Monday, July 18, 2005

So many anniversaries...

I need to start this post with something positive before I bitch and moan at you lovely people. It was exactly 2 years ago today that I got the call. The call that told me I had cancer. I thought it was a death sentence and my world crashed down with a deafening force. Guess what. I'm still here. (A big toe up the ass for those of you who hate me - ha ha. Suck it). It has sucked gorilla tits, no doubt about it, and something I'll have to manage and deal with forever. But the key here is that I have a forever. At least for now. And that's fucking awesome.

I'm very lucky and I know it. I've had it much easier than some, but even those who trudge through worse shit-shows than me are still here too. So, if anyone out there has gotten some news that seems too big to handle, just know that there are a lot of us out here still kickin' it with our homies. A diagnosis isn't always a ticket to the big dirt nap. And for the rest of you who are GIANT PUSSIES AFRAID OF THE DOCTOR AND NEEDLES AND PRETTY PAPER SHIRTS. Grow a pair and go. If you all disappear who am I'm going to complain to?

And also furthermore too bad I'm giving another plug to a deserving site. Just get over the "I'm so sick of those stupid plastic bracelets" thing. Yes, they turned into a fad. Yes, people wanted the coveted yellow band for a status symbol. Who cares? The semi-important thing is that it's being talked about. The fully important thing is that cancer research, for EVERY kind of cancer, is getting attention and money. So I don't give a flying fuck if you're sick of that chunk of plastic around a wrist, go here and learn. Give a dollar. Make a difference. It might be you next time.


OK, I didn't kill myself or anyone else in the last week. Although I got really close to running a few people over with my car. The no smoking thing didn't really work out either. I'm not a big-time sparker, but I know it's terrible for me and I'm nuts to be participating in this nasty habit blah blah. I smoke a few a day, or not at all, or more when I'm partying. Then I lose the taste and stop. I'm lucky it's not a horror show for me to quit. But when my brain is exploding from drug withdrawal and I'm obsessed with a painful decision, forrrrrrrget it. I'm lighting up if I want to.

I did however decide to stick with my plan of going off anti-depressants. Rachael (whom I have to properly link because she's a kick-ass writer taking names and leaving marks and I dig her chile so sorry I've been a tard, girlie) asked me in the comments why I would go off these meds. Well, here's the deal. I went on them because I'd been treading water in a sesspool of major clinical depression since my diagnosis, and probably a good deal of time before that. I needed help but I didn't do it all the right way. I didn't get therapy with the meds and that I do not recommend.

It wasn't a decision as much as an avoidance of more responsibilities. I was so sick of doctors appointments and draining my savings account for medical bills that I couldn't handle one more thing. But, I did find a psychiatrist, not my gynecologist, who knew what he was doing (hopefully) and recognized the fact that messing with your thyroid jacks up your entire body, mind, moods, etc., etc.

I was put on a drug that works well with the specific thyroid replacement hormones I take. And for awhile they worked. Then we upped the dosage and things went steadily in the opposite direction I was looking for. The depression really wasn't an issue anymore and I'd already made the decision that I wanted to go off the meds. Then I found out that they could be part of the reason why I feel like baked turd most of the time AND they make you gain weight, which I didn't know about my brand. Fuck that, Jack. No way. I don't have a thyroid and I'm addicted to chocolate. I don't need a little pill make me gain more weight. PFT.

Plus I'm freakishly sensitive to everything and can really feel these chemicals pumping through my system and I was ready to try something else like, Oh, I don't know, exercise. Shh, don't tell Tom Cruise. I finally got that dick to stop calling me.

And that's that. I did the right thing (OK, yes I know that it took me a few days and a couple friends yelling at me) and called my primary doctor to get a lower dose so I could tapir myself off of them like you're supposed to do. Practice what you preach, Betty. Practice what you preach.

Bottom line, if you feel like you need some pharmaceutical intervention because you're holding on to that last shred of pissed-soaked rope, then by all means do what you need to do. But please do a lot research first and go to someone who specializes in brain-altering drugs and not your chiropractor. These meds are given out like candy and they're nothing to fuck with. OK? OK. And please feel free to e-mail me if you have any questions. If you hadn't noticed, I'm not shy.


God dammit, I didn't go to my high school torture make fun of fat people compare yourself to everyone memory trauma hope you aren't the biggest loser reunion either. And making that decision was an exercise in hysteria all by itself.

Do I go do I not go. Do I drag my poor boyfriend who would know not a soul. Do I suck it up and inflate my head with confidence and not care about the size of my ass or spare myself from another 10 years of retail therapy to get over spending $300 on a new outfit and $3,000 on psychotropic drugs.


I still don't know if I made the right decision, although it was mostly made for me when the friend I was going with backed out the day before the shindig. Thanks a lot Julie! I should have seen that one coming. I hated high school but my friend really hated high school. Which is not the way I remembered it since she looked like a supermodel and could get any guy she wanted. Although there was that little tiny incident our senior year when she came to school drunk, puked in the middle of the art class and got kicked out. Oops. I suppose that tainted her memory a bit. Teenagers - do not drink before school. Wait until after.

"We" decided that there wasn't anyone worth seeing or whoever we'd want to see wouldn't be there. "We" decided that we didn't keep in contact with anyone we saw at the 10 year reunion anyway. "We" decided that it wasn't valuable to flush our tentative self-esteem down the toilet for one night of possible misery or merriment, no guarantees of either. "We" decided that everyone was probably just as judgmental and snobby as they've been our whole lives and the reason why we stumbled out of the last one very drunk and very sorry we went. "We" went home and wrestled with the torn feelings for a few hours, got drunk and cried a little on our understanding boyfriends shoulder and drunk dialed a couple of friends. Oh wait, that was only me.

Despite the assurances from about a million people that their 10 sucked and their 20 was great, I resigned to the fact that I was giving up on pushing the issue with anyone and would not be there. Last time I regretted going and now I'll have to live with the regret of not. Oh, irony. What a fickle little bitch is she. I blame Alanis Morisette. I don't know if she's fickle but she sure is cranky.


Sunday I woke up before God, puttered around the house and decided that what was done was done and I won't think about it anymore. Instead I'm going to obsess about my upcoming visit to my parents where my mother will talk incessantly about how much more weight I've gained and I sneak candy behind her back.

Then about 8:00 I pounced on whitey to get up get up get up come play with me and please please make me breakfast. Which he did because he's awesome. We basically did some chores and some relaxing then I took a nap. After I peeled my zombie ass off the napping bed, we watched Anchorman with Will Ferrell. I highly recommend this flick if you want to laugh until coke comes out your nose.

I'd seen it before but he hadn't, which I think is really fun especially when the other person had heard bad things about a movie that you know is good and they will love then you'll get all the credit for their happiness. We laughed so fucking hard it was obnoxious. And of course picked up a bunch of high-larious phrases that only we'll get. I can't wait to drop "you are a real hooker" on some poor unsuspecting retail clerk. Ha. That'll be fun!

For your avid bibliophiles out there, I can't say enough about this book. (Thank you Heidi!) The premise sounds rather grim and morose, but trust me. Give it a chance and I think you'll like it. It centers around 4 very different people who end up on the same roof ready to jump to their demise. It's funny and different and quirky and inventive. Great summer read for inside the house with the AC cranking and a fan aimed at your sweaty neck while you whine for the 70 bazillionth time about the fucking heat. Oh, once again that would be me.

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