Archive for February, 2006
Dude, I love The Bachelor. I don’t care that every single season is identical, or that there are screaming, squeezing moments where I can hardly stand the Hallmark statements that come out of their mouths. If you’re not a fan of the show, it’s really difficult to understand how those of us who watch them don’t spend the whole episode in front of a pukebucket.
They talk like they are living a Harlequin romance novel. For most of the show, I wait for Fabio to leap out of the wings, screaming how romantic Paris is, and oh my god he can’t believe it’s not butter! But it’s bizarrely riveting, and even though I know they won’t actually stay together or anything, and it’s NOT REAL, I am sucked into the emotion of it all. Because, for every Jesse Palmer, there is Byron and Mary, Trista and Ryan, Charlie and that cute little nurse. LIVES could be changed! LIVES! *faints dead away*
My heart beats so fast and so hard that the remote actually vibrates on my chest. I sweat. I yell at the TV. I puke in my bucket. For extra puking, let’s examine a few of Moana’s statements during the finale that I have memorized for good measure:
– [weeping] “I’ve never looked into the face of another human being and seen my own SOUL shine back at me!” [falls into a pile of nothingness on the floor]
– [beats chest a la Celine Dion] “He. Should. Be. MINE.”
– [said to Travis’ parents while desperately trying to compensate for not naming ONE SINGLE attribute of Travis that she actually likes.] “I wish I could explain it to you…because it rocked me TO THE CORE!”
Who talks like that? WHO TALKS LIKE THAT?
Need I explain how happy I am that he chose Sarah? While I’m disappointed that it confirms that guys like Travis really do only want to take girls like Moana to bed and then marry the kindergarten teacher, and yes, it embodies every single thing that is wrong with America, and anti-feminist and all that shit, I DO NOT CARE. I was RIVETED. And I was exhausted from a giant, hugely long visit with my sister and her family that I’d be happy to talk about another time, but I stayed up to watch it, my heart beating out of my chest like it was my own fate on the line. I’m actually furious that Adam deleted it off of TiVo, as I planned to watch it again tonight after work.
Again. I wanted to watch it AGAIN.
If I had a new iPod with video, I’d pay for it. JUST TO SEE IT AGAIN.
Because, what the fuck? No reunion show? WHERE ARE TRAVIS AND SARAH NOW? I need to know. I NEED TO KNOWWWWWWWW.
An actual conversation in the car this evening:
“Jackass, roll down the window. ROLL DOWN THE WINDOW!”
“I didn’t fart! I swear! I DIDN’T FART! Seriously, I can usually fart on demand, and I can’t even do that now, so I KNOW it wasn’t me. I DID NOT FART.”
“Really? ON DEMAND? That’s impressive.”
It’s good to know we can still surprise each other. Keeps the spark alive and all.
February 28th, 2006
We found ourselves at the Harley Davidson dealership today, completely confused, befuddled and perplexed as to how we got there. Sure, we live in Florida and one of the few, non-snooty, funny and even slightly down-to-earth things about this godforsaken land is that there are a LOT of Harleys and Harley-riders down here.
A lot. And they’re all in this weird clan where they wear excessive amounts of leather (chaps! there are CHAPS!) and talk about their bikes like many do of their children, and go to hang out at the dealership in droves to eat badly grilled high school cafeteria hamburgers and relish served by an overgrown Hooters waitress with frosted hair and a Harley tanktop.
It’s fabulous. Well, it was fabulous as Steve, “Call me Bud!” walked us around the lot, explaining in excruciating, yet fascinating detail, all of the differences between the various models, from the Sportster to the touring bikes that are large enough to carry you, me and all other people in the entire universe, plus their pets and luggage. And then, somewhere around the two and a half hour mark, when we couldn’t get “Call me Bud” to shut up, and we’d seen the entire Harley dealership, including the employee break room and gymnasium, and learned that all of the managers have an open door policy and gee, Bud REALLY loves his job at the Harley dealership, which is why we should love Bud AND buy a V-Rod or maybe a Softail bike or preferably his n’ hers bikes, it moved from fabulous to utterly excruciating. Especially considering we simply wandered over there from our pancake breakfasts at Perkins to enjoy the sunshine and idly gaze at some bikes.
