Oh look, a ‘blogger’ writing on the First Day of a New Year! What a shocka! Ah, well, what can I say, the New Year Spirit got me and I did not fight it.
Catch up! Catch up!
Now, I’m not going to bother to go through and see what I’ve already jotted here, dear reader – partly because I’m too lazy, but mainly because I’ll get involved or bored or I’ll forget, or my flourish of enthusiasm with wilt and I’ll not finish writing this. So – to let you know where I am ‘at’ – what the current list of dullard physical complaints is, and perhaps a mental pre-occupation or two.
Yes, bums, arses, anuses – the place the poo comes out*. A month of phone calls re-arranged my CT Colonography (??) and attendant meds, and now I’ll have wind and a camera shoved up my bum on January 12th. Just to check for Cancer. Because that’s what they do. And that is good. But the delay has changed my tiny little flutter of worry (you know the one, the one you get before any blood test or scan where there could be Something Wrong but it passes cos you really know it’s nowt bad) into full on ‘can’t sleep with visions of my Aunt/Mum skeletal with tumours’. So now I’m not looking ‘forward’ to it – not that I would ever look forward to having a flexi wand camera jobby put up my bum – not my thing. But in reality, beyond not getting positively stimulated by it, my previous experience (not enough sedation, then too much, and lots of wind pain after) was so horrible that I properly don’t like the idea. I was very sick in 2000 when I had it done and the pain was great.
*But it doesn’t, which is why we’re here.
Lots of bad cysts and all the skin problems. Scaly greasy ears, spots all over my shoulders and chest, acne various and now the beginnings of hives on my arms. I’ve been a little stressed. A smidge, so my body is attacking itself. My acne/cysts/scales, are something I am going to tackle this year. They are third on the List.
Am very blind and uncomfortably so. After eye test (How are you getting around? Your prescription is so out of date…), I am actively looking for new glasses. This will be the first pair I choose without my Mum. I am as wonky of visage as I am of body. My Mum knew what I would like to look like and she knew how totally fragile I am about my face- to the point of not leaving the house because of spot or because of how large my nose is. So she helped in choosing the glasses. Total First World Problems, but my Achilles Heel (or Septum). This calmed down as I grew up, but the prospect of The Wrong Glasses has awakened the anxiety. In addition, I won’t be allowed to change them. You see, I can’t afford my glasses, they will be purchased as a gift by my Dad, so once I have them, I’m stuck with them. In the 27 years I’ve worn them, I’ve had 3 pairs. I think this pair are 8 years old now. I know that is not ‘normal’ – my friends and family change their glasses all the time. But I never have. If they don’t like a pair, they buy another. I am so blind I can’t see without my prescription – now I’m so so blind I can’t see what I look like in a mirror close up without glasses, so when I try on a pair, well, I have no idea of if I’ve even managed to put them on straight. Selfies etc. are all well and good, but I can tell you that what I look like in a camera phone, and what I look like in my mirror are not the same. To say I’m ‘unphotogenic’ is a weak jest. I look weird in real life, but I look a different weird in photos. Indeed it’s amazing the variety of ‘a bit wrong’ I can look. This is not my paranoia or aesthetic standards talking – this is plain fact. My face is lopsided and even my Dad admits it’s not ‘normal’. Hell, the optician said I had ‘a surprisingly small face’ for ‘such a big person’. It’s true. Glasses look normal in the opticians hand, but they put them on my face and suddenly they’ve engulfed my cheeks like a Facehugger from Alien. So you put my self dislike together with a genuine problem (tiny face/ bent features) and you get a hot mess. Oh, and when you’re picturing the shrunken headed hunter from Beetlejuice, add in that the right eye goes off up to the corner – it’s not interested in you.
Beetlejuice – Harry the Hunter and his Shrunken Head.
