...But Sometimes They Ask About Other Things.

Other things being: Are you alive? Are you still in college? Have you told the folks about the convulsions, Krissy?

Unconventional Usage of SSRI-class Medications for Experimantal Treatment

I have not been unconscious in a while. The pills are keeping me upright but making me sad.

Seasonal Affective Disorder

It is quiet and muggy today, and being awake seems like more work than necessary. I've eaten, run an errand, and wasted away on the internet for hours. That's it. I'm resisting the urge (which I typically give in to) to take a nap, and to wake up at eight or so, when I can eat dinner and watch television and call it a day. I'm resisting for a number of reasons, one being that I spent approximately ALL of last week sleeping or near sleep, and in doing so destroyed any chance I had at a restful and effective sleep cycle.

So. No naps. This has meant internet for the majority of the afternoon. I'm bored, though, of siting in one place and being passive. I kind of want to make something. I want to set a table or assemble a salad or frost a cake.

Oh, mannn do I want to frost a cake! With really fluffy, thick, frosting. I want to rotate a cake stand and swirl a spatula and put some mint and berries on top...but the kitchen is kind of a mess. And I'm not really hungry. And were I hungry, I really don't need any cake. Hmmm.

So what to do? I think I'd like to play badminton, but that requires an opponent (How do only children ever get by?)...I don't know. I want to do eight million things but simultaneously have nothing to do.

It feels like summer...

Take it from me

Tip of the week:

If you are not interested in feeling like a horrible human being, don't watch The Last King of Scotland and then go to the mall.

Ow ow! (and it's not because you look good)

So apparently our insurance company is refusing to pay for my physical therapy because it isn't "medically necessary". But the fact that a 2-inch portion of my spine does all the bending, and can only bend one way, and the fact that my hypermobile hips could dislocate at any given time, and the fact that bending my neck back consistently pinches a nerve kind of sound like medically necessary reasons to me.

But hey, what do I know? I'll just get back on the oxycontin for the chronic pain. No prob.

Fire Safety Is my #1 Priority.

So. I burn candles in my bathroom, because I like them, and it enhances bubble-bathing. Sometimes I forget about them and leave them burning while I go do other things. Sometimes the candle melts itself and the wick burns down to the end and green candle-wax drips and splatters all over the place, then dries.





The flash made it look really gross, but you can see it better:



I know, you wish you had my life...

I don't even want any candy.

Today: a shot on both arms, holographic star-shaped bandages from the nurse dressed as a fairly princess, and the realization that I need to write a research paper by tomorrow morning. Happy Halloween, guys.

Iron deficiency

For a long while now, I haven't been able to think of anything to say. Anything, that is, that wouldn't be cause for you to worry.

I've become so stuck in this place that I'm in that sometimes I wonder if I shouldn't worry. I'm hanging in some sort of limbo between real life and total meninglessness, where I exist but don't participate.

I can excuse it now, sure. I'm hundreds of miles away from the only friends I have, I'm too sick to go to school and make new ones, I don't pursue any hobbies because of my physical state, I don't read because my head is too clouded by medications. Nobody's blaming me for sitting around doing (literally) nothing. But I wonder what my excuse was last February, when I was surrounded by friends and seemingly happy with my life. What will be my excuse when I head off to college on my own? My isolation and disinvolvement, while currently pushed to an extreme by circumstance, may not go away.

It's a frightening thing to contemplate. For so long, I've romanticized college, convincing myself of is magical transitional powers. And while I maintian that getting out of Maryland and sorting out my medical concerns will improve my condition, I'm afraid I'll still do this to myself. Like I know, while invisible, that I'm doing now. Like I've done before.

It is not the incapablity of happiness. I enjoy things and I still laugh. What I'm describing is the incapability to sit, alone with my thoughts and decisions, and be fine. Not happy, just fine. Happiness is something else entirely, something fleeting and needing no contemplation. But what I'm talking about, what I'm struggling with, is something more closely related to satisfaction or fulfillment of the self. And while I don't expect my own or anyone else's levels of this thing to ever be complete, I'd like to be a little less anemic.

Same old, same old

I am so freaking tired of being unhappy.

In which Krissy upsets herself

I started to clean my room today. When this occurs, it is not generally prompted by my mother's requests. Nor is it prompted by her threats ("No Martha Stewart magazine until your room is clean!"). Rather, it occurs only when I have the desperate need or want to find something long buried by piles of clothes or hidden in shoeboxes of random junk.

Today I remembered something, and realized how sorry I was to have forgotten it.

Wasting time on facebook, I began to think about (naturally) my friends. I started to miss them, like I always do, and I began to reminisce about last year, before moving to Maryland. Then I started thinking about my going-away party, and then I started thinking about the going-away gifts, cards, and letters I received. I suddenly had the urge to find them, to sit and reread what had been written.