It was around hour three that the mosquito crawled up my pants – jeans, for chrissake – and began devouring my flesh. While this is inherently annoying, it was when it hit somewhere near my bikini line that I thought I would die from the explosive explosions of bitey misery of giant bug bites all over my crotch. And worse? I was desperately trying not to dance around and act like there wasn’t a mosquito biting my vagina so as not to get “Call me Bud” to talk about ONE MORE THING, or worse, leave Adam to go to the restroom and come out to find that we’re now the proud owners of a giant touring Harley with custom rims. BUT THERE WAS, and it hurt, and you know, for the rest of the day – DAYS, I should say – I was and will be scratching my vagina in a desperate, futile attempt to quell the itching. Not to mention my legs. My poor legs. I’m sure it pleases you to know that I’ve got one hand down my pants scratching my crotchal area right now, save for occasional forays to the upper thigh. The mosquito, he wanted revenge for something.
But this really isn’t about a Harley, and it’s not about my pathetically itchy crotch. And it’ s not about “Call me Bud’s” irritatingly successful hours-long sales pitch that has resulted in a full-fledged campaign from Adam for a Harley. Because I promised long ago not to write about him, I won’t go into the hilarity of this simple concept that, despite it’s oddity, seems to make sense, even to me, who’s afraid of him leaving the house without falling down and cracking his head open while walking. Because it might just be the ticket that we both need to feel normal in this odd, odd state.
It’s about how anxious I am, despite my ear humor and all of the irrationality, at the simple concept and thought that I’ll never be able to have kids, and that by the time I choose to start, it will be too late. It’s about how all of my crowing about normal periods returning was for nothing, as the irregular misery has returned with only a slightly milder vengeance. It’s about how scared I am for what this means, despite rational information to the contrary. It’s about how sometimes, despite all of this angst, anxiety and misery, I experience a moment like that at the Harley dealership that I think that maybe having kids isn’t everything – that there can be a rich, full life of Harleys and puppies and joy that doesn’t involve babies. But when I think of that, I think that somehow, some way, I’m jinxing myself against having kids and I feel guilty and somehow responsible for my malfunctioning reproductive system. That if I dare THINK such things, that somehow I will be sealing my fate. Which isn’t a bad fate, just not a fate I thought I would have. You know. And if I think that I might be forced to have that fate, I want to throw up. I want to choose my fate, even if it’s the one I’m afraid I’ll be forced into.
I’ve become obsessive about finding a dog. I search more than any human being should, and when one doesn’t pan out, I struggle to keep it together. Because somehow this, this dog, has become a stand-in for a baby. A substitute and a procrastination tool to stop the inevitable. Or at least what feels like the inevitable. To stave off the trying for fear that I might find out the truth that I can’t, even though I have nothing other than a few astonishingly annoying and scary symptoms to that effect. The longer the process goes on, the more anxious I get, because I don’t have six months to a year to search for a dog. I could be in the throes of infertility by then, wishing that I simply had a dog at home to stand in for the baby I’m not even sure I want. And if you follow this AT ALL, then you deserve a cookie. Go get one. Or a dozen. Because I’m fucking confused as all hell, and it’s my head I’m writing about.
