Perpetual Smile

“I havnt talked to you in a while and wanted to say hi and stuff,” reads the text message. Ever since opening it, all I can think of are his hands around my throat.

* * * * *

Things have been absolutely bonkers on planet elizawhat. Aside from people from my past popping up like germs on a little kid’s hands, life has been packed with huge projects for clients with looming deadlines, a new niece to snuggle and love and gaze at while she sleeps, anxiety about Popi’s angioplasty that he had done today, a renewed sense of connection and even deeper love for Mike (who has been amazing beyond words through all of the shit hitting the fan), a slew of phone calls to schedule appointments with various doctors, more worry while we wait to see what the doctors say is going on with Dad, depression cycling in and out of me faster than fucking bunnies (and “fucking” is a verb here, heh), and a deep, unquenchable urge to play Sims and write even though I barely have time to sleep.

Suddenly, “bonkers” doesn’t seem quite appropriate; things are absolutely batshit.

* * * * *

Popi has been having chest pains, that go all the way down to his elbow. They found two clogs in the arteries of his heart, and did an angioplasty this afternoon to open up the arteries. They’re not sure why the arteries were clogged; it could be the chemo, it could be something that was already there before the cancer came along. More than likely it is the chemo, because a few weeks ago they did a full slew of tests and no clogs were detected.

I’m angry and afraid, to be perfectly blunt. I’m angry at the chemo, and afraid that it’s going to destroy him, piece by piece, before the cancer does. And then I saw him last night, and seeing him looking well and being with him made me think more positively. I look at my great-great-aunt Nan, who is in her nineties and was diagnosed with stage 3 cancer more than six years ago. She’s fine today, still kickin’, feisty for such an old lady. She makes her own clothing. She drinks wine. She cracks jokes, sometimes dirty ones. She’s got an uncanny strength for someone who looks so fragile. I admire her, deeply.

She is proof that Popi can make it through. It pisses me off when everyone starts discussing hospice. It’s like they’ve already given up. I don’t want to give up. Call me selfish, but I want to keep my Popi. I like to think that he can kick this thing’s ass, even if it’s already taken its toll in so many places: hip, spine, liver, lung. Fuck you, cancer. My Popi is stubborn and won’t go down so easily. I won’t let him.

* * * * *

My niece is a doll. She has Jaysa’s nose, Robbie’s face. Her hair is black and her head is full of it. Her eyes are big and constantly open, aware. She may not be able to see much yet, but she looks like she’s perfectly aware of what’s going on. Ciana Olivia Pelletier already has all of us wrapped around her tiny, long fingers.

* * * * *

It’s hard to talk about everything that is swirling through my mind. I don’t really even know where to start. I’m bone tired, thanks to a week full of nights spent staying up until the ass crack of dawn to get pieces of projects complete. I keep reminding myself that if I work hard now, in five to ten years I’ll be able to enjoy things. Sometimes I wish I could be a “normal” twenty-one-year-old, spending my late nights partying instead of working, falling asleep with veins full of thin, beer- or vodka-chased blood, then waking up to do it all over again the next day. But my partying stages were years ago, when being fifteen meant that I didn’t care much about my future. Now, I want that future, whatever it may be.

* * * * *

I know things have been pretty serious around here. I promise to try to make this place fun again. Thank you for listening.

I wonder what would happen if I started blogging every day?

Today I looked up mental health care providers in my area and wrote down three names and numbers that jumped out at me. I was mainly looking for pain management, depression, and mood disorder specialties — and of course someone who is a chick. I just can’t picture myself talking to a strange man. Then again, it sucks talking to a strange anyone… Unless that anyone happens to be a cat, because they pretend to be good listeners. I say pretend because everyone knows that cats pretend to sleep, pretend to love you, pretend to listen, all while they plot your death for serious.

What was I saying?

I spent today kind of floating. I have a LOT of work to do, which is probably why I mostly just procrastinated all day. It’s overwhelming. Tomorrow is the last day to upload all kinds of content to Latest Client’s WordPress site, so that they can be all wowed and amazed on Monday. Meanwhile, my muse is screaming for me to write, to work on Secondhand Mom or the short story I started last week. Stupid muse. When I want to write, she ditches me. When I can’t write, she yells at me to write.

