Tag Archives: help

Damn, Life, Knock It Off Please – But Don’t Kill Me, Okay?

I am so anxious.

The ankle has been swollen now for, I think, 3 weeks? And it’s been at least 2 weeks since I saw the Nurse Practitioner about it, and she deemed it “cellulitis”, which I am gonna look up now because I really have no idea what the hell that is.

So it’s a skin infection that enters via a cut or crack. Can be caused also by scratching itches. I do not have a cut or crack and have not at all in that area in the past more than 1 month. I have not been scratching my ankle. So, here are the other things it could be:

But feet and ankles that stay swollen or are accompanied by other symptoms could signal a serious health problem, including:

  • Pregnancy complications
  • Foot or ankle injury
  • Lymphedema
  • Venous insufficiency
  • Infection
  • Blood clots
  • Heart, liver, or kidney disease
  • Medication side effects

So, yeah. That looks scary AF, doesn’t it? And yet, no one seems to think it’s a big deal. And no one actually believes that I have any kind of concerning issue – except for the NP at Urgent Care, who said, my unexplained body aches and feverish feeling could be indicative of problems with my heart, and that he tended to believe people who insist that it is not a panic attack, that they know what that feels like and this ain’t it.

Given the symptoms – and in addition the troponin test being seriously flawed/giving false negatives due to Biotin intake – if I were a doctor, I would be concerned. My therapist is concerned. She is well versed in anxiety, and, again, this ain’t it.

Also, I got the flu, unrelated to the weird feverish feeling, which was not accompanied by any flu symptoms. And the flu kicked my ass for nearly 3 weeks, as well.

So okay. Did I mention I am so anxious?

I am so anxious.

I have an appointment tomorrow with the GP, who brilliantly, as I watched him write the Rx for my nuclear stress test, apparently called me “Edith Santos”. And checked the right ankle instead of right knee to be x-rayed, right after he’d told the nurse, no, not the ankle – she needs the knee x-rayed. Does this make me trust in his diagnosis? Not particularly. Then there is the hospital’s lab woman who said, of the FDA report, “Well, I am SO GLAD you have that information” sarcastically, after telling someone else that “SOMEONE told her” – meaning me, I am the “her” in that phrase – about the flaw in the troponin test, and I corrected her and said, hey, it’s not SOMEONE, it’s the FDA. A governmental agency. (Has she even fucking heard of it?) You’d think, even if they did not tell me what test was done on ME, which I have a right to know, I believe, they would have at least a LITTLE concern about the fact that these tests are invalid. That they would want to investigate that further. But, no.

I am fucked [image of Gene Wilder meme]

Nevermind that my blood pressure has been normal my entire life and now I have not Stage One but Stage TWO high blood pressure. And high cholesterol. And weigh too much. And have had three cardiac events preceded by intense jaw pain (which hey, that happens to be a heart attack symptom, how ’bout dat?). And now the ankle. But yeah, I am sure a swollen left ankle is indicative of PANIC DISORDER, which is what they all say – the hospital, the Primary Care Provider, the shrink, for fuck’s sake.

I have an appointment with the shrink tomorrow. I look forward to showing him my ankle and saying, hey, check out the panic disorder in my ankle!

Because panic disorder is so totally listed in that list above. See it? Oh, wait, IT’S NOT THERE.

It is easy to believe that I am not being listened to.

Further evidence of this: my floors are caving in. The floor under the fridge POPS intermittently. That is not a good sign. I read an article about a family whose floors completely gave way, and that was preceded by much popping. The floor in the kitchen has a dividing line between the floor that is slanted downward – which would be the floor under the cabinets, sink, stove, and fridge – and the non-slanted floor. It creaks when you walk on it. It doesn’t not feel stable. The bathroom floor has indentations in several areas I can feel with my bare feet and it is not particularly stable – of course I received a work order about the bathroom floor when I reported it marked ‘complete’ when they didn’t even LOOK at that floor.  Not to mention that the living room floors are also caving in – bended and warped and they do not at all feel stable and one of my dressers tilts forward and cannot be put against the wall, because why? The floor is warped, unstable, and in the process of leaving this Earth.

They have known about everything except the bathroom floor since this summer. The maintenance guy said contractors would be out to appraise the situation. But. Has anyone ever come out? Nope. And that completed work order? Said “floor is contractors”. Okay, does that mean that I am supposed to hire a contractor? Because it sure sounds like they are doing nothing about this. To wit: They have been putting lease renewal notices on my door, and they raise the rent each year. It seems to me that they have been in breach of this lease for half a year, because I did not sign a lease that said I agree to rent with unstable flooring. So, they are going to raise the rent, but not fix the floors. They are ignoring the floors. In fact, they have ignored my last THREE emails to them.