It always happens this way. The PMS, it’s painful as it is. The PMS with other, not so fun symptoms that involve pantiiliners (I cannot believe I just said PANTILINERS with a straight face, but there it is: PANTILINERS. I dare you to say it out loud), plus a trip that Adam is taking to Seattle? BRUTAL. The anxiety and pain that Buspar or sleep or anything can’t seem to fix. And worse, when I get the MS, minus the P, I’ll feel euphoric, and I won’t even remember this, this awful, horrible feeling where I want to crawl right out of my skin and go live someone else’s life for a few minutes to slap mine right back into perspective. Because this…this is nothing. People are dying, people are having babies and losing their parents and people are living giant, real-life dramas that actually mean something. Me? I’m just battling it out with myself and making a mockery of all of those people who have real things to worry about. Things they can’t control, no matter how hard they try.
But I have to remember so that I know what I’m trying for and how bad things can get when I forget what anxiety feels like. I have to write it down. I’m trying. I’m trying hard, and I’m going to get better and someday, I will see this time in my life for everything that it is and everything that it should be: a remarkable, mostly-fun time to learn what’s important, get my shit together and get fucking medicated and de-tonsiled or WHATEVER so that I can battle real-world demons instead of the ones that live in my head that I’m afraid to talk about to anyone except my therapist and the Internet. Maybe I can figure out which ones are real, and which ones are imaginary. Because I know they don’t make sense, and I know they are small.
Until then, I will get up tomorrow, take my pill(zzzzz) and start another day. Because it’s going to get better. And you know, I write this is because if I knew someone, anyone, who felt as fucked up as I do sometimes, then I’d feel a helluva lot better. I do it hoping that it makes someone feel better, even if it’s so that they can say, “Christ, she’s a mess! At least I’m NORMAL!” and get all complacent and puffy with pride. But sometimes, you just have to talk about this shit to make it more normal. And tomorrow? I will so regret this post. But I’ll leave it up anyway.
But you know, it’s going to get better. It always does.
*Tom Cochrane. I dare you. DARE YOU to not sing it for the rest of the day. I apologize in advance. But, um, you know you like it. We all did.
February 19th, 2006
It’s cold here in the south, and the natives are clueless. There are frost warnings, and in the late nights, it has gone down as low as 34 F. And they are not one bit pleased. The nightly news crews have been devoting somewhere in the range of 1/4 of the evening’s coverage to educating us all on how people can function in frigid weather. There was talk of freezing pipes, even though it wasn’t supposed to go remotely below freezing, the pipes might freeze and your WHOLE HOUSE COULD EXPLODE! GAAAH! PANIC PANIC PANIC. Sometimes they even took a moment to tell people to do really daring things…like wear jackets.
JACKETS! OH MY GOD!
It’s back in the 70s today, thank sweet Jesus, because I’m pretty sure the world would stop if this kept up. It’s not a joke that they don’t know what to do when it dips below 65 – on my way to work yesterday, I spied a jogger in a North Face puffy parka, mittens and a face mask around 9 a.m. It was 48 degrees. I was wearing a jean jacket. And I survived. There was talk of the miracle girl in denim who survived the blistering cold with no clothes on.
We had our homeowner’s association* meeting this evening, and the natives were no less restless than they were the first time. Despite the fact that our home was attempted to be broken into, and the other night I *swear* I saw a kid with a Taser wandering the streets of our fair neighborhood, and a few teenage punks were attempting to teach their pit bull puppy to swim in our pool, the issues at hand were not related to our safety or health concerns.
It was mulch. I guess the landscaping company isn’t doing enough to keep up with mulch, and THESE PEOPLE NEED MULCH, dammit, or their lives will end and the sky will fall down in large chunks around their pine-strawed gardens. MULCH MULCH MULCH! A rotund woman in a red sweater actually yelled, “I HAVE THREE BEDS WITH NO MULCH. YOU PROMISED ME MULCH LAST YEAR AND WHERE IS IT?! I NEEEEEED MUUUUUUUUULLLLLLCCCCHHHHHHHHH!!!!” and fell into a pile on the floor. And she wasn’t alone. At least nine more mulchmongers were waiting in the wings to express their displeasure at the quality of mulch the “poor immigrant landscape workers” smear on our little 8×10 yards every month or so. Because mulch, you see, makes the world go round.
