411: Money in the Meter

On my way to see the doctor this afternoon, I left a message on a complete stranger’s voicemail. Someone I have never seen before. Never have known, and likely will never encounter.

I held on to that stranger while I sat alone at the doctor’s office.

Aspergers was on my medical chart, listed under conditions.

I have this tongue thing, like a gag-reflex tongue I suppose, and a long tongue at that, and my tongue NEVER cooperates, especially with dental x-rays and the like. It truly has a mind of its own. No kidding. As it happened, the doctor lost his patience with me. He tried all ways to get a culture of the white patch at the back of my throat with this long Q-tip thing. But my tongue kept blocking the pokey stick like it was sparring. I was embarrassed, to say the least.

The doctor threw the stick away, and huffed. Quietly and professionally, but the frustration was obvious. Me, being my nervous giggly self, offered: “Are there any tricks? Something you can teach me to help?”

I think he was fed up with the tips he’d already offered throughout the procedure. He kind of snapped, “Tricks? No, I don’t have any tricks.” I felt all of twelve.

My demeanor makes me come across as a stupid-head sometimes: the posture, the anxious laughter, the inflection of my voice. And I fumble with words as my voice squeaks in all of its youngness. You’d think I had the IQ of a horsefly. My un-brushed hair and sloppy attire of the day, likely didn’t help to set the mood of ‘got-it-together-woman.’ I was wishing at this point I’d dressed up for the doctor, at least had my hair up and not all straggly in my face.

Still seeming a bit perturbed, the doc summed up I likely didn’t have strep anyhow. The chances were very unlikely: no fever, no swollen glands, etc. But I knew I was feeling super lousy; I knew when I’d flushed bright red earlier in the day, I’d had a fever, and I knew I couldn’t risk getting sicker. I had an important trip planned and my husband was out of town. I had to know. The anxiety grew.

He left the room without telling me anything except to explain it was basically a sore throat and to gargle. I opened the door and asked a nurse if I could go. I don’t think the doctor appreciated that. He seemed bothered when he explained the procedure of when I could exit.

At this point my resources of zen-being and lovey-dovey-ness, were all but empty. I had a lot on my plate and felt like crap. I don’t remember the particulars, but somehow the subject came up again of tricks. And the doctor said, very bluntly: “I know tricks for kids. I teach kids tricks. I don’t teach adults tricks. Adults should know.”

Man, that wasn’t nice. I swallowed and felt my little heart race. I retorted, “I have to disagree. I have autism and my son has autism. And sometimes adults need tricks too, because our bodies work differently.” He kind of gave me a glance, and that kind of made me feel worse.

He then said, in a demeaning tone, “Have you ever heard of the phrase: Where there’s a will there’s a way?”

He asked if I wanted to try again.

I said, “Yes,” already doubting myself, coaching myself with the silent you can do it, and feeling terribly inadequate. As the doctor prepared another culture, I offered kindly, “The reason I want to rule this out and take care of it right away is because I have to drive in a few days a long distance.”

The doctor approached with the long thing. This time after several more minutes of ‘ahhhhs’ and ‘look up at the corner’ and ‘no stick your tongue back in your mouth’ and much more, the doctor sighed saying he’d likely gotten something, hopefully.

Again the sense of not enough.

Somewhere in the time line after something or another, that I can’t recall now, I lost my equilibrium. I don’t know if it was one final shrug or sigh on his part, or my urge to speak my mind. But I kind of unraveled in a calm but definitely I’ve had enough of this way.

Exhausted, I asked: “Do you not know what Aspergers means and how it affects people?”

He responded, “No.”

I said, “I write for a psychology journal; would you like me to leave a copy at the desk, so you can learn?”

He kind of looked either perplexed or bothered or preoccupied—I couldn’t tell. He said something that indicated agreement.

I said, “You know you were kind of rude to me. You didn’t treat me well.”

His back was still mostly to me, as he stared down the culture. I was thinking this guy was definitely undiagnosed Aspie. I explained, “You sounded like you were belittling me.” I was on a roll then, like when you finally get the ketchup in the bottle unstuck, after that final hiccupping glob, and the rest of the red comes pouring out swiftly.

I continued, “When you talked about not having to teach adults tricks. And you asked me if I knew what Where there’s a will, there’s a way meant. You sounded like you were mocking. And who doesn’t know what that means? You insulted my intelligence. Did you have a bad day or something? I mean the way you were…oh I don’t know what you were. You just weren’t nice.”