And let’s not even speak of the Black Mold that they have attempted to minimize by referring to it as “mildew”. Is mildew black and does it creep through surfaces into other surfaces? Like the picture of my deceased parents which I gave them for a milestone anniversary while they were still alive which they were thrilled by and which was very sentimental to me, and now covered with black mold that traveled through the back of the frame from the wall and further until it is now covering and ruining this picture?

Hi, I’m looking for Horton because I am a dust speck and apparently that elephant will be the only one that can hear me.

By the way – mortality rate on right-sided heart failure, the first thing mentioned on Google regarding a swollen left ankle? Less than a year to five years at best.

For over a month I have been able to count every single one of my heart beats without taking my pulse, because my body throbs in time with them, as if I have just finished an intense workout.

I went yesterday for a nuclear stress test, and after over an hour total, waiting for my doctor to fax an Rx with my actual name on it, I was informed that the insurance company refuses to authorize the test.

At least I got the knee x-rayed on my deformed, turned-the-wrong-way leg from the treatment I received for a broken ankle four years ago.

Also. I have lost five cats this year. Five. Most recently, the love of my life, Milhouse, my smart (though they are all/were smart) extra special guy. Before that, in September, Momo, who I thought would be the last one standing, my also quite special guy. And my heart is broken. I have a mausoleum on my bookshelves of kitty urns, footprints, and the ashes of my parents, representing a huge chunk of my loved ones.

And now I am concerned about Bear. He is not acting right. He is not eating much at all, is suddenly lethargic, seems depressed and not like himself. He needs to go to the vet. So does Tiny – she is a week away from being out of thyroid meds, putting her again at risk for a heart attack due to her sped-up, hyperthyroid-ed out metabolism. And I am a broke bitch. How do I do this?

And all this stress is so good for the heart. Oh, wait…

This is all some fucked-up bullshit, to use a technical term. And I really do not know how much more I can take, frankly.

I have no family to help advocate my cause(s). I am my only advocate. And unfortunately, the fact that my advocate has several psychiatric diagnoses sort of ruins my advocate’s credibility with these people. They just assume that I’m being histrionic, I guess. That is certainly what it seems like.

And. I have not been able to do my work for a month and a half now, because of these health problems and grief issues. So money issues. And big vet bills have been the norm for months now, with most of my kitties dying on me at once.

And ooh, I just noticed that to the right of this rant, there is an article from Science Daily, and the headline reads, “Chronic Adversity Can Dampen Dopamine Production.” Wonderful.

Fuck me running.

I am so anxious.


After Everything, No Turtle Wax

I have been sick in one form or another this entire month. I’ve been in the hospital. I’ve been to the ER. I will likely be going to Urgent Care today. This is pretty much the first time in a while that I have been able to sit up for longer than a few minutes without just keeling over. There has been a cardiac issue, phlebitis from an improperly inserted IV (confidential to “Mean Eric” from the ER: it’s a vein, not a fucking balloon animal), a bad reaction to a flu shot, a now-you-feel-it now-you-don’t oh-wait-bitch-now-you-do-again UTI, what I’m guessing is an actual flu-shot-tempered-flu – but hey, I have no idea, because I could have become physically dependent on a shrink-prescribed-for-anxiety benzo and the withdrawal syndrome includes flu-like symptoms (if the grand mals don’t get you first) – severe pelvic pain, and headaches so intensely painful, when I try to think of a way to describe them, I just see Glenn with that popped-out eyeball, rasping, “Maggie, I’ll find you”, before Negan brings Lucille down for the final, fatal blow.

Welcome to Wheel of Symptoms, the game show with no consolation prize.

Having been unable to do anything income-generating for the entire month of October, my finances are completed fucked. I have to break in here and laugh bitterly at the use of the word ‘finances’, as that word sounds so high-rollin’. ‘Finances’ seems like a word you use when you can afford things like regular haircuts and transportation. Nonetheless, ‘finances’ it is, because ‘schmoney’ doesn’t really convey the gravity of my dilemma.