Finally, the subject turned to the punky kids in the neighborhood. I see these kids every night at the clubhouse gym when I do my little run on the treadmill, iPod blaring while I try not to be distracted or frightened by the giant teenage boys lifting eleventy million pounds and grunting while their girlfriends sit by in tight jeans, swearing at them between cell phone conversations. Or listening to them tell stories of their recent shoplifting escapades or their repeated attempts to figure out how to get a gun on the black market. When I’m there alone at night, I often close the blinds so that I don’t invite people into the gym to maul me, you know, just in case. I’m not willing to DIE for the sake of a toned ass, you know.
I didn’t think it was a big deal until tonight, when one woman launched off on the behavior of teenagers at the clubhouse, and busted out with, “Don’t think I don’t know what kind of SEX goes on when I see those blinds closed at the gym. CLOSED BLINDS MEANS SEX!”
“That’s me!” I spoke up in the back for no good reason, trying to explain why I close the blinds. Heads swiveled and mouths gaped, because everyone had just figured out that *I* am the one having sex in the gym. ME! I AM THE SEX MACHINE AT THE GYM! They turned on me with the fury of hell. I’m pretty sure the fat woman in the red sweater drooled at the prospect of fresh meat. Before I could defend myself, the head of the association, sensing a mutinous and likely bloody turn of events, distracted us with more mulch talk, promising truckloads of red mulch by Friday, staining of the sidewalk be damned! THESE PEOPLE NEED THEIR MULCH! And please don’t kill the cute girl in the back! THANKS!
Meanwhile, Husband stared at me, horrified, “DUDE. THEY THINK WE’RE HAVING SEX AT THE GYM.”
Mulch. Can we talk about mulch? I AM SO MUCH MORE COMFORTABLE WITH MULCH.
*I live in a gated community. It’s not that I’m rich or snobby or anything fancy. EVERYONE lives in a gated community down here. It’s like, law. Meh.
February 16th, 2006
I hadn’t really been to the doctor in four years when I moved here. I’m there pretty much close to every. single. day. nowadays. Between the therapy appointments, the thyroid testing and now the psychiatrist, I am getting the most out of my fabulous health plan.
One of the reasons I started going to therapy was crippling anxiety about my health. It’s really less of a big deal now, surprisingly, since I quit that job. That awful, awful job. Anyway, while I was off worrying about aortic ruptures, cervical cancer and Death by Farting, my left ear was quietly growing this small patch of eczema that wouldn’t go away. It’s still there, despite some steroid creams and though I’m likely going on something heavier tomorrow, there is still a chance that it needs to be frozen off, because apparently, persistent eczema can morph into something more sinister.
I am making this sound like I think it’s a big deal and I am giving you more detail than ANY HUMAN BEING NEEDS, and I just need to say right now that I don’t think this is a big deal at all.
My anxiety returned shortly before Adam left for Boston. It always does when he goes away, since I can’t be there to see him or hug him or make sure that I’m holding his hand when the plane goes down or the car mows him over or whatever irrational demise I can conjure. But instead of focusing on this actual fear, I usually channel it into something much more valuable. Like suddenly being afraid of needing a prosthetic ear. You know, because of the 1/4 inch patch of eczema behind my ear. Make sense? I didn’t think so.
I could barely focus on my pancakes that morning when I realized with utter positivity that I was going to be losing my ear. I love my ear, it was discovered, in ways I never fully realized. Suddenly my average, ordinary ear became the entire world. I need that ear, dammit! The way the earlobe was detached – would they be able to make a plastic one that had the same curve, the same flippy lip at the bottom and the third hole that I pierced myself with a potato and a needle when I was 13 that never really grew over?
I need to remind you that no one has even hinted that I will be losing my ear. And really, in the grand scheme of things, it’s just an ear. AN EAR.
