jumbo shrimp

and other oxymorons.

big little descending ascents into the present past of my inexperienced experience.

or something.  just think of something that doesn’t make sense and you can taste what my 5 or 7 different prescription medication day feels like.

a year after i was born steve martin released a record called, “a wild and crazy guy“, ( if  i’m at all capable of remembering anything) and one of the most striking routines on it, in my opinion when i first heard it when i was about 24, was his imagination of what would become of children if we “talked wrong” to them.  instead of asking to go to the bathroom they would say, “dogface the banana patch” or something.  of course, you’ve got to be the wild and crazy guy himself to make this exactly as funny as it is but i’m not really thinking about it humorously at the moment.  i’m talking wrong myself and i can’t seem to control it.  my thoughts are clear enough, but my mouth talks wrong and things come out precisely backwards which is embarrassing and frustrating.  the worst part is the concern it evokes in people who know me. anyway… them fuck, that other fine than i’m.

two years after i was born a woman named suzette elgin wrote a book called, “the gentle art of verbal self-defense.”  i think that i read it for the first time at about 28.  i was sleeping on an air mattress that my best friend had loaned to me in an empty room with a thin blanket not dissimilar to a jail blanket, though i didn’t know what jail blanket felt like at the time.  i was in the house rented in my name and i wasn’t ruined or anything, but i had kicked my current husband and (long ago) then boyfriend out after the best friend explained to me what had happened to me in front of her.  i lived alone that way for a while in a waking coma with what was left of my personal belongings kept in boxes or closets, making use of only what i needed.

after what was supposed to have been a really awesome night i had been thrown violently against my tile kitchen floor.  apparently my skull had bounced like a ball of jello (trademark! for goodness sake don’t sue me, bill cosby) encased in mercury with two shocking shock wave thuds.  i had fallen asleep on the couch with my long missed and very dear female friend and so the waking, being pulled from my nestled warm position was more than fuzzy and remarkably less warm than what i could totally recall.  i’d really been feeling good about that night.  peaches was playing emo’s and we had tickets forever.  i lost a very important necklace that night and had the good fortune of finding that it had fallen behind my neck in the driver’s seat of my own car and had hidden from all of the eyes, like so many blackjacks, in the night of downtown austin, texas where it  might have been mistaken for something of more value than glass and steel.  my best friend was home from miles of school and i did feel more lucky than usual and in a few dim ways i was.  i learned later that when i crawled up off of the floor with her help that i picked up a 5th of the “turkey” and threw it across the room as i was being dragged to safety and hit my attacker, my now husband, square in the back of the head shattering the bottle in the rear stage right of what had been our living room.  now… for a blackout drunk, if that isn’t luck then it’s got to be god and since there isn’t a god the only other possibility is that i really am one hell of a shot, blind drunk or not.

the next day with a lot of encouragement i uninvited him from our lease and bought a new chain lock that actually worked.  a couple weeks into my new life i would read first about verbal self defense.  so ironic that i’ve never been able to admit to myself that i’ve really been physically battered.  i’ve always found an excuse that either blames me for the physical confrontation or shields my ego from considering that i could be a victim.  i’m either too stupid or too smart to be afraid of him.

sooooo… medically, i’m in such a mess.  accepting, admitting, coming to terms with or even realizing that you really are in the middle of a health crisis that is chronic is hard for my type.  my genetic makeup protects me from feeling helpless as an adult in order to negate my own childhood inferiority that goes along with many a girls life.

now i am applying for disability and the dynamic is changing around here again.  he hated my period of post -op helplessness.  i actually did need his help to help my own child.  turns out you need both hands to take care of a toddler even if it’s your secondary hand that’s in the shitter.  oh my, how worse things have become.  i am unable to do almost any housework that requires repeated bending, heavy lifting most meal preparation.  if the milk is on the bottom of the fridge i just skip it.  water, likewise.  food is impossible to make.  i feel dead and my punishment is to live in a hell that is exactly like my real life now.  always sicker and no improvement.  no diagnostics. no reason to get up anymore.

see you soon sherry!

phantoms

i’ve had them for six months now.  i’m under a rain cloud of morphine and new fashioned nerve tonics.  i tell myself it will be worth it when they find out what is wrong with me.  so far, electric shock nor radiation can give a face to my solid and constant pain disorder.  many nice palliative treatments have also failed.  i can’t even stand a massage most of the time.

imagine that someone was burning your nerve endings at irregular intervals for no apparent reason.  really, imagine it.  they’re talking about actually doing that to me as a treatment now.  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rhizotomy

i’m sure i’ve missed a few updates here as it has all unfolded and i’ve little strength to repeat it, but i did want to explain that the biggest reason for my lack of activity is that i cannot sit for more than 5 minutes at a time most days and i have an old desktop computer and what feels like a cinder block for a chair.  the smallest reason is that he has launched more and more vile epithets about my work here (that he claims to have never read) lately than i can really tolerate on a good day.  there just aren’t many good days. and.. well.. you know..