I wanted to do a lot of things today, and now I can barely remember what I did do. (Uh, nothing.) I really wanted to get a lot done and go to Mike’s so that I could hang out with Robbie, Jaysa, and Ciana (my new niece), but since I didn’t get anything done…

Tomorrow I’m supposed to be going to Mike’s to watch the Colts/Jets game, so I’m panicking because that only gives me a few hours to get everything done that I need to get done. I think today can be filed under LAZY.

I want to tell you all about so many things, like Christmas Eve, my latest bout of depression, the Nintendo DS I bought myself as a treat, all of the pain I’ve been having lately, the insane workload I’ve been carrying, and a few other things. But when I sit down to write, all of my thoughts blow away like clouds on a clear summer day. I could tell you about how I lost my appointment card and have no idea when my next rheumatologist appointment is (or was). I could tell you that I feel like it does no good to go anyway. I could explain to you how amazing Mike is and that without him I would not have made it through the last few days.

I want to tell you how badly I want to reorganize my life right now, because it feels so messy and everything I want feels so out of reach. I want to tell you that not every moment in my life has been gloomy; I’ve had some good happy moments lately, too. I want to tell you all about how my family is doing, the love, the fights, the eggshells.

I just don’t know where to start, my friends.

I’ve been reading everyone’s blogs and it seems like we’ve all been having more than our share of ups and downs. I can barely get my thoughts together enough to leave a comment worth reading let alone encouraging. Everything feels so chaotic right now. My own head is a mess and my heart is lost. There is so much to fight right now, but I feel like every time I swing, I miss by a wide berth. (Can you tell I’ve been running around as Link in the latest Zelda game for the DS?)

I know that the end is in sight. I tell myself that, as soon as I finish my big client’s project, things will get a little better. But I know it isn’t just the project that is weighing me down. I spend so much of my time worrying and stressing that when it comes time to take action, I freeze. I think this is defined as ANXIETY. I know that I should probably grab a phone book and call a therapist. I know that I should call my rheumatologist’s office and find out when my next appointment is (or was), since I’m worrying myself sick that I might have to pay a fee if I missed it.

I worry, worry, worry.

I wish that someone would guide me through this, like some sort of magical creature that will say, “Okay, do X and Y will happen, so then do Z and it’ll be all set.” I wish someone would take care of me, even though I am old enough to take care of myself. I need a rope, friends. A thick, knotted rope that I can climb up to the top where I can see everything.

Or maybe I am already able to climb up and look. Maybe I only need to let myself SEE. Maybe I have become so comfortable with the bottom that I’ve allowed myself to stay there. To quote Silversun Pickups, “I don’t care, I’m still here, everything seems perfect from down here.” Except it’s not.

I wish that I only had to handle one thing at a time, but that’s not the way life goes. Maybe if I put everything out, examine everything that I’m dealing with, and SEE it for what it is, then maybe I can figure it out. So if you don’t mind, I’m going to do that. Let’s see:

• The big project. This project is HUGE and is making me a lot of money, which is awesome. The not awesome part is that I’m stuck on a couple of things with it, and being stuck makes me freeze instead of taking action. This needs to stop. I need to figure out how to fix the issues I’m having with the coding. I need to force myself to sit there and work through it. Standing still is not going to help. Letting the anxiety of the Impending Deadline stop me in my tracks is not going to help. If I don’t say “fuck you” to the anxiety, I’m going to be frozen until the Impending Deadline hits me right in the head. I need to remember that it is not only me that will take the hit if Impending Deadline comes and the project is not done. I need to also not let that scare me into frozen fear. I need to keep saying “fuck you” to the anxiety and work through the stubborn code.
• The pain. Whatever the hell is wrong with me has been pretty aggressive lately. A few days ago, both of my hips flared up, with the ache radiating back and forth, so that my whole front hip area was in agony. The next day or maybe the day after, my right hip flared up, then radiated to my back. The back side of my hips and my lower back were a big glow of RED pain for maybe an hour or two. I fell asleep some time after it started, and when I woke up it was gone. This morning, from the front of my hips all the way to my toes ached so badly, I could barely walk. All I wanted to do was lay down and go to sleep, but I had so much work to do and also had to go to work. It quit around the time I went into my day job, so I’d say it lasted at least three hours, maybe four.