After I calmed down, I recounted the Ear Drama to my therapist with a certain level of humor. Usually she tries to deflect my laughter to get to the root of it, but I think she was just having an off day, or maybe she’s just sick of my random, completely irrational hypochondriacal fears, for she replied, “It doesn’t matter. They’re making human ears on the backs of mice, so you’ll be fine and you’ll get a real human ear. Let’s talk about how the medication is going.”
And so, I bring you my potential new ear:
And since some have asked, the medication in question is Buspar. I’m not through the requisite two weeks, so don’t ask me how it really is yet, because I don’t know. And of course, it comes at a time where there’s really not much going on from an anxiety standpoint. I realize that sounds insane, given the Ear Incident, but it was short-lived and has passed. And besides, the doctor seems to think that the majority of my anxiety came from a fucked up thyroid (being solved!), a job that I hated (and quit!) and an apparently ripping case of sleep apnea, caused by meatball-sized tonsils. I’m not sure I go with that theory, but whatever. I see additional doctor’s visits in my future and maybe a tonsilectomy. Hoo-yah! Searing pain! ICE CREAM!
*Thompson Twins. Neither Thompsons, nor twins. Discuss.
February 13th, 2006
I got drunk last night. It wasn’t entirely intentional, but it wasn’t unintentional, either. I knew that the third martini was bound to put me over the edge, but I didn’t know exactly how far it would put me over the edge. Way far, in case you were wondering. I was swimming in the abyss of drunkeness. What’s dangerous is that last night in my drunken frenzy I told Adam that I HAD to write something immediately. I HAD to BLOG.* I stumbled about, scrambling for my laptop and began to type.
I started an entry titled, “I Know,” after a Blur song I love. What the hell I knew, I’m not entirely sure, but I fell asleep before I could finish it, and mercifully, didn’t save much of what I typed. Or anything, really, and thank heaven, for I’m sure it was sappy, ridiculous and completely incoherent, as befits a happy drunk, as I always am. My only clue came this morning, when Adam did a fabulous imitation of me, complete with drunken accent, saying, “I KNOW our dog is going to be a BOY DOOOOOG and if we have children, they are GOING TO BE GIRRRLZZZZZ.” And then I think I passed out snoring and didn’t wake up until 4 a.m. with a heavy tongue and a thirst that can only mean a hangover. I spent the whole day surfing repeated waves of nausea while doing what everyone should do hungover – cruising the outlets with my mother in law who tried to convince me to buy a $150 pair of hot pink suede Ferragamo pumps. I didn’t get the pumps, but she did convince me to come home with a pink and green striped (!!) pair of Tahari pants with a mint green felted belt that I bought out of utter defeat. Mercifully and pitifully, they are going back to Saks, because I can’t get one thigh into them, as I discovered when I got home. I hadn’t tried them on in the store, since it was far more important that I avoid any possible friction on my aching body than the consideration of a now-necessary additional trip to Estero to return them. And I should add that the brightest color I’ve ever bought a pair of shoes in is brown, and that’s on a frisky kind of day. And mint green? Does not belong on pants. On anyone.
Anyway, the blog post. I’m pretty sure I was going to write about a) how much I loved the Internet and all the people who write me nice comments b) how much I love Adam c) what a phenomenal cat I have and d) my miraculous premonitions about the gender of the animals and children I will have in my life. After hearing Adam repeat it to me, I feel fairly certain the predictions were the cornerstone of my drunken ramblings. The other three are just a wild guess and based on past experience of LoveDrunk episodes. Last night I became a prophet, a drunken Mohammed screaming the future we are all born to live out from the mountaintops. Or at least from the second floor bedroom. I KNEW everything, except how many martinis I’d had and, um, why was the bed spinning so much?
And let’s all thank Jesus, Mary and Joseph or whoever is in charge that I never actually got to write that post. And what kind of loser gets trashed and has the overwhelming urge to blog about it, instead of doing better drunken things? I would pity myself if that weren’t even more pathetic than the situation at hand. The whole thing is just ridiculous.