I felt a bit like I was in ‘Gone with the Wind,’ in an important scene. Only I was in old blue jeans and wearing socks with my sandals.

He mumbled, “Well, I’ve never had an adult who could not do a culture.”

I said, with a rising voice, “Well do you think I was doing it on purpose?”

He probably wasn’t too keen on being in a room with me at this point. Poor man. I should have given him my husband’s number, so they could commiserate.

The doctor left.

I had some time to wiggle and squirm and text a friend of my experience.

When the doc returned, indeed it was strep throat. He handed me some stick and started to explain about the red line. I said, “It looks like a pregnancy stick.” Now he was nice. He was smiling. He was more relaxed. He was finally sitting and looking at me. He seemed like a different person. He actually seemed genuine and concerned. I could have sat with this person for hours. He was much changed. I sat there hunched with a blank stare contemplating the reasons for his demeanor.

I was thinking: 1) He realizes I wasn’t a moron because I told him I write for a magazine 2) He is feeling kind of wrong for assuming I wasn’t sick 3) He is realizing he was a boob 4) He has no idea what else to do but to give in 5) He thinks I am nuts 5) He is so happy I am about to leave.

As I was leaving I said, about my strep throat confirmation, “Yes, I thought so. I usually can tell stuff about myself and my health.” I imagined I would have talked more and more, if he wasn’t ushering me out the door. I was fine then. He was like my new found friend. I’d forgotten all about the rest—the stuff before he smiled. He’d been kind and that’s all I’d needed.

I reflected back to the stranger, to the voicemail message I’d left:

“I was out of sorts when you left the note because I’d just returned from the airport. I was dropping off my husband there; and now I am headed to the doctor’s because I think I have strep throat. Your random act of kindness kept me from feasibly having that ‘last straw.’ My mother-in-law died this morning. I thought you should know you made a difference.”

When I was parked downtown earlier, she had left a business card on my van’s windshield. I hadn’t seen the note until an hour later, as I was getting into the car for the drive to the urgent care center. She’d handwritten on the back of the card: I wanted to let you know, I saved you from an $18 parking ticket.

She’d put money in the meter.

366: The Stream

Yesterday a dear woman called me. She is a well-known healer in our community. She called to let me know that the (first and only) email I sent her resonated with healing energy; that my words were at a healing, soothing vibration. I have been told by others who are viewing my words that various experiences are induced. For me this is cause for celebration, not because of my ability or outcome, as I do not believe this is from this ‘me;’ this is cause for celebration because I was told through various seers and through repeated visions that indeed the words I scribe would carry a healing vibration, that in actuality the energy attached and resonated by the words was the pure substance of healing.

Though the words are not empty, they were not meant and created to be digested and deduced; they exist more as the carrier of the underlying message which is infinite and currently unattainable through the deciphering of symbolic letters alone. Underlying the words is a resource of rivers and streams, and outmost pouring of diverse and integrated messages, less tangled and superimposed than drawn out of deep souls and splattered across canvas of other.

The seeker will see this, and the rest will feel this, I am told.

And so in hearing from this adored healer, whom called me yesterday, I was somewhat validated in my journey and in the promises of my angels. As the more people that come forward and recognize the healing energy in the words I scribe, the more I am recognizing and able to acknowledge the truth of my angels’ promise.

It is not that I doubted them in a deep sense, but that I am human in form, and being so readily told messages since my youth, I had reason to doubt, if only to be able to function and exist in this world that I have been told is non-functioning in the domain of angels.

Though I believe in my angels and listen to my angels, I still carry the measure of doubt equivalent to the splintered-paw that keeps whispering in nonsensical demise: Your angels are not real.

And here is where I falter and fall, tumble down the path of piety and self-serving, and become miserable onto myself, lost, isolated and alone. For when I dismiss the divine within and without, the pain comes in all forms.

For awhile I walked the path of reason I’d been told, and continually haulted the sensations from divine, whether this be the dreams, the visions, the constant knowings, or the vibrations moving throughout and within my very being. However, when I gave pause to the illusion of creation, and attempted to grasp on to this false belief that I (am) was nothing more than the flesh and beating heart of man, then I was made victim to my own imaging, an imaging far worse than the persecution inflamed upon me by my fellow man. The deleting of the world beyond self and welcoming of the one and the only one I be, in essence wiped out the all of me.

In accepting, or more so struggling to accept I was but one, and none other existed, I stifled and suffocated my very soul. In so doing I became the fire of confusion, isolation and woe, and the pains surfaced on all levels, from dynamic psychological consequences to physical manifestations of torture.

