What's Wrong With Me?

I'm brave, I face each day with a determination to live with less pain.  I don't cry everyday. I strive to make thoughtful decisions.

(how to adjust seat just right while driving Rx to camp) (how to place pillows on sofa just right) (how to get out of bed without pressure or movement of right hip/pelvis) (seriously, don't smoke or eat pot until contact with the days' official government agent has been made) (how to descend steep basement stairs with a low ceiling) (what cushion configuration I can get away with on the outside furniture: a thick, oblong back pillow that moves? the oblong with the lumbar, but the lumbar is too big? do I prop my legs, is the table they're propped on just the right distance from the chair edge? or should I stay 90-degrees by 90-degrees? 

I've stopped getting mad about my condition. I'm starting to adjust and not see it as the alternate reality, but the absolute and all-encompassing present one. I guess. I've never done this before. In fact few have. The geniuses in the City kind-of know what it is, but certainly don't know how to fix it, and barely know how to treat it.

Stupid, so stupid. I was already stupid from bi-polar meds. As of last January, add triple-stupid drugs, making me a possible 72 IQ, but with a memory of being much much smarter, therefore mistakenly continuing to talk, only to say something on a 72 IQ-scale of embarrassing. And then doing it again because I don't remember that it has happened exactly this way before a thousand-five times.

Leaving work became a matter of attempting to save my reputation in what is actually a pretty small metro area. My industry is specific and this area excels at it, but all the same people work in it and move around through it and know all the same people, and kiss the ass of all the same people, and look how dumb I was getting in front of them all. Racking up mistakes. Humiliated.

Apparently the sofa looked to me like a fine place to put my fresh-poured sparkling watermelon water while I moved my laptop to an adjacent spot. Who thinks the sofa is a good table? Someone on 225mg of Lamictal; 60mg Baclofen; 2mg Klonopin; 4500mg Neurontin; 25mg Ristoril; 6 bowls of 24% THC Marijuana and/or 45mg Marijuana edible. Per day.

Probably.

I asked Guy, as he passed by, to hand me a towel, a good one, from the kitchen, because I just poured a bell jar of water and ice cubes on the sofa.

Afterward, I take the towels to the laundry area and return, pausing on the stairs to scream FUUUCK!! I tell Guy, "I just need to say that." Then I scream it again, then feel a little better, then cry, then sob.

This "serious medical condition of five tumors/not tumors on and in the spinal cord, or a malacic cavity spinal cord injury" isn't going away. It isn't going away. Ever.

Surviving myself means not screaming FUUUCK! and crying, anymore. My self wants to kill this condition, which ultimately would mean killing me and that's not an option. So.

Here we are.