Scratch That

Pickle is going through a tremendous awful moult right now and tonight for the first time in his sweet life he had a bad tummy. Couldn't get comfortable, lying in strange places and no interest in food. Food is Pickle's life. So when I brought out the big guns, Bunnycrack and Alfalfa hay, and he still wouldn't move, I got a little scared.

Pickle doesn't just jump on my lap for pets, he will climb me to get to the apple I'm eating but volunteering for pets isn't his style. Tonight, after all his place changes, he suddenly jumped up to my spot on the couch. This was after an hour of refusing my attention and prodding. He wanted me to hold him. I did. I rubbed his belly. He stood it for only so long then he jumped down scratching my chest pretty good in the process.

I got a sweatshirt and wrapped him in it, filled a syringe with water and gave him about a teaspoon. I kept him in the sweatshirt while I rubbed his tummy some more and he was so calm and sweet. When Pickle decided he was done being helped, he jumped down. Within twenty minutes he was cleaning himself and then jumped into cage where he's eaten some but water still isn't as interesting as it should be.

I'm on vigil. So is Peanut. Might be a long night.

Save As

I need to write something. I need to say something. I need it. I feel it. But what? I get tired of harping on and on about the sick girl that feels and feels. Yet, that is what I am and do and see every single waking day. I feel. I feel lots. Too much. Oh, so damn much I need a damper some days. As previously stated I feel the need to create. To be a creator. Of what? Move the words around until I find the right order and I'll solve the puzzle of being this faulty human thereby saving all other faulty humans the pain and suffering of being faulty all alone? I think that might be so. I do believe there is this part of me that is so grandiose that thinks it can save people. Help them. With words. Like words saved me. Poetry. Music. Books. Films. They have saved me over and over. I quote pieces of these balms everyday. Sing them. Yet this seems an impossible task because words are always inadequate to the emotions being felt. But I try. Although not enough. Truth is, I haven't decided what my story is. Best get to it.

"There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”
― Maya Angelou

Storytime

I wrote this because the pain kept me from sleep. Me and the light of my laptop screen in my darkened bedroom trying to sort out a night of tossing, turning and crying. It is jumbled, it is sour, it is bleak. Just like my state of mind at that time. It isn't particularly uplifting or fun, but it is truthful and I needed to write it.


It’s six a.m. and I haven’t slept. The pain in my leg keeps me from one position longer than a few minutes and then the pain in my dislocated ribs make it even more difficult. Sleeping on my back is out of the question because of the ribs, but my right shoulder has been subluxated off and on over the past week so sleeping on my right side isn’t an option either. The left side is my leg and ribs. So I just lie here and cry. Then scold myself for crying. I shouldn’t be crying, I should be sleeping. I should have taken a pill. But I rationalized not taking another pain pill today because the few days that I gave in and took them I stopped pooping for three days after. Since I FINALLY pooped today I don’t want to start that all over again, but it is starting all over again. The pain. It won’t leave me alone. On Twitter I see chronic pain sufferers use hashtags like #spoonie or #chronicpain on their tweets to document their daily triumphs. I can see other people that struggle and suffer as triumphant and brave and that really really need to share every ounce of agony. But even when I’m alone, in the dark, crying, in so much pain I can’t believe it, something stops me. I can’t do it. It’s my burden.

I used to get mad, about the pain. Which was the overwhelming sadness on delay. I’d be mad that pain kept me from what I thought my life SHOULD be. Embarrassed about cancelling plans, again. These are not new concepts to anyone in or around chronic illness or pain. Which is why I always felt indulgent, selfish, redundant, whiny and even silly for talking about it.

I tried to share my EDS chronic pain story in the past, unsuccessfully. In passive, maybe more aggressive than I meant originally, ways. This illness, this painful body, is my story to tell. I need to learn how to tell it. Crying face down into the new bed your parents bought you so you could sleep better and not have pain all night long, is a story. It isn’t a happy smiling selfie or a funny cat meme to share on social media to go along with the day of the week; it is part of my story. Trouble is, my story is painful to live, so it will be painful to read.

Maybe with a few fart jokes.

Keyed

Hello. Howdy. Hey there. How you doin'? Don't know if anyone really noticed but myself, but I haven't been too active on this here blogging scene in quite a while. Lost the taste for it. Got some feedback that didn't feel right in my mouth, in my head and in my heart. So I stepped back. Way back. Kicked up my Instagram presence like a bandit with a stolen filter and something to prove. What it proved is that it isn't enough. I need to write. I have been trying to write. I have a couple of screenplays in the works and I spat out a super short essay one afternoon, but these blogs prime the pump that is my imagination and my creative core. They calm the storm of me and sometimes release a flood-tide of news. I am in constant doubt of what I have to say and share. If it is mediocre, predictable and boring. That is the curse of being a writer.

That is the blessing of being a writer.

Love Notes

I recently went through some of my memorobelia boxes (I do this) and found an old jewelry box with notes from friends and cousins all the way back to elementary school and junior high. I didn't find any from Stephie.

So, I'll write one.

Hey Sweetie!! It's your Birthday!! Happy Happy Birthday!! I've been doing all these super fun things lately and man oh man do I wish you could be there with me. I've seen movie stars, eaten good food, made new friends, giggled and giggled and just tried my hardest to be full of life. I miss you. I'll sing our naughty song today.

Love, Heidi.

Gold Star

I had resolved to be a nobody. Nothing of major importance. Not a big shot, no big time. No awards, no fanfare, no pink Cadillac, no Cadillac at all for that matter. I'm not going to the moon, I'm not going to Africa, I'm not going to to have my name on the side of a building (even if it is on half of the western world's boobs and butts.) I haven't invented anything. I haven't discovered anything. I didn't build a medical device out of Lego bricks and I'm not diving the Mariana Trench.

When I declared this to my Mother (FYI, while I'm not busy climbing K2, I'm most likely talking to my Mom) she said "Well, if you want to get down to it, we're all big fat nobody's. Just little specks on this little speck." So I countered, "Oh yeah, well you're not nobody to me."

I'm so fine being a big fat nobody, that has so many not nobody's in her life.