Is my failing health because of the black mold overtaking my apartment? Is it the aforementioned possible benzo dependency?  Is it all the stress on my shoulders? Are all systems failing because I am in the process of dying? Is it that fucking statue Greg found on the beach in Hawaii? A combination of all of the above? I consulted Dr. Google, as well as the Magic 8 Ball that I programmed while learning Basic Javascript, but surprisingly, came up with no definitive answers.

Meanwhile, it appears that I may be truly and sincerely fucked.

You see, on top of all this “supine on the broken futon of ill health” fun, I have seriously failing dental work, thanks to the growth of something called a “bony tumor”. This will require surgery to remove as it is unseating my dental situation and eating has become extremely painful. Fixing this is going to cost around $5K. I don’t think I have ever even SEEN $5K. I have heard that this number exists, but it sounds kinda suspect.

If I don’t get this dental situation fixed, I can not only kiss eating goodbye, but say adios to the structure of my face as well. Which is going to lead to wonderful treatment by others, I’m sure, because you know how awesome our society is to unattractive people. If you don’t, allow me – with my lifetime of experience in that department – to clue you in. They are not. If you don’t meet a particular standard of appearance – which does indeed include possessing teeth – it’s a fast track to a Freaky Friday-type situation with Gregor from Kafka’s The Metamorphosis, which is to say you have the lovability factor of a fucking cockroach, and about as much chance of not being squished in disgust.

Three cats need blood tests. One cat needs his bottle of insulin. I sure as fuck could use a medical marijuana card to deal with my PTSD and all of this stress (this last thing, though, is a luxury, something to ease my ailing mental state. Currently, I’m sober as a… um… well, we can’t really complete that sentence with ‘judge’ anymore, can we? My point is, though, I’m not blowing my meager funds on The Pusher Man. Slumlords always get the first entry on the dance card. This is an important rule to follow, as homelessness makes it a bit more difficult to complain about your miserable life on the internet).

I’ve been up since 3 a.m. talking myself down from the ledge. It is now 7:12 a.m. I’m too drained, my brain is too scrambled, and my throat is too sore to tell if this has actually worked. There is a handsome cat who has insisted on holding my hand under his paw as I sleep for weeks now, because we are telepathic together and he knows I’m going through it (he is the one who needs the insulin – why the fuck is insulin over $300? If I were Carrie White, man…  the Dangerous Mind Power Carnage would be a sight to see around Lantus Town, trust).

So okay. Time to sleep, until another “you have to pee” nightmare wakes me up, an hour from now. The last one featured Susan Sarandon performing solo sex acts in a Walmart in a manner so horrific that it actually did not even get close to qualifying as a Sex Dream but instead sped like a bat out of hell right to Bad Dream classification. I don’t remember what department she was in. I’ll guess Ladieswear? Whatever. She’s on the Dream Grudge list and I’m never looking at her the same way again.


The Body Indeed Keeps The Score

I can’t do it anymore.

I tried to force myself. I tried so fucking hard to force myself. And I became physically ill. It’s like my body is saying, Enough.

This happened once before. I was doing so poorly mentally at the time, and in a bad environment, and my body rebelled, Suddenly, I was projectile vomiting like Linda Blair in the Exorcist. For weeks. I couldn’t even keep down Gatorade. And my therapist at the time – I was fortunate enough then to actually have a good one – said that my body was literally trying to cast off all of the bad things I had internalized.

Well, it’s happening again. I’m not projectile vomiting, yet. But I’m nauseated, my body aches, all of the energy feels drained out of me, I’m getting insanely intense headaches that don’t respond to NSAIDs. So now it’s not just the panic attacks that have been hounding me as of late. It’s not just the feeling of being creatively dead, of being a hack with no integrity, of never being able to speak my actual mind, of losing my identity to this thing I don’t even enjoy doing (but that I have to pretend that I do enjoy doing, because when you sell your soul for pennies on the dollar, you need every fucking penny.) It is literally physical shit that is PREVENTING me from doing this.

I seriously tried so hard. Because I need the money to pay my bills. I don’t know how I’m going to pay my bills. I am not well enough to work outside my home. I was never even hospitalized after having a four month long psychotic break. I am sitting here sobbing because I don’t know what the fuck I am going to do. This job has wrecked me. I am not well at all. I straight up need help, I need healing. But there is none of that for me. I have to figure out what to do. I have to figure out how I’m going to feed my cats, pay my utilities, pay the vet bills, pay for Milhouse’s insulin and Tramadol and thyroid meds, how to pay for my SHRINK.