  I’m so tired of bouncing from doctor to doctor, spending so much time and money when all I get are no answers. It all feels like a huge waste of time, and once again I feel like they are never going to figure out what is wrong. I think I’m going to spend the rest of my life bouncing between mind numbing flareups and a very thin time slot of remission. What I’m experiencing is the definition of rheumatoid arthritis or some other autoimmune disease, and yet all tests come back negative — except for that one double stranded DNA, which is supposed to mean I have some sort of autoimmune disease, but so far my rheumatologist has been unable to determine which one. I know this requires a lot of patience, but I am not the most patient, and I think after almost three years of pain, pain, pain and a slew of other symptoms, most other people would also have lost their patience.

  I’m also tired of A Certain Person scoffing at me when I complain, as if I am just making this all up. I want to be taken seriously by A Certain Person, but I get the feeling they don’t because they can’t physically see any of my symptoms. I’ve gotten to the point where I mostly say nothing when I’m around them and experiencing symptoms. And anyone who deals with chronic pain knows that it’s so hard not to say anything. Since I spend a lot of time around A Certain Person, I spend a lot of time not saying anything. (And no, it isn’t Mike.)

  I know what I need to do. I need to push the fears of never finding an answer aside once more and I need to call my rheumatologist to either reschedule my appointment or get the date so I can go. When I do call, I need to be adamant about getting in sooner, and I need to stress that my symptoms have once again gotten worse. I need to not let the fact that I feel okay right now get in my way. I need to remember that “okay” can quickly turn into agony and that by speaking up and being a little more vocal, I might be able to get closer to the answers and treatment I need. I need to remember that I do NOT deserve this.

• My wish to write. While I spend most of my time working, I yearn so badly to get back to the novel I started during November. I know that my client’s project has to be done before I can get back to the novel. I need to remember that the sooner I finish this huge project, I will have more free time and will be able to spend that time finishing my manuscript so that I can start editing it.
• Taking the time to relax. I absolutely NEED to do something nice for myself once this project is done. It’s time to use that spa gift certificate my uncle gave me for my birthday so that I can go get that massage. I have been treating myself with DS Zelda breaks, but I also need to remember that too many breaks kills productivity. I need to remind myself that I do deserve the breaks, but should try to get more work done first.
• Popi. This is the hardest of them all, because there is nothing I can DO. Instead, the worry about his health pushes down on me. I don’t know what to do. I do know that I am so scared of losing him.

  His second round of chemo went well. He was only at the hospital for three days, and came back home on the third day. He hasn’t experienced any side effects. He’s just awfully tired from fighting so hard. I am so proud of him for being so strong. His strength makes me want to be strong, too.

  I am having a hard time fighting the worry, though.

Whew, glad that’s all off my chest now. I really need to stop bottling everything up and keeping it to myself. I have a hard time vocalizing the worry, though; I force myself to carry it all on my own.

If you’ve read this all the way through, thank you. I’m so glad that you were here to listen. Now I want to return the favor. Tell me, how are YOU doing?

I’m about to be very busy.

Some time ago, I partnered my little (barely started) startup web design company with my aunt’s. I jumped on board as a web designer AND social media consultant since — I say this quite modestly — I am pretty nasty at community building on social networking sites, and in general. More than one comment on this blog certified me for the position. (I’m totally kidding here.)

ANYWAY.

At the moment, we have two HUGE clients who need websites done by January. I’m going to be building a WordPress site (yay) and my aunt is doing a static HTML/CSS site. After the latter is done, I’m going to be doing a huge three month long social media push for the same client.

Goodbye, money worries. Hello, code tinkering. Sigh. I’ll wipe the drool from my face when I’m done thinking about all of the nerdy goodness of this career.

But where, my inner editor asks, does THE NOVEL fit into all of this?

I promised her that it would indeed still get finished. I will indeed still get to 50,000 words for NaNoWriMo (I’m currently at 45k). I’ll even start editing it still. But the going is going to be a little slower now; you try explaining to a client that their website isn’t finished yet because your characters need you. I dare you.