And so my search began. I started with the bin I keep pictures in, and began removing albums and loose photographs. First I unearthed my Damn Yankees phone tree, then my G.I. medals. I hadn't found what I was looking for, but I was on to something else. I continued my search elsewhere, in shoeboxes, folders, and bins. Now I was looking for not only going-away letters, but, reminded of G.I. and my various E.R. and hospital visits, for get-well cards and pictures, and perhaps most importantly, a set of notes written on Hilton notepaper that I received at G.I. state finals last year. I thought about this more and more, about how I had almost missed it because of collapsing, how my mother drove me down by myself because I missed the bus for a doctor's appointment, and how, upon my arrival in Springfield, I was greeted so warmly by my friends. Sometime that weekend, several of my friends gave me notes or drew me pictures (a certain someone surprised me with fruit snacks). I kept those notes, and put them on my bulletin board when I got home. I remembered now how I had packed them, along with everything else pinned on that piece of cork, and everything else inside my room, in an assortment of boxes and bins one week last June. And now, digging in my closet in Maryland, I wanted to find those notes.

I can't exactly explain why I wanted to find them so badly, aside from sentimentality. All I know is that I tore through dozens of still-unpacked boxes that are housed in the back of my closet, under my bed, and stacked in corners of my room. I dug, frantically, through every receptacle that had even the slightest possibility of containing that for which I searched. At the end of all this, I sat.

In the middle of the floor, surrounded by throw pillows, unironed slacks, human Geography papers and more, I began to cry. I couldn't find them. I had come across some letters sent by friends after I moved, and read over them fondly, but they weren't what I needed to find. Wiping away my seemingly unnecessary tears, I began to understand why I needed to find the particular notes that I did. It was because if couldn't find them, every scrap of paper and photograph and unremarkable object that I had ever saved and placed inside a shoebox was random junk. If I couldn't find them, it meant that somewhere along the line of packing and moving and unpacking, I threw them away. I discarded something meaningful, irreplaceable, and truly valuable. I left myself only with random junk.

The phrase "random junk" is significant, because you see, I used to think of my shoebox stuff as "homeless mementos". I would occasionally keep something given to me by a friend, or made by a younger cousin, and stow it away in one of these boxes, because I had no other place to put it. But all of this time, I believed that I cared about my shoebox stuff. I believed that I kept it for a reason. Upon the realization that I had disposed of such wonderful gifts from friends, I could no longer continue thinking that kept that which was important or meaningful. At whatever point I started "cleaning out" my boxes to save space (or whatever reason I had at the time), I turned my homeless mementos into random junk.

I'm still looking, in binders and drawers and folders, for those couple of notes. I'm quite sure that they're gone, because I've searched everywhere I can remember packing that sort of thing. Because sifting through my memories like I have today has made me want to read them. More than that though, it has made me want to prove to myself that I was not so foolish as to cast off a crumpled letter, and to keep only what was framed or purchased.

I feel like Harry Potter, and for once it's not teen angst

Last night, I had a terrible dream. I can't quite recall what happened that made it so terrible, but I woke up trembling, with this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach that can only be described as a feeling of dread, or possibly doom. I keep getting that feeling, or a random shiver, and I'm not sure if I caught whatever nervous disorder Kylie has over Thanksgiving, or if some subconscious event (that of my dream) is goin' all psychosomatic on me. Or, perhaps it is dementors! I haven't noticed any frosty windows around the house (it's 70 degrees here), and eating chocolate doesn't work, so I guess not. Perhaps, though...

Anyhow, I haven't the foggiest what's really causing it. Maybe it's just Maryland. Maybe it's just me. Maybe I should try the chocolate one more time, just to be safe.

Why I stuffed my mouth with Kleenex at 2:40 last night

I can't sleep.

That came first. I came off a med or two, started up some new ones, and I can't sleep. Okay, fine. The doctor said that might happen. Sure, it's uncomfortable when four o' clock rolls around and I'm still tossing and turning, but cool. Whatever, I'll just take a nap tomorrow.

It continues. Three nights later, my problems start. Not sleep deprivation. Not even headaches. Nope.

Saliva.

It's only 11:30 on Tuesday night. I'm awake, no surprises here. But holy shit, I'm swallowing an awful lot. Hold on, maybe I'm just being paranoid, maybe it's just because I'm lying here with nothing else to think about except swallowing. That's it.

Gulp.

It's 3:45 now, and what the hell? I can't stop swallowing! Okay, everyone swallows their spit. I've always done it...so why is it happening so often, or why am I noticing so much? Maybe a drink of water will help.

Ugh!

