Tuesday, February 17, 2015

Journey Struggle Fight Surrender? #PMDD

It's me and it's awkward teenage breakouts and anxious bitten lips and some current of deep, totally context-free melancholy overlaid with a brittle layer of nervousness.

It's my near panic to keep Shane off the roads and home from work. It's worry about the serious cold and Molly playing in the snow for even a little bit.

It's jokes meant to be witty and snarky that come out like razors and venom.

It's more than 25% of my life as the batshit crazy "week" of my cycle stretches back toward ovulation.

I'm so fucking tired of living with PMDD that I have an appointment to consult about a hysterectomy. It is so, so hard to feel this out of control of my moods. So hard I'm ready for a surgical fucking nuclear option.

I have, my darling friends and family who love me and want to give advice, tried everything. I've done elimination diets and vitamins and herbs and oils and journaling and tracking and just everything short of sleeping under a pyramid with crystals and channeling angels or aliens or spirit guides. 

I have prayed while sobbing to every moon goddess I can name to help me relax into this pattern until the blood comes to wash it all clean.

I need help, and I've been on the medical and psych roller coasters often enough to know when it's time to go to the heavy stuff. 

It is time. 

Today, I had to tell myself it is okay to do nothing. And then I decided to write about doing nothing, which is, I guess, something-yet-not.

I surrender. I'm tired and sad and fidgety and my perspective is too weird to describe. Everything is muddled.

But I remember it's a tangle I don't have to sort. It'll smooth its own way out in a few days. Or tomorrow. It feels close. That should make me hopeful but all my emotions are hammered flat.

So I'll hunker down and remind myself to be easy and gentle with everyone and WOW especially on myself, because the worst of it always points inward.

The turn will come. 

Friday, February 6, 2015

Brigid's Cross and the Coming of the Light

The Bird and I celebrated Imbolc or Candlemas or St. Brigid's Day or Goddess Brigit's Day or whatever WINTER IT WILL END IF WE LIGHT ALL THE CANDLES Day a day late, as the third was the full moon. We did precious little: she helped me twist wet strands of paper into raffia to weave into a Brigid's cross.

She wasn't her typical enthusiastic baby PixieWitch, so after I'd lulled her to sleep with her pop Greek mythos {she's obsessed with the (cheesy, barely tolerable) Percy Jackson & The Olympians books} I got up and lit candles for Our Lady of Groovy Threesomeness, which you cannot deny is an upgrade from 'triple goddess' and at least one of those personae agree. I combed the net for a while and found a lovely prayer to Brigid, but I also was feeling an itch to invoke Pan. I'd been planning to have Molly with me so I eschewed Crowley's Pan invocation because I feel like that dirty old junkie has so much sex attached to his mojo that it's nearly abusive to even utter his name around my baby. 

The point is I wrote a stream-of-consciousness prayerpoem and it's nothing fancy-like but I believe I should be inputting words into the crazy little thing called blog, so here's my PanThing:
Pan the God of the living fields,
Wild Lord of all that grows green
and blooms to color in the Spring, 
Leaping dancing God of all life
we call you by golden sun
and we sing to you by moonlight.
Wild Pan, Forest Pan, God racing
ever in the wooded hills, we shout
and cry our joy for Your running
and rhythmic raving.
Our ears are for your pipes' song
Our throats laugh loud with You
Our hearts pound as drums for You.
O Pan, Wild Pan
With moon full and shining,
With sun growing bright
We call you O Pan
This Imbolc night
I like a spell or an invocation to rhyme, if loosely, in opposition to most of my poetry. Odd?

I learned that Brigid is known as The Fiery Arrow, which delighted me as my wee maiden's learning archery herself after playing at it for years. She got a real bow for ChristmaSolstice and just enrolled in lessons that begin tomorrow.

I see her as an Artemis like child very much.

And then I was trashed the next day; I guess I had been bending into the craft surface without realizing but the next day it was Morpheus all the way. Yesterday was better and today is a pain free time and so there is light in my bones and I'm writing and shrieking Tori Amos to the skies and I have a couple of hours to draw before Birdy gets home and we venture out to socialize. 