I don’t often write about stuff like this here, but sometimes I just can’t contain myself and have to share. Not that, you know, the design of this blog is any proof to the fact that I am, indeed, a good web/WordPress designer. (I solemnly swearwill try to make it MINE when my big projects are over at the end of January!) Another personal project I’ve been working on, Freaking Bookworm, will have to wait, too. (It’s about halfway done. Oops.) I’d like to think that I’ll still work on it a little at a time, but we’ll see.

I’ve always had a hard time admitting when something is too hard or when I need help. I’m stubborn and fiercely independent. I also tend to get hit with big ideas and goals, and then I jump into them without thinking them through.

During the last couple of months, I’ve constantly felt as if I could barely keep my head above the water. It wasn’t just school. It was also work, my health problems, my relationship with Mike, and a deep inner yearning to toss everything away and get back to writing. Every aspect of my life suffered, and I with it. I kept trying to ignore the problem, kept trying to look at the bright side. “I can do this,” I’d tell myself, and with renewed strength I’d plow on through. But several days later I would be back in the same position, tired from all of the swimming and barely avoiding the waves of my To Do list from pulling me completely under.

Tuesday night I did not sleep. My legs were wrecked with a pain so intense that I could not do anything other than toss and turn. I wanted to scream, but the people in my house slept soundly around me. I lay there for hours, trapped in a prison that is supposed to be my body, until I finally threw the covers back and got up. I did a lot of bitching on Facebook, which I sort of regret (but only because I don’t like showing any kind of weakness).

I popped in the last DVD of Dollhouse Season 1 and watched “Epitaph One” and the original unaired pilot. I watched a whole bunch of special features. And still the pain wore on. I could barely concentrate, and although I felt so tired, I could not fall asleep. Pain like that is maddening, and I didn’t think I could stand another minute of it.

I logged into Facebook again, wandering around aimlessly, when Mike messaged me. He couldn’t sleep either. We had each been awake for hours, fighting our demons alone, but a simple website had allowed us to come together. We talked on the phone for a long time, sharing our thoughts and soothing each other. I asked him the question that I have been longing to ask but too proud to put into words: “Why is this happening to me?”

“I don’t know. I wish I had an answer,” he said, and I could hear in his voice the frustration and pain he felt for me.

We talked some more, and suddenly the conversation turned to school. Suddenly, I could no longer hide the sensation of drowning that I had been feeling for the last couple of months. “I don’t even know where I’m going to be in five years,” I said, possibly unnecessarily morbidly. I confessed how stressed out I’m feeling, and how I just can’t seem to stay ahead or even on track of everything.

“Well,” he said. “I’m not saying this is what you should do, but maybe you should think about dropping out. Take the time to concentrate on finding out what’s wrong. You can always go back.”

There. He’d said the words that I’d been too stubborn to even think about, but had known deep in my heart for several weeks.

“But, I don’t know if it will affect my GPA,” I said, still stubbornly clinging.

“Screw the GPA,” he said. “It’s just a GPA.”

(Twenty-four hours later, my mom and I would have the same conversation, and she would say the exact thing he had: “It’s just a GPA.”)

“Just think about it,” he said. “School will always be there.”

For the next several hours, while I lay in bed not sleeping, and then when I barely slept tossing and turning, I thought about it. I admitted to myself that the stress of all the things I had stubbornly taken on might be making things worse. I admitted that I’m doing horribly in school and that at this point it is probably too late. I admitted that I needed to really concentrate on me, and that only then would I be able to do well in school.

After talking to my mom and then thinking about it a little more, I decided to do what my heart has wanted to do for several weeks now. I began the withdrawal process yesterday, and already I feel as if a huge weight has been lifted from me.

I have promised myself that I am not going to do this to myself again. I’m not going to jump into an idea that sounds awesome without thinking it through first. I’m going to learn to concentrate on one or two things at a time, without overloading myself. I’m going to take care of myself and find a way to find out what it wrong with me. I’m going to stop taking on so much that I end up burning myself out.

And, more importantly, I’m going to do what I love: I’m going to spend the entire month of November writing a novel without worrying about exams and portfolios and lesson plans and math.