Dem Bones, Dem Bones
Top of my list this. I can now barely walk and I certainly can’t bend over. My shoulders are so painful I am covered in Ibuprofen Gel. At the moment the only bit of me that’s not hurting is my nose. All the joints are painful, but worse, they are not working. I can’t lift my right leg up properly, and if I can get the damn thing off the ground, that hurts my hip. When I put my foot down, the knee hurts. I’m limping badly, but with both legs, so basically I’m doing a Boris Karloff in Frankenstein. Double Limping is not yet an Olympic Sport, but it’s so fucking ridiculous, perhaps it should be. This encroaching physical lock down – the feeling that I’m gradually becoming stone, is the worst of my problems. My acne makes me depressed and feel all the horribles you feel as a teen. My eyes are annoying – as is the Tinnitus etc. etc. But not being able to use my arms or legs properly, and both at the same time is a kind of torture. It is frustrating and just brings on despair. Why, well beyond the obvious – I CAN’T FUCKING MOVE HERE- there is the little additional jabs – it’s been the sparkly season, and I’ve not been able to enjoy it. I’ve missed exhibitions and parties and all the good things. And those I’ve managed I’ve really not enjoyed. I’ve also wasted my mobility. I’ve never considered buying gifts a waste before, but I did this year. I had so few good days in December that I grudge those I spent out shopping. Those I spent not being selfish. This is because I really needed to be selfish- I needed to use my mobility for other things. But I didn’t. And now I have a back-log of things to do. I have a lot of ironing, clothes washing and cleaning. And I mean a lot. I have a house full of ‘Things That Need Doing’ – and I’m getting nagged by my Dad about it. Which makes it feel urgent, which makes me feel anxious, which makes me ill. The anxiety ‘helps’ my Acne flourish. Increases my joint pain and has led to…
Not Bum Problems. Pre-bum. I’ve stopped eating properly. I’m going to admit it. I think I have a problem. I really enjoy throwing food I’ve bought away. I mean really enjoy scooping it all into the recycle bin, and putting the packaging in the other recycle bin. I enjoy not eating. When I do eat, I eat crap (pastries, pop corn, Shredded Wheat). I can go into a restaurant and not fancy anything on the menu. I can’t think of a smell that makes me hungry any more. But I’ve been eating cakes. However even this is now a problem. I ate at Christmas – on Christmas Day, and I had such bad acid reflux I was burning in the mouth. The next day I immediately went back to not eating. But the reflux remained. As did the burning in the gut. I had terrible wind. Now, on Dec. 21 I had a full plate of food – the first I’d had since October, and I felt sick. But it was ok. However that was a moderate Pub Grub meal. Christmas Day was full on Bowerman dinner. Dinner and pudding and then ‘tea’ (cold buffet) and more pudding and O God did I stuff myself. I felt awful – like I was drunk but I’d imbibed rocks. The next day I was in a coma of food and indigestion. And the next day. Hell, the pain and burning. Today I have eaten properly again. And I’m going to try to get back to a plate of food, rather than either a pastry or nothing. Oh, and I forgot about Acid Reflux and Gaviscon. Yeah, smart me. Thank fuck I remembered. And bought a new bottle. My stomach still hurts, and thinking of throwing food out makes me feel happy. But I think I may fight it. I know it’s not normal. I’m seeing my Psychiatrist on Wednesday and may tell her. I know this may be affecting my mood, and also lots of things (I’m Anemic and Vit D deficient and my hair is falling out…) but I just don’t know if I care enough to change it. I think I like it too much.
So these are the problems, well the physical ones. There’s lots of other stuff. My Brother is not coping with the ending of his marriage. He is worrying my Dad, but my Dad is passing it on to me- he came up while I was writing this, to report verbatim a conversation he had on the phone with my Brother. He is treating me as if I were my Mum. There is still the Sword of Damocles that is the clearing of the Shitpile that is my house. The unending saga of flooring, paint colours and all the other tripe. And then there is my truly personal Stuff. Like what the fuck am I doing with myself? And ‘What is the point?’. Eugh. So Teenage. I hate when these things pop up in the noggin because they’re so OLD. Been there, thought that. I want to punch those thoughts in the face.
So Welcome to Bowermanland at the beginning of 2018.
My List: See GP about joints (hip, knees, lower back), choose glasses, see GP about skin, find out what is going on in my Bum. Whoop whoop.