Have a weekend full of magic or marshmallows, snow or sunshine or science and I'll manage to get my posting rhythm back as the season turns.

I love you, b'leaders, I do. Daisy do. 

Friday, January 16, 2015

George Takei Lies, Eases my Nerves. Or: The Disability Hearing

There is much to tell, so I'll settle into storyteller mode, and set phasers to awesome.

I arrive, while Shane's parking the van, and notice that Mr. Takei, Internet Deity, had done some promotional photos for the Social Security Disability Office. This is a thing of squee because I adore him. He's seriously the wittiest dude in the galaxy. We'd just watched "To Be Takei" the night before as I snuggled in a fetal ball against Shane waiting for my night-night meds to kick in. (They did not. Ever.)

Also, the that was easy bit is hilarity of the very darkest humor when you've been waiting since 2012 to get some goddamn help.

So, at last Shane and my lawyer, Fred*, show up.

Fred explains that my claw handed mutant-badassery is far stronger legally than "OHMYGODS my back hurts EVERYWHERE ALL THE TIME & MY LEGS TOO just kill me!!!!!!! But there are like 17,000 different reasons and shit and oh also Phocomelia- have you heard of it? No... never mind, then." So he stresses that the hand is the primary narrative. (Or, Prime Directive, as I'm already going full-on Trekkie.)

Then he's just talking generally about presenting myself as a professional, educated mama who wants to work but can't. That's when I realize I've got a hoop in my nose, so I ask him if I should I remove it and apparently that was literally going to be the next words out of his mouth. So I go to pry it out; it has a little hinge.

I then notice that I'm wearing a three-quarter-sleeved sweater that shows my wrist tattoo. Luckily, I have no decent looking winter coat, so I'd layered sweaters. I change into the longer one and have to pay constant attention so it wouldn't slip and expose me as a punk-ass miscreant.

So it's me, Fred, the judge, the transcription-ist, and an occupational expert. The hearing is crazy short. It begins with the judge asking me my primary reason for seeking disability, and my answering, "My chronic pain, Sir, er, Your Honor, Or, Sir?" and my being immediately kicked under the table by Fred.

Then the judge reads bits of my file to me, and I confirm what I'd told Fred, and my 1,000 doctors. Then he asks the expert if a hypothetical woman born in April 1976 (and I nearly die trying not to laugh at this being termed a hypothetical question) could perform this job or that, given such and such limitations, and he testifies that I can't do any conceivable job. (The judge didn't ask about blogging sporadically and dragging illustrations out for several months.) It's pretty obvious then, I think, that he's going to grant me the benefits.

Fred's closing remarks are fabulous, as he brings up the fact that I'm proud and willful and play down my impairments. He even points out that I've been actually hiding my arm throughout the hearing, which was really my hiding my tattoo. He sums up my mental status, i.e. that I am a hot mess of depression and often stay in bed for days without bathing. I bite through my tongue so I don't giggle because while that isn't untrue, it's more often because my legs won't work for a few days and/or and Orange is the New Black season two is out. Although if you know what depression is, you know that's happened more than a couple of times with the stinky.

I won't know officially for about six weeks, but Fred was very comfortable telling me that we won.

Shane took me to Chili's for a celebratory lunch. I went crazy wild and had chicken quesadillas and a Coke. My skin is now a splotchy mess of hell because of the Coke's corn syrup, but the chicken was so fucking worth the cheating that I only have like 4% meat guilt. I'm thinking the hives/zits could possibly be karma as well as allergies. Like a mystical force talked me out of a lemon water so I'd be poultry-punished.

So, I now have to rest my ass for a bit then finish up the aforementioned drawings at long damn last.

Do happy dances for me, will ya?
I cannot happy dance, though I dearly wish to do so;)
Thanks for all the yummy positive mojo.
I love you guys like Takei loves a sexual pun.

Fred isn't his real name. I'm not entirely sure I'm allowed to write about the hearing, though, so no names. Except mine, Ms. Heidi Takei-Hiddleston.