But I got my blog post out of it, if a day late, and I think my drunken self would be happy. I love you Internet, I love you Adam, I love you Cappy and yes, I think our dog will be a boy. And if we have kids? TOTALLY GIRLS, because payback is a big, fat bitch. So there.
*I’m annoyed at myself just reading that statement. HAD TO BLOG. Loser. LOSER. L O S E R.
**Blur, as I mentioned
February 12th, 2006
The south is a mecca for retirees. Hell, I’d retire here. They dress well, smell good and like to have a good time. On any given Sunday, there are at least 150 bingo games within a 20-mile radius. I counted. It’s like spring break for the elderly set. A few weeks ago, Abe overheard a man at a bagel shop bragging about his sexual conquests, and the “at least 5” women he was juggling. He was easily well over 75.
The other night, we went to a crab shack, which was quite an improvement overthe last crab shack, where it home of the Car Wash dance routine. It was freezing cold (I know, I know) and raining, and we were the only folks on the outside porch.
Until they walked in.
They were a couple of about 65-70ish – snowbirds who recently arrived for the season. Upon arrival to the restaurant, the gentleman barked in our direction, “You call this SOUTHERN WEATHER? So much for our fucking vacation!” and stormed to his table.
He continued to keep up the sunny attitude throughout dinner, berating the waitress for putting a lime in his Corona and complaining about the length of time his dinner took to prepare. But things really heated up when we heard:
“HELEN. 22 FUCKING YEARS and you pull this shit. TWENTY TWO YEARS, you bitch!”
It became obvious that Helen had called him out having an affair with a neighbor down here, and simply replied with, “Unless you’re a CIA operative, Fred, you are screwing someone else. And you’re an old asshole with a job in INSURANCE SALES, so don’t lie to me, fuckface. YOU ARE HAVING SEX WITH HER AND I DO NOT LIKE IT ONE BIT. YOU WANT ME TO YELL LOUDER SO THEY CAN ALL HEAR US?”
For the record? We could all hear them already.
“TWENTY TWO YEARS HELEN. And you want to throw it away with some crazy accusation, you BITCH! YOU CRAZY BITCH. YOU CRAZY, INSANE BITCH. YOU THINK I’M FUCKING HER? I MIGHT AS WELL FUCK HER, IF THIS IS WHAT YOU THINK. I’M LEAVING NOW TO GO FUCK HER, HELEN! YOU OKAY WITH THAT?” He was yelling louder now, and my mouth was agape. Agapity was interrupted with,
“JONNIKER! For fuck’s sake, stop staring. That guy might be 70, but he can kick my ass, and I REALLY don’t feel like getting in a fight with an elderly man in aviator glasses. SO STOP IT.”
They left in a drunken stupor, piling into their Mercedes to continue to accusations in another venue and making the roads more dangerous than they were earlier in the evening. I think the manager called the police.
Tonight at dinner, we overheard, “And tonight, I was driving WITHOUT MY TEETH!”
February 8th, 2006
So, there will be no dog in the Jonniker household. At least for a little while. Our friend the breeder called tonight and said he wished he had better news, but she has no tear production in either eye – in fact, after a visit to an apparently-renowned eye specialist, she’s missing all of the glands – and the fact that she’s so young means that she’s going to have a lifetime of eye infections. She’s already had four in her short little life. In fact, Mr. Doggie Eye Specialist offered that prophylactically, he could *remove her eyes one at a time* when she was a little older, depending on what happens. So she’s likely to have at least one glass eye. Oh, and did I mention she needs eyedrops to function every 30 minutes, at a minimum? Usually 20? So we’d be sitting there, smearing eye drops on her eyes every 20 minutes until they removed them. How does one live while smearing eye drops on an eye every 20 minutes? It’d be like living in the hatch on Lost, but with less time between duty.