I was in the middle of doing a clip and I just could not finish it. I couldn’t because I was about to throw up. I’ve never felt like I felt yesterday. It was frightening. And what this experience leaves me with is frightening, too. I needed to work my ass off the rest of this month. I need the money so badly. I have to get Tiny to the vet. I have to pay the part of my rent that my disability does not cover, and my utilities, and my shrink appt is at the beginning of the month. But now I am completely fucked. I needed to make miracles happen this last week of the month.  But now, they are not going to happen.

I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’m in a panic. I’m trying to think of options, but what options does a severely mentally ill woman, who isn’t able to work outside her home and is still trying to get better so actually shouldn’t be working in the first place, have? Because I can’t think of any realistic ones.

All I know is that my body won’t let me do this. It no longer wants to actively participate in an endeavor where the main draw is that I am slowly dying.

A woman gets sexually harassed at work – hey, maybe by a famous comedian who whips it out, let’s say – and the world is in an uproar. But a disabled woman has to work a job where she is objectified and where she is told on the reg that her only value is damaged lungs and mortality. Crickets.

You know, when people want you to die, and you’ve got a long history of trauma and abuse, and a few co-morbid mental illnesses, that isn’t good for you. That makes you turn in the “Let’s walk into the waves” direction. The “Hey, that ledge looks pretty fuckin’ good” path. Because hey, if that’s my only value in this world, should I not have at that then? It’s a really hard thought to fight. Particularly when I have no idea how I’m going to survive now.

And in this, too, is the knowledge that some people, upon finding out that this is my situation, that I am a (reluctant as FUCK) smoking fetish girl, will judge me harshly and unfollow me, block me, isolate and ostracize instead of understand that this is all I could do to get by. They make me feel like this is what I deserve. And the people that want me to die make me feel that’s also what I deserve, because THAT’S ALL I’M GOOD FOR.

And I probably do deserve it. I pandered to them, because I needed to survive. I have no family. There is nowhere to go if I lose my place on the couch, nowhere for my cats to go. I’ve been trying hard to learn to code, have gotten a couple of certificates but don’t yet know enough to work as a web dev, but my focus is annihilated because the issue of survival is pressing, and even if it weren’t, I simply cannot learn quickly enough to solve this immediate problem.

I need help. I need to get better. I can’t do this anymore. But I have no idea how the fuck I am going to keep me and my kitties going. And panic is not something that helps you think clearly.


There is the panic about the future.

And then there is the fact that this, all of this, hurts more than I can ever describe.



There isn’t enough time during clip rendering to do a code lesson, they go too quickly for that. But they go slowly enough for me to tweet way too many times. I have no business tweeting. I should be flogging myself while I am waiting for my clips to save because I do not have money for kitty litter and I am out of kitty litter and it is NOT good to be out of kitty litter. I have no fucking idea how to get kitty litter. This issue is my life right now. I never thought I would say that kitty litter or the lack thereof was my life, but there it is. For this moment in time, at least, the lack of kitty litter in this apartment is the axis upon which my reality spins. Or something.

That and fleas.


On the Hamster Wheel

i am running out of things, everything, all this stuff I can’t afford to replace. Little things that become major things, like grooming products and supplements that help me. Conditioner, face cleanser, stuff like that. Aniracetam, a nootropic which helps me SO much with my ADHD (piggybacked with my prescription ADHD meds, of which I take two). Vape juice. And then there are the bigger things. A blood test for Tinyhead and insulin for Milhouse, both coming up shortly.

If I could, I would not only take care of these things, but I would get my medical marijuana card. I am more than eligible for one. Which will take around $400 to get one started. AND. My web hosting needs to be reupped and I don’t think I have the money for that either, and there is a deadline for it of less than two weeks, which is spelled f-u-c-k-e-d.

I saw a commercial last night for Kay Jewelers where they flashed some pricey compressed carbon and announced “$4,300 off!” and I thought, I can’t even get less than $50 together for my web hosting and people have over $4,000 to just throw around on multi-faceted rocks? My incredulity knows no bounds.

This is all very stressful. In response I have been Hamster-Wheeling it. Run-run-running in place, working hard on clips, and piggybacking my coding lessons in between shooting and editing so that I can try hard like EXPENSIVE DIAMONDS to change my station in life. To make it so in the future maybe I can buy conditioner with impunity. I hate this shit. I wish something good would happen. A bunch of sales would be nice. It would help so much.