 

phantoms so wild and shaking, so hard

that i think i’m breaking under a weight that’s too big to swallow

so for wallowing’s sake i’ll think of a grave so pitifully shallow.

because my sick is just to much sorrow.  my blank grave mark’s for you’re tomorrow.

it wouldn’t do good to beg any comfort when it’s borrowed.

new years day for liars and hostages…

new years day for liars and hostages isn’t new or happy.

don’t read me wrong.  i’m not his hostage.  i’m my own.   i am responsible for enduring this.

all day has been such a mess.  stupid, worthless and totally unnecessary lies, anger belching out of him towards our daughter for acting her age (under three) and his best friend (paranoia) have all taken turns.  an 1/32nd inch wick on his t.n.t. would be enough for the fire department to monitor were it literal.  maybe they could send the robots to defuse him or destroy him.  good luck getting me to care which it were tonight.  i’m aghast at foul demeanor on holidays..

i made the traditional beans, greens and cornbread anyway.  i need all the luck, money and gold that i can get my hands on.  do wish my daughter and i good luck for this year should you have a moment.  we will really will need it.

other news

had to crap out that last post before i could move forward in my life.  it is what it was.  and what it was it isn’t anymore.  i have heavy decision making dark matter in a sack over my shoulder all the time.

that must be why… my new thoracic mri showed 4 black discs, two bulging and deforming my spinal cord.  no nerve damage yet.  my lumbar disc is also “bulging”.  this is fine in your 30′s, the thoracic results are, um… not fine.

new tests are to be performed.  medication maintenance is now handled by a pain specialist.  some of my pain may be nueropathy.

i cannot get over the news from a healer in another city that i am keeping something very hateful low in my chakras and if i don’t let it go, i will only grow the pain syndrome i have now.

i’ve looked so hard for the reason to all of this.  i have searched myself.  i cannot find any undue anger just lying around unused.

anniversary time

post start date:  nov 4 2010…

anniversary time,  happy happy!!  happy radial and ulna fracture!  happy “bon anniversaire, mon divorce hypothétique!”

“feliz aniversario, mi divorcio hipotética!”

“felice anniversario, il mio ipotetico divorzio!”

“юбилеем, мой гипотетический развод!”

you’re worth a bag of sick,

“ครบรอบปีที่มีความสุขการหย่าร้างสมมุติของฉัน!”

“記念日おめでとう、私の架空の離婚！”

“週年快樂，我的假設離婚!”

“sretna godišnjica, moj hipotetski razvod!”

“גליקלעך יאָרטאָג, מיין כייפּאַטעטיקאַל גט!!”

happy google translate.

but, yeah, a year ago he jumped up at me and took me down with all of his force saying, “you think you’re tough?  i can be tough too.”  my poor wrist was broken in his hand as it smashed against a table on the quick way down.  that was the first moment of silence we’d had in over an hour while i looked, in total sobering shock, at my twisted arm that was rapidly swelling and changing color.  we’d been fighting and i had lost all control and was hitting him with all of my primal anger and weak hands.  he’d accused me of cheating again.  it was almost a pastime of his, accusing me of things and finding ways to further isolate me.  this time his insecurity involved a man i worked with.  i lost it.  i kept thinking, “you are not going to take my job away… you are not going to make me feel guilty for supporting my daughter.. you are not going to take the pride i have in my work away from me!!!  i don’t deserve this, i’ve never deserved this.”

