back pain has been getting progressively worse, and I have to deal with asshole doctors who treat me like I already have an addiction problem when I ask for pain pills. Why? Because the fucking media has totally twisted the story of opioid addiction in this country because of a few sensational stories of heroin addicts passing out in a car full of kids that sells ad space. And most doctors are too fucking lazy to actually read the research behind opioid addiction. My GP even told me about how he watched this story on TV, and how it influenced him not to prescribe opioids. Really? The fucking TV? Good god, I hope he doesn't search YouTube videos for how to cut someone open for surgery.
I was crying because I can't take a fucking shower without being in terrible pain. So, I don't shower but twice a week. The rest of the time, I use a wash cloth and the sink (unfortunately for me, eventually, I have to wash my hair).
When I started crying, it was as much of a shock to my mother as it was to me. I covered my eyes with my hands, and felt the tears leaking through my fingers.
I supposed that yesterday was a somewhat bad day in the history of recent days. It was bad enough that I called my mother while I was drinking a glass of wine at a local, small Italian restaurant, waiting for the pizza to come out of the oven that I was planning on going to Stanford sooner than expected. Today, I made an appointment for the second of August (tomorrow). I just feel like I'm losing control.
I'm sitting there, drinking this wine that I hate (wasn't worth the seven bucks for a single glass) that I could, technically, TXT-message the English instructor, but I did say never--I would never call him (TXT-messaging is naturally included in this)--unless he gave me expressed permission to do so. I'm pretty sure I would get a response of some sort (the English instructor is more direct than Morpheus, but that's not saying much), but I doubt it would be a good response.
I looked him up on Twitter, and found his "educational" twitter feed. In one of his tweets, he used "lol," which I always thought was beneath him--but--whatever--I hardly know this man.
I'm sitting there, and I call Morpheus, knowing that the call will just go straight through to voicemail, even though Morpheus told me--to my face--that he doesn't know how to block calls (I just happen to have the unfortunate talent of always calling when his phone is turned off, right? Right.)
But, I guess, that was only part of the reason why I ended up crying that night. The LSU Professor and I got into a fight about how I found a local escort service for the county, and I told him through TXT-message that if I lost some weight, the cash would be nice to have. Of course, for whatever reason, the LSU Professor objected wholly, telling me he was sad at this choice, and that he was concerned that I would get hurt. In the years as a private dancer and as a stripper in a club, and then the years I spent hooking up with strange guys at a bar, well, in all those years, I've never been once assaulted or injured. I send him a flippant, "What do you care?" That was like pouring gasoline on the conversation. The LSU Professor told me that I could not command his feelings, and then sent me an even more emotional TXT-message, saying that he wouldn't bother me again since he's become such a bother to me.
What the fuck?
I want to send him a paragraph about asking how he would feel about me working at McDonald's, working shit hours with shitty pay, and dealing with shitty, condescending customers (I've worked fast food, so I have some experience with this), and behind an equally shitty frier. All for, what, ten bucks an hour (I don't even remember the minimum wage here in this county). You wouldn't be sad then? Why? Because you're clinging to the stigma of sex work when sex work generally pays pretty well, especially at the upper levels, and you work very few hours. You can make twenty bucks by grinding on some guy's lap for twenty seconds.
That's not fucking sad? Maybe I should mop floors for a living.
I hate the argument that I should respect myself well enough not to objectify myself. Oh, most of us end up on our knees at some point.
But what really pushed me over the edge was the fact that my back pain has been getting progressively worse, and I have to deal with asshole doctors who treat me like I already have an addiction problem when I ask for pain pills. Why? Because the fucking media has totally twisted the story of opioid addiction in this country because of a few sensational stories of heroin addicts passing out in a car full of kids that sells ad space. And most doctors are too fucking lazy to actually read the research behind opioid addiction. My GP even told me about how he watched this story on TV, and how it influenced him not to prescribe opioids. Really? The fucking TV? Good god, I hope he doesn't search YouTube videos for how to cut someone open for surgery.
I was crying because I can't take a fucking shower without being in terrible pain. So, I don't shower but twice a week. The rest of the time, I use a wash cloth and the sink (unfortunately for me, eventually, I have to wash my hair).
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