The poor baby. So…the breeder is keeping her, for obvious reasons, and I’m so bummed. I mean, I don’t have *time* for an eyeless dog that needs ointment on her eyeball every minute, so I’m not the best person for her. Our dog is out there somewhere, I’m sure, and she’s staying right where she belongs. He loves her and will be good to her. I feel so horrible for her my heart hurts, but it’s the right thing for her and her happiness and health.
Separately, to keep this positive, I want all of you to run out and get blood tests done for your thyroid. Right now. GO! GO ON!
I have hypothyroidism – Hashimoto’s, to be specific. Thyroid disease is a weird, strikingly common thing, and it manifests itself in ways that are often mistaken for other things. The effects can be damaging, though, and if you haven’t been checked, please do it. I didn’t even know I had it until I had bloodwork done during a routine exam, but the second I did, my whole life started to make sense. And here’s where it gets gross, and I apologize in advance for the grossness.
I had awful periods. I know everyone says that, and I know I alluded to it before, but really, it was bad. Like, I had some form of my period for roughly 20 days out of every month. Car rides took on a whole new meaning – I would have to really think about how long I could handle being in a car without a disaster striking, which included my morning commute. Often, I would have to stop at the gas station for, erm, touch ups at least once on my way to work in the morning. And cramps. Cramps. CRAMPS. The cramps were so bad that they would literally knock me to the ground clutching my stomach in agony, radiating to my back, legs and even my arms sometimes, I swear. It would wake me up from a dead sleep and on occasion, for good measure, I would throw up – my poor, pathetic body’s lame attempt at trying to ease the suffering. And no amount of pain killers would help – they would dull the pain slightly, but it would still be there. I’ve had ultrasounds, multiple gynecological visits and panics of endometriosis, premature menopause and other maladies, which turned up nothing so far, which only created more panic. I mean, no one could figure it out, really, since symptoms like mine only come with endometriosis, which it didn’t appear that I had…
It was horrible.
Did I mention I also gained 20 pounds? And got anxious? And depressed? And FAT? DID I MENTION I GOT FAT?And the cramping. THE CRAMPING OF DEATH. Seriously folks, it would stop my life. There was no working, sleeping, reading or eating or ANYTHING during The Cramps except for laying immediately on the floor wherever I happened to be standing, which resulted in Adam finding me on the floor in numerous locations throughout the house, from the closet to the garage. Seriously.
And all this time I thought I was crazy. Crazy because I had this horrible body doing horrible things and no one could figure out why. Crazy because I was so anxious and depressed that I would have to lock myself in the bathroom and cry because I didn’t want anyone to know exactly how insane I felt. Crazy because I was working out 4+ days each week and still gaining weight.
Synthroid, thy name is God.
After I was diagnosed, I started taking it, and while there weren’t any immediate changes, over time things improved. I lost weight. I became less anxious (though quitting my job and therapy and meds helped, I totally believe the thyroid was responsible, at least in part). And my periods? I just have one thing to say about that: This? THIS IS WHAT EVERYONE BITCHES ABOUT?! THIS?! You’ve gotta be kidding me. Cramps, schmamps. I mean, not that this isn’t annoying, as bleeding out of any orafice is stinky, but this is so beyond manageable in comparison, you have no idea. And the cramps? Minor. I go without painkillers now, even when I get them. Because they are nowhere near what I’m used to, and I like to see what it feels like. No, really.
And again, I’m not fat anymore. BOO FUCKING YAH! I mean, I’m not Brooke Burke or anything, but my clothes fit. Loosely, even. And while my TSH levels (don’t ask or you’ll start to snore) aren’t where they should be yet, they are closer to fine and my body has stopped acting like a freak.
And it is so very good to not be a freak. So even though I don’t have a dog, I can say for the first time in a very long time that I’ve got my health.
And that’s pretty great. And not to sound too greedy, but I still want my dog. Now, please.
February 1st, 2006