The stuff's only tasted worse at wellgroup waiting for a urine sample. And that's saying something. It's probably just the meds. I'll get used to it. I fall asleep sometime after 4:30.

I'm fine.

Until Wednesday night. It happens again, only it starts in at nine, not eleven. I haven't even crawled into bed yet. Again, swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...that's all my brain is doing. Telling me to swallow. I try to focus on other things, anything!

4:15

...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...swallow...
Somewhere along the line I drift off. 8:30, Mom calls upstairs, time to get up. And swallow.

No!

This went away after sleeping yesterday! Well, as crime fighters everywhere (or maybe just Buzz Lightyear) bellow at evil-doers: "Not today!!" And so ,as Gogol Bordello would say: "Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!"

Twelve hours pass.

Still swallowing. And still not knowing if its the meds or I'm just crazy.

I'm addicted to lazy.

I am all kinds of unhappy right now. My migranes are back, despite my various meds, I live in Ellicott City, my father is annoying, I have absolutely nothing to do with myself all day, I have a stupid schedule at my new school, and, oh yeah, I'm fat now!

I have no idea if it's the meds, which can cause weight gain, or my constant boredom (read: constant eating), but I've definitely gone from a size 4-6 to an 8. I only know this because I went shopping yesterday, and also because I fit perfectly into my baggy jeans. I know it's stupid and superficial, and it shouldn't bother me, but it really does. Also, I know that I'm not obese or anything, but it's just one more thing on top of everything else. Oh, and also my parents, father included, were telling me that they weighed less than me in college. This again? Didn't my mother get this out of her system when I was in seventh grade? I didn't think parents wanted their children to become anorexic, but hey, what do I know?

In not-so-stupid news, I gave my dog a bath today. Yes, that is how bored I am here. I chose to bathe my dog.

Back to stupidity. (But wait, Krissy, how was you blogging about bathing your dog not stupid?) I can't eat feta anymore.






(space to react)






I just can't. We even found a middle-eastern grocery, where I can get any variety my heart desires, fresh pitas, hummus, pastries, and everything else I live for. The only thing is, there's a pound of Bulgarian feta in my kitchen just waiting to be devoured, and I can't go near it!

Maybe this is why I'm fat! Maybe, there was some enzyme in the feta that sped my metabolism, and now that I'm not eating it, my already disfunctional body's entire digestive system has slowed down! Yeah! I'll bet that's it! I'm a genius!

My brilliance aside, I really don't know what's going on with this whole feta thing. It worries me though...

After tripping on the patio...

Ow. Ow. Ow!

Oh, woe.
My left big toe
wrapped in half a roll of paper towel and the blood soaking through it is beginning to show.
It drips onto the patio.

I'm quite the poet, am I not? So yeah, ow. I can't manage to go more than two days without seeing a doctor. They can't put stitches in it, though, because of its location. Thank God. I will, however, be taking advantage of my get-out-of-class-five-minutes-early pass, so I can hobble from class to class.

I am ridiculously pathetic.

Quality time

"Zinzi, I hate this."

Zinzi trots over and stands in front of me. I look inside my house, barely able to make out my living room furniture for the glare. I am sitting on the steps to my back patio that come out of our dining room. The steps are green, and our patio is the faded, whitish color that asphalt gets when it hasn't been properly maintained. I look down at my dog, then again at the window, squinting. This time I can see my grandmother sitting inside, reading a book, and my grandfather stooping over a newspaper propped on the footstool. Zinzi sits down.

"What will you do, Zinzi, if you don't make any new friends in Maryland?"

She inches towards me to rest her chin on my lap.

"What if the other dogs there are all just a bunch of golden retrievers and labaradors? What there aren't any poodles, or Spainish water-dogs, or cumberland spaniels? What if they're mean to you?"

Zinzi snorts.

"Awww. Well, we will come bakc and you can visit your friends from the pooch parlor, Zinzi, don't you worry. Even if the doggies there aren't nice, we'll come back to see your puppy friends."

Zinzi sees a bird and chases it. I sit still, by myself now.

Zinzi can't come back for visits. They don't let poodles on airplanes. As much as I want to tell my dog that she will get to come back as much as she wants, and that she'll be happy, it might not be true. Zinzi will probably never see her puppy friends again, quite frankly. Zinzi, though, will get along just fine. You see, Zinzi likes other dogs. She does not think she is too good for some, or dislike the nature of others. She wants to be friends with everyone. She is very nice to other dogs, and does not cynically disapprove of their decisions or motivation. Zinzi will be very happy.

"Come on, puppy, inside we go."

She bounds back and grins at me, in that goofy way that only a friendly dog can, and trots ahead of me to the door.

"Go on, Zinzi."

I hold the door open and she walks in. I follow her, and sigh.