I have taken the first step: I’ve admitted that, while I do really love kids, I’ve had doubts about becoming a teacher and going through this program. While I like school, it’s been incredibly stressful for me and I just honestly can’t handle it right now.

And that is okay. Just hearing it from Mike and Mom, that it’s okay, makes it easier for me to believe.

It’s okay, and I’m going to be okay.

My house has two flights of stairs, each with maybe fifteen steps. I run up and down these guys all the time. By the time I got halfway up the second flight last night, I thought my legs were going to collapse. I’ve felt like Bambi before, but it never got that bad. Every step felt like my legs were weighted down with concrete blocks. I got to the top landing and stood there leaning on the rail for a minute before I went inside. I still felt like Bambi, but my legs felt a little stronger.

On my way to the bathroom, they gave out completely. I collapsed onto my laundry basket (and almost broke it). That has never happened before.

Two minutes later, my legs went back to normal and I was able to change, brush my teeth, and get into bed.

Earlier, on my way to math class, my hip got really stiff and sore. I spent most of the day in pain, various spots of my legs, arms, and shoulders flaring now and then. (It also totally didn’t help that I had cramps so bad that my back hurt.) I never expected my legs giving up, though.

I called out of work, just because I wasn’t sure how I would feel in the morning and at that point last night I felt that bone-deep fatigue I get every once in a while. I didn’t want to call out. I never wanted this to come between me and my work.

I woke up early this morning and lay in bed debating whether to call my rheumatologist. After pro- and conning it to death, I decided not to. I would have to drive over there, pay $30 for the visit, and $2 for parking, for him to check my reflexes and ponder the mystery of it all, only to send me home without any answers. Plus, my stupid leg hurt earlier this morning, and now everything else is taking turns flaring up, so I just don’t feel like taking the adventure.

I’ll just write the whole episode down in my notebook, and tell him about it when I see him on the 19th to get my blood test results. I know I should try to see him today — or at least try to see my PA — but I’m getting really tired of the whole cycle.

At the same time, to be completely honest, I’m terrified. I can easily see myself confined to a wheelchair, still without a diagnosis or treatment plan. All of my dreams gone in an instant.

…taken my arms, taken my legs, taken my soul, left me with life in hell

I got my very first jury duty summons about a week ago.

I laughed. I cried. (Especially when I found out I won’t be getting paid by my company, since I only work part-time. Though I am also self-employed, so I wonder if that might change things.) I swore a lot, too. My mom gave me several ways to get out of it (like calling the night before to see if my name is recorded on the list of people they don’t need). (Here are a few really funny ways to try and get out of jury duty!)

And then I filled out the return form like a good girl and marked the date in my planner.

The next day at work, I broke the news to my boss. “I know it’s like forever away,” I said, “but I have jury duty on the 25th. Of September. Just so ya know.”

He asked if I wanted to borrow a book to bring with me. (Wish I could remember the title! He said that when he brought it with him, they sent him home as soon as they saw it!) “Or,” he said, “you can ask if they need you when you show up. Just say, ‘look, do you really need me?’ and they might not and just send you home.”

“Hmn. I might try that. Unless it’s actually interesting.” I sighed. “Jury duty. Ugh! It should just be a profession, for people who actually like it.”

“It would make a great job for retired people,” my boss said.

I laughed. “I know, right? They watch People’s Court all day anyway!”

I’m still trying to figure out this whole keeping work and play separate on the internet thing. In real life, I don’t have to tell my coworkers anything. But online? They can Google me and every. little. thing. ever. pops up. Suddenly I’m self-conscious about every swear used on my blog and wondering if they think I’m crazy since I run a pen pal project for people with depression. I put myself on display, but when am I going to get bit in the ass about it?

Because it’s gonna happen. And I don’t know what I’ll do when it does.

So I’ve been ignoring the possibility that I could lose a client because of Twitter sarcasm about having a bad day, or that someone could stumble upon my blogs about depression and suicide and cutting and fire me dead because that’s shit that people just aren’t comfortable with. I know who I am. I’m a person who’s got a lot to say and doesn’t want to censor anything. I want to tell the truth about the things I experience, see, think, and feel because if I don’t, who the hell else is going to? I want to talk straight up about my past and muse about my future. I know I have a hell of a lot of potential, and I know what I want to do with my life. But the what ifs of being this OUT THERE and HONEST are terrifying.