But waiting for something good “to happen” is not only passive voice, it is passive, period. There is not much I can control in that scenario. I wish there were. The only thing I can do is just keep working hard as I can and hoping that something sticks somehow, that the fruits of my labor ripen and turn into do-re-mi moneybucks, mixing their metaphors as they go.

And of course, I’m hoping this happens before Thursday so that I can have some kind of Thanksgiving dinner.


Rapid Cycling for Dummies

Taking it moment to moment today. One of the “fun” things about being bipolar, at least for me – it probably varies person to person – is something known as ‘rapid cycling’. With rapid cycling, you go mood to mood much faster than your garden variety mood swings or manic/depressive cycles. You can go back and forth between mania or hypomania and depression many times in one week, or even in one day. Today is a rapid cycling day. My medication keeps it from being too terribly extreme – I’m not throwing away everything I own in an insane cleaning frenzy, for instance, or beating my head against the wall repeatedly, except metaphorically. But I am going from hopeful to hopeless, from idealistic to nihilistic, and in pretty short order. I am overwhelmed throughout. What changes is how I am taking it.

Right now I am not taking it so well.

I am caught in between the proverbial rock and hard place financially and life-situation-wise, and I have no solutions even though I am trying desperately to create some. I am trying like fucking hell to pull rabbits out of hats, to jump through the flaming hoops without setting myself alight and burning down to the kind of ash from which no Phoenix would ever be able to rise. I feel like I am failing. Possibly this is because so far, I am.

I do not know what to do. I am doing what I can, putting one foot in front of the other, going to every fucking cliche I can think of, obviously, but doing my work. Editing. Doing my coding lessons. Trying to figure out if there is anything to sell. Wracking my brain for marketing ideas for my clips, ways of making my clips better with zero budget for any new outfits or set dressings or anything at all. Trying to figure out how you make good clips in the first place when all you can do is worry and stay on the verge of tears. That kind of thing is why Marilyn Monroe was always stuck in her dressing room, pissing people off. Because you cannot go in front of a camera and project confidence and sensuality and all that happy horseshit when your life is imploding, when you have worries bigger than yourself. I have never been good at hiding how I feel. And unlike Marilyn, I am not a) a beautiful knockout and b) an actress, so the job of projecting such things at the unforgiving eye of a camera lens is tenfold more difficult.

Blah blah blah, she cried, and the wah-mbulance came in short order to run her over. Who gives a shit, right? Everyone has problems. I know. But if I don’t let this out, my only other choice is to destroy myself. And that’s not an option. It would be signing a death warrant for my cats. I could never be that cruel.

So yeah. There is no pithy or neat way to end this post, no moral of the story, or non-story as the case may be. Just a record of shitty moods on a fucked up day which also includes PMS and another big headache and very little food and a future that is so dim I have to look away, lest I crumple into a heap of hysterics. I hope one day I can look back at this and be relieved I’m not in this place anymore, but right now that idea seems like a story in a book that I won’t have time to read because I’ll be too busy trying to figure out a way to save my stupid ass.


Under Pressure

It’s been a difficult thing trying to muster up the moxie to post a new blog. I keep thinking that I need to be a sunny Pollyanna-esque version of myself. Which is sort of funny, seeing as how I am bipolar, so I really only have a chance of doing that about half of the time. So I am drawing the line in the sand. No matter what my mood, I am going to strive to dump my brain out once again, as I have in the past – perhaps foolishly, but that’s how I roll. I’m an open book – you just have to dig a little bit to find me on the shelves.

Right now it’s nearly 6 am and I have a screaming headache, or as I have just told Malcolm the Caterwauling Feline, my head is about to blow off of my fucking shoulders. For some reason, even though I GENEROUSLY (for this time of day) gave Malcolm a thorough hair-brushing, he has now taken it upon himself to be Town Crier. Or at least Apartment Crier, and his howls are clanging painfully through my cerebellum, loud as Quasimodo’s bells. How did Esmeralda not go deaf?

I can only assume that this is a tension headache. I am – as always, it seems – under intense pressure. Only lately, the intensity has ramped up considerably. I feel like I might implode. I am drowning in vet bills with more down the pike, and I have to get my teeth partially redone, and periodontal work is sorely needed soon or I am going to lose my bottom front teeth, and I have no idea of how I’m going to afford any of this, not to mention blood tests and insulin for my family of felines, the only family that I actually have (all my other family sits, ashen, in urns upon a shelf in my room).

