Oh, Blessed Misery Diary, forgive me, I have forsaken you...
I have spent many miserable hours rolling on the couch, worrying, watching lurid television, thinking of posts - complete with pictures this time- instead of actually coming here and typing out my bitter complaints - prayers to the Goddess of Bitch - like I should have. I look at other writers and bloggers, with their sites that are updated at least every four days, and I feel such loser-ish-ness, I could flog myself.
The only question now - should I contain recent episodes into one, long, incongruent rant, or shall I divide them into individual posts?
In any case, on with the Massive Maze of a Mini-Rant! Hear ye!
In which we shall contend with the Visit to the Heart Doctor:
I woke up, bright-eyed and bushy-bitched, this morning at 7:30am, thinking that my appointment was at 8:30am, which it wasn't, it was at 9:00am, but when you have a butt-load of miscellaneous appointments, most of them with doctors, whose to complain about a measly half hour off, right? I got up feeling nauseated (of course), with my heart pounding in my belly (sigh) and started the festivities of getting ready to go to my appointment.
Long story short, after a juice and a half a biscuit, mom drove, which was a mistake, because as nervous as I am on the highway, she, at least it seems to me, is a TOTAL FURY.
Good thing I don't have an anxiety disorder, right?
I went into the doctor's office fifteen minutes late, waited for a while, was taken back to the exam room, took off my top (woo-hoo!), and a nurse came in and did an ultrasound of my heart, complete with the Cold Gooey Stuff. It was sort of neat looking over at the visual manifestations of my own heart as modern technology is able to produce them. It made me think about one day having an ultrasound of a baby in my belly, which made me sort of sad, because I don't know if or when I will ever be Healthy enough for that.
So anyhoot, to make a short-long-story shorter, they told me nothing at the appointment, but said that the doctor would call today or tomorrow. My heart rate, if the number on the screen above the acronym "HR" was indeed my heart rate, which I am guessing it was, was between 65-75 during the entire deal, which I was pleasantly surprised by, so really I am not all that worried about my heart. I'm still scared about the idea of going off the Metaprolol (which noone has suggested, actually, but which I am anticipating, as I always anticipate things to fear). I'm starting to think all this business is more Anxiety than anything else.
Have I gotten to the birds yet? No? Damn, this is taking longer than I expected...
When I walked out of the medical park, I looked up and saw first one, then two great, black, perfectly crisp hawks. I could see the individual feathers on their wings - looked like the rips and tears at the end of a worn flag. It was beautiful. I felt so good in that moment.
to be continued...She is tired..
On the way to the cardiologist, I told momma about a horrible dream I'd had, which she attributed to my "lesbianism...is why you have them dreams." I was too stunned to respond at the time. I didn't explain to her at that particular moment the fear, trauma and confusion, for a sexual abuse survivor, behind and from such a dream. Her response was laugh-able, and I laughed. Geesh, lord jesus.
Now, I don't know if it was because of the stress of riding while momma drives, or the stress of momma in general, or the doctor's visit, or the hawks, or fatigue, or being an hour late to take my Cymbalta, or just my mental illness, but as we got close to home, I started crying, and by the time we got into the parking lot of our apartment complex, I was full-on shaking, weeping, tears streaming, mouth open, near-drooling, I don't care who sees me, I'm not getting out of the car, I'm not moving until this horrible, wonderful, primal, relief and confusion of SOBBING is over.
That is the second cry-out that I've had in as many weeks or less, and man, they are cathartic. The last time I had cried like that was earlier this year in the 7th grade guidance counselor's office at the middle school when I was going through that horrible day when we had to have Otis put down.
Anyhoot, I think everybody ought to cry more. It would help things.