(do i really want to go into the next moments?  can i?  i’ve really got to.  these are the really painful memories and the gray areas.)

i managed to weakly bark out, “you broke my fucking wrist.”  “call 911.”

no.

he wasn’t going to call 911.

i certainly wish he hadn’t now.  if i’d had any idea what would happen to me,  i’d have crawled to the ER by my teeth.

no.  no.  no.  he wasn’t going to call and he had thrown my phone and i couldn’t find it.  staying low, i crawled to the front door and opened it and started screaming for help from the neighbors.  he grabbed my bluejeans and pulled me inside again, slamming the door behind us.  at that moment, it occurred to me that he was going to kill me.  horrific pain was setting in and i was too weak to fight him for help so i just pleaded repeatedly and cried, hoping to find the place where he keeps his shame and guilt or simply badger him into doing something.  “they’re going to arrest us both and our daughter is going to go to social services.”  “CALL!!!” i yelled.  what a mistake, one of my worst.

i never thought in a million years that they would arrest me.  i thought they were going to take him and put him where he belonged and that we’d sort through his treatment, child custody and our separation later.  what a relief it would be to come home from the ER and have him gone.  oh justice!  oh righteousness! oh how naive.  i’ve always known he was a liar.  a poor one.  just as poor at it as our police force is at their work.

and it rolls.  downhill all the way he’s got me rigid.

i went to my talk therapy.  there had been quite a delay.  i had forgotten all the broken children he left inside of me between our visits. upon query of him i gave too favorable of a report.  i just found last month’s apology letter and the last three days have cut me to threads of old sinew and short muscular fibre of little use.  of little taste, some butcher’s remains am i.  as i ride on my ticketed rickety train from a departure point of sane to an arrival in good old terror depot.  yarrow, pennyroyal, emmenagogues.. a cramp fed straining of my fragile bowel heart.  my gut receiver.  my pennyroyal, my dear black cohosh, do you work psychically?

can you abort him,

can you keep me while he tries to kill me, can you keep me well?  or  hide me from the manic carousel?

he is going to kill me
i found out the other day it’s so rarely complete, my full sentence, my full thought.

of course you can’t.  stay tuned.  it’s ratcheting up.

more frank and bobby

NSFW language.

my favorite things

i’ve seen internet blogging memes that focus on thankfulness as a central theme.  these are typically done at regularly scheduled intervals often leaving the writers pressed, to gently put it, against the negative force of life experience to expound upon anything positive.

since i’m not in creative writing class anymore and i find most external prodding to be intrusive, i simply fail to participate in so very many blogging memes including the one i have just described.  you are also likely to never find me plugging another writer.  you might instead see my silent nod, in the form of addition to my others section.  i cannot expect that i will ever have to agree to anyone’s disclosure agreement in order to pursue product review net-cred since it is all too likely that i would deem most consumer products (save tech) to be frivolous.  you might often alternately find me being active or paralyzed within my favorite group of authors in unpredictable calendar cycles.

i would like to just say once more that i don’t come here for good things. if there is a good thing, i’m far too involved in it to sit here.  i can barely sit, physically… period, much less sit here if life chooses (i’ve relinquished responsibility for these twists and turns) to throw a coin at me.

so here i am.  hmm… what the fuck is wrong with me now, we wonder.  everything, nothing… i want to reverse this thankful vibe.  i want a completely sarcastic thanks list.  not a passive aggressive (no thanks) list.  i want to tell you, at 8.5 this evening what i am most un-thankful for with a sharp tongue and bile spewing voice…

i hate ambiguity.  i don’t like it in films.  i don’t like it in art.  i don’t like it in my stairwell.  i despise the withholding of power that is purposefully hoarded for myriad reasons, both frivolous and well withstanding.  i seek to destroy any wishy washy bullshit from my life.  but, i don’t wish to destroy the provider of that muse.

amuse.  amusement.  amazement.  twitterpation.   here are my 5 minute list makers.  here is what constitutes my favorite elements of dysfunctionallity.

1. the blackout.  so.. you were saying…?  “-goodnight.”

2. the false pretense identification. i understand… what the fuck are they talking about.  i’ve got to go check my email.

3. problem rivalry. there are small potatoes and then there are the yams.  not just any yams, there are the chinese purple yams.  the incan true species of hundreds.  don’t hand me that sugary sam…

4. problem hierarchy. largest inventories rate higher in scale, proportion and quantity may duel well with quality.

5. silence. the far reaching coping mechanism that he refuses to see as a crippling disability to our progress.    silence, aversion and diversion tend to favor the head on course that is and has always been my favored and unpopular methodology in dealing with.. you know…. things.  everythings.

6.  isolation. the idea that our suffering is separate and should be designated in prerequisite ways so profoundly void of understanding, trust and hope.