The people who know me love me because they know me. The people who don’t already know me and may want to hire me aren’t going to love me. They’re going to be looking for any reason not to hire me, because that’s what people do. Especially now that I’m getting my teaching certificate. What if my hypothetical principal finds out I used to cut myself or that I used to starve myself, and decides I’m just not mentally stable enough to teach a bunch of kids? What if I lose a big website client with the company I’m partnered with because of something I’ve written about? I can’t blog and not be real. I’m not funny, so I can’t write up a riot about how to make corn. I’m not a mother, so I can’t write about little girls shoving handfuls of sugar into their mouths. There are a lot of things I’m not.

But I know that I can’t not blog. I know that I can’t blog only about work. I know that I can’t blog only about mundane, blah things that no one cares about. (Unless my blog is already mundane and blah. Then you should just let me know, so I can quit while I’m ahead.) I have a compulsive urge to write about everything that I know I shouldn’t write about. And I can’t figure out how to keep my professional life from colliding with my writing. I mean, let’s face it: I don’t hold much back, especially over at Scars Can Speak.

So tell me, all of you bloggers who do it anyway without worrying: what’s the secret? What’s the trick? What do I do and how do I do it?

I spent the last half of yesterday cleaning, organizing, and going through my books, memories (journals, yearbook, etc), and files. This wouldn’t be such a big deal for most people, but since I live with four to six other people in a one bedroom apartment, it is huge for me. Let me back up.

A little over four years ago I was living with my parents in a three bedroom apartment down the street from my grandparents’ house. To make a really, really long story short, we got evicted even though we had done nothing wrong. You can say we had bad luck with landlords for a while there. Anyway, we literally had no time to find a new place so we packed up our stuff, put most of it into storage, and moved in with my grandparents. My grandparents’ house is a three-family house, with my great-grandmother on the first floor, my great-aunt on the second floor, and my grandparents on the third floor. My parents moved their stuff into my great-grandmother’s living room, and my little sister and I moved our stuff into my grandparents’ dining and living rooms. We were only supposed to stay for a couple of weeks, but four years and some financial issues later, we’re still here. It’s crowded and not what the writers of Full House made it all out to be, but there’s a roof over our heads.

A few days ago my grandparents’ forty-something-year-old refrigerator burnt out — literally. If my grandfather hadn’t touched the electrical socket the fridge was plugged into and noticed it was burning hot (the plastic was melting!), I probably wouldn’t be blogging right now. My grandparents had just come home and my sister, Mom, and I were watching Wall-E, so we hadn’t noticed the burnt motor smell.

So last night we moved the old fridge out and brought the fridge Mike’s mom gave to us home and upstairs. While all that was going on, I decided it was probably a good time to do what I’d been wanting to do: organize all of my books into one storage bin and clean some of the dust off of everything in the dining and living rooms. I’d already hurt my neck carrying my laptop in a backpack on Sunday, so by the time I got finished last night my back and neck were in agony. I took the last 70mg of my amitriptyline to get some sleep and hopefully some pain relief, and passed out.

When I woke up this morning, I felt a little dizzy and groggy but I thought that was normal for amitriptyline. I felt better after getting moving and eating, but I still felt pretty out of it. I took some Zyrtec, since it’s the only thing that’s been helping with my allergies, and left for work. Not long after I got to work I started feeling really woozy, dizzy, and just completely out of this world. I’m super stubborn when it comes to work; if I don’t feel good, I usually try to stick it out as long as I can. I was also determined to finish the website I was working on before I left, so I tried to ignore the dizzy attacks.

It wasn’t working very well. I couldn’t stand, and no matter what I did it just didn’t get any better. I put everything into finishing the website, and then called it quits. I had Mike come get me and my Sunfire is still downtown in the parking lot. I hope she isn’t too mad at me.

I spent the early afternoon in the recliner, and the catnap I took helped a little. I’m still getting dizzy now and then but the worst of it has passed, I think.

I did learn an important lesson, though: Next time, ask Mom first.