I keep working harder, and the fruits of my labor keep staying the same, and sometimes actually being less than the same. There is much talk lately about how well the economy is doing but apparently this is only for a certain demographic which does not include me. Am I better off now than 2 years ago? I would have to say no. My rent is now nearly $200 more a month, electric is up 150%, tariffs have increased the price of everything from food to kitty litter, and starting in January taxes are changing so that I will be making 2/3’s of what I am making now, which is not steady income in the first place. It’s a lot to handle. Boy, is it ever.

Annie Black and White PhotoI’m doing this thing where I am consciously lying to myself, telling myself that things will work out and that things will be okay, so that i do not completely just FREAK OUT. I know that I am lying, and yet I am suspending my disbelief and going along with this lie, or more specifically this wishful thinking, in hopes that somehow it actually WILL turn out okay, sure, but mostly just so I can hang on and keep keeping on.

If I DO freak out, then I am sincerely screwed without question. If I can hang on, on the other hand, maybe I have a chance at survival. Besides lying to myself, I am working harder than ever, trying to figure out: how I can improve what I do, maximize my efforts, and create other revenue streams.

The “other revenue streams” part so far isn’t working out so hot. So I am also looking at selling my plasma.

Selling plasma doesn’t pay particularly well. I think the most you get for one ‘donation’ is $50 and that’s if the plasma angels smile upon you and they dig your blood type. It’s probably more likely that it’s $30 or $40 for your bio-material. But when your choices are few, this is something to be considered. I am not sure if I am eligible due to the enormous amount of medication I take each day. So there’s that, and also the issue of transportation. I can walk to the plasma center (in theory; as a woman, it’s not a particularly pleasant walk as I usually get harrassed). Walking home in the Florida heat after a donation, however, is very problematic. There is a good chance of passing out in the road. So this is not a perfect solution. There are hoops to jump through. I have to be eligible first, and then figure out logistics. If I can do this, though, I might be able to get up to $400 for a month’s worth of donations (which would be 8 times with the needle).

Another thing I am doing is something that will not help me in the immediate, so it would be easy to say I don’t have time to do it, but I must make the time. I am trying to formulate an exit plan so that this financial downward spiral doesn’t completely engulf and destroy me. I am learning to code. I have no idea if I am up to this task. It is very daunting. The more I learn the more I find out there is to learn – and there will continue to be new things to learn pretty much forever, even when I am a seasoned pro, which is the prize upon which my eyes are keenly fixed. And there’s a lot of foundation stuff to learn as well – how to use GitHub, for instance, to work with others on file changes and so forth, which is so much more complicated than I initially thought (but I’m hoping that once I dig in, it’ll be easier than I’m making it in my head).

On top of all of this stuff, yesterday my pharmacist said that my insurance company rejected my prescriptions and said I no longer have coverage. My pharmacist seems to think this will be solved with a phone call but still I am very concerned. This does not seem normal. What if there has been some cut I’m not aware of and I have been dropped? My medication is over $2k a month. I am FINALLY after over a decade beginning to get myself back. Fuck, I am tearing up typing this. This is hard.

Frankly I am terrified that I will lose my medication and fall back into the crazy. And lose myself again. And maybe not come back this time. That I will get stuck in the Sunken Place. I know the Sunken Place is not really my metaphor to use. But it’s the closest I can get at the moment to describing what it is like to be trapped in yourself, unable to speak, unable to be, because someone else has taken over. Trapped in Hell. I do not want to go back there. I cannot go back there. I have fought so hard to get to this point, where I can actually have a somewhat good day. Where I can get a night’s sleep without screaming and knocking things over because I’m kicking so frantically, without sleepwalking and sleep-talking.

So yeah. This is all a LOT. I have strong shoulders. They have gotten stronger with hard work, work that I have done for the most part alone because I cannot afford a therapist and I only see my shrink for fifteen minutes every three months because that is all I can afford to do – my insurance doesn’t cover his fee. But my shoulders are starting to shake from all this weight. I am not sure what comes next. Except for a call to the insurance company, and doing my work today, and trying to squeeze in some time where I can concentrate enough to do some coding lessons. I see what is directly in front of me, the steps I can take today, but I don’t see the end game, I don’t see a full solution, or even a temporary one. I’m trying to figure out what I have that I can sell, and I’m not coming up with much.

Except plasma.

If you buy from Amazon, please consider using my link–> Amazon before you make your purchases. I will get a little kickback and it will cost you nothing but an extra few seconds. I would appreciate it so much. Thanks. 🙂