OH FUCK.  that’s six.

goodnight, my three readers.  may yours be good.

plauge mass

plague mass. i mean the density of my plagues, the sum total of my many illnesses (they should really change that to illni ((save the illinoisans uses for it)) ) and not diamonda galás and her valiant campaign for hiv awareness and acceptance.  i’m not saying prayer for my hair loss, for instance..

i’m keeping track of the mass of it.  one fist full, two fists full, five.  in as many days.  my goodness, that’s odd. and now i can’t pin it up like before.  i actually backcombed it like they did in the 1960′s and…. it just agitated the whole process, and me, as i watched my hair fall out of my head for the last week.

i’m also sick in the lungs and sinus. 7 days sick.

i guess i’ve been too absent to mention that i had an mri and the result showed clearly degenerated discs. one entirely dark disc.  so the massive pain has been adjusted with norco to an only slightly debilitating pain.  cannot sit down or lift anything.  can walk five miles.  cannot get into car afterward…

i’ve started physical therapy.  i’m so weak in my right side from limping that i could barely perform some of the tasks asked of me in the orientation.  pushing against another person’s force is not something that i can do with my right limbs.  apparently the weakness goes all the way into my right arm.  hmmm…

after just recently stabilizing my mood and medications i am finding that health problems are putting me back in the hole.  two bad wrists and the back gone.  hair falling out with a scalp covered in hard cysts that interferes entirely with going “sinead” again.  even with some cysts surgically removed, scars still reduce or eliminate the possibility that i will just “rock it” bald ever again.

sigh/vomit.

more simple solutions

again- NSFW- language

you can call me lindsay

lohan.

or just “get loh”… for short. i read a list of scripts for that doll and i’ve got ‘er beat, i do.
it’s been worse since i discovered that i have a degenerated disc or “dark” disc that has flared like a chinese firework sending unintended sparks of pain down my legs and up to my shoulders in an out of control and startling spray of wild fire.

i have always had back pain. this is just new. i made sure it was documented in film, the beginning of my demise, so that i might be ensured to be insured or conversely certain of my disability status should i need to employ an alternate route of employment or entitlement. i’ve been chewed up and spit out the food pipe. it’s as clear as day.. or night… as my mri would convince you.

oh, and i’ve got a cavity.. in my tooth… my second one ever. what does a little more drilling style pain matter?

so.. for the “get loh”, reference, i mean to describe only the contents of my purse, not my behavior. being that i have a 2.5 year old daughter i carry all of my medications in my purse at all times. there is no room for error with some of the medications that i am prescribed and my little monkey has never met a child-proof cap that she couldn’t figure. so when i need the E-phone or a credit card or my keys, there are about 7 bottles of controlled substances in the way. sometimes, i have gum too, but for the most part a junkie would rob me.. and have a nice three days.

it’s a bit of a mirror looking into a bag like that that happens to be yours. the “c” or “n” at the beginning of each bottle number makes you feel a little far out. your name on all the bottles and the tally of your daily swallows makes you feel a little far out. even the closest of people can’t help it. i’m in my thirties, after all, not my seventies. it commands visual attention, often displayed as wide-eyed staring with deafening silence. don’t get me going on airport security… this is why i have sought out second opinions about my regime. i have been doubly assured that i will not suddenly die from this schedule of medicine. i’ve been told that there are far worse cases, longer lists and much more dire situations. i know that it’s true. my lohan is to your jackson. i just don’t want to be layne staley sometimes. it’s wise beyond strife and circumstance that i do not live alone. curse it.

so, to change the subject, we’re back to hell again. it has been declared my fault because i am the designated crazy person. i’m clear about that. i’m assured that my sensitivity to his drastic mood “swing” (as if it were a pleasant ride of some sort with a carnie taking your height by eyeball) caused me to interrogate him, beg for honesty from him and failing all other footholds, tell him to go to bed (get bent!). two weeks and three days we made it. we’ve not often fared so well. even my talk doctor was convinced that his resolve was not an act since it had lasted such a significant amount of time within our scope.

♫ qué sera, get fucked! whatever is now will be. the future ‘ain’t ours to fist, qué sera get, fucked!♫

the mood. the mood of doom. don’t blame me, i can’t drink proper on all these meds to even conceive of screwing us up this bad. i know what i felt. what i felt was… the old. the not forgotten old damage of our new time. there was jealousy and mistrust and distaste coming from his earthly soul. i’m not deaf/dumb/blind and the last of descriptions that you could coin for me would have to be, “imperceptive.” i am confident that i read the book correctly.

what heartbreak. what sorrow, what shame! what horror, what shock, what betrayal and antipathy.

all mine alone. i want to kick myself in the ass for allowing a single hope to build again. i’ll do better without anymore hope. i’m going to subtract it from my repertoire.