I understand now that to allow the spirt to flow through me is to allow for the ultimate of healings of whole; in other words, healing what is already healed and returning to the wholeness granted to me by eternity and thoughts there of, even beyond thought.

In recognizing this “un-self,” I chose much courage in the start, or first step, whenever that be, as each step led to another, and multiple paths were driven forward at once. In journeying, I forged through self and illusion of self, to accept what was once perceived illusion of spirit. In accepting spirit instantaneously and without purposeful intention, I was to delete self. This in truth was never a scary process but often confusing and mixed with the absence of seeing the outcome, which will not and does not exist.

In stepping out, I was made to, by no choice of self or another, but by circumstance and perception of onlooker alone, to be someone that will not be recognized to some. This is a variable odd place to be, without this self and living somewhat as observer of a walking vessel that reflects the personality of the onlooker outside of self, whilst taking bites of visions, trascribing them thusly, and watching from a place beneath and beyond and above vessel all at once, and accepting the potential silliness of said actions, while knowing the truth heals not one but many.

Invariably I waver to speak, if to speak at all, to breathe, if to breathe at all, as so much moves through me, I become fisherman wondering which species to net, and which to bring up to the light of day from the depths below. For the only sediment of worry now exists in releasing thought into word and wondering if word enough be. For what of the rest left shifting and drifting merrily in the stream of consciousness?

Here is my dilemma, in having moved beyond the pretense of intention of what another thinks of me and views my actions readily with, this self they so frequently perceive as one, then thusly what do I bring forward that is fish enough? How can I the climber of no mountain, the fisher of no game, in seeing this endless cycle of illusion bring forth anything beyond the building blocks beyond pure form. How can I bring up the fish I see that stretch out as rainbows to eternity, when once out of water the breathing stops? How can I as fool made aware, preach as man made whole?

I am stuck here in the flowing rivers of no-time breathing in wonderment in the waters of goodness and envisioning a thousand upon a thousand streams, yet know not where I stand or whom views. And it is in this unknowing I am divided between you and me, longing without longing, recognizing without recognizing, that where we stand is one in the same, sister upon sister, brother upon brother, moving forth to a destination non-existing, in a stream of imaginings.

And so I write, not to form the words of illusion upon illusion, but to bring up the streams itself, the first stream, the second, and the endless circle of more, pouring the waters through. And the fish remain behind in the waters abundant, as the fish cannot breathe here. For invisible cannot breathe in the substance of illusional form.

~ Sam

Below is what I scribed in the winter of 2011. I received this in vision, a combination of images, and what feels like whispers, just as I received most of the prose above on this page.

Balance
Balance is foremost a way of perceiving. Each person will perceive a balanced life differently than the other. In examining the aspects of “balance,” it is important to keep in mind that we are not in the position to judge or evaluate who is balanced and who is not balanced. Every one is balanced to the degree necessary to fulfill their life’s intention. Each person will continually rebalance and reacquaint him or herself with what they deem necessary and required in their lives.

Balance is perceived by the society one lives in. The timeline affects balance, as does environmental climate and universal climate. In looking at balance for an individual, first and foremost determine where there is a hole, or missing piece. They, the person, will seem heavy and hearty, literally “heart-filled” in many areas surrounding them; however, with close examination, and focused attention, there will be apparent gaps or holes. This is where the person is “off balance.”

Before pointing out a discrepancy in balance, the person must grant permission to be evaluated, and question or ask for assistance. To simply approach someone and say: “You are off balance” or the like, is dutifully shameful, and will harm more than do good. There must first be a period of comfort and trust built, and the seeker must be seeking. This is worth noting.

The holes can be felt in many different ways by many different people. There is no right or wrong way in detecting what we will call “weakness” in the balance of a person. For we are truly discussing the person and not the person’s life—there is no life without the person.

In seeing the holes, there will be an obvious lack. A person can turn him or herself in enough to see this lacking. It will resemble a pain in the body, a pain in the mind, a pain in emotion, or pain elsewhere. This hole will be evident in relationships especially, and is most easily detected out in the open in interacting with others. Often, individuals “lacking” much balance will spend less and less time out in the open or develop a way of masking their authentic or true self.

In order to determine these holes, time in the open, out of isolation is necessary. Here they will be noticeable. With the exception of very few humans, each person that walks the earth plane has holes and is “lacking.” The word “lacking” is not to say there is something wrong or incorrect. There isn’t even something missing. The hole of lacking is what is waiting to be filled. This can be perceived as a crystal bowl, clean, unbreakable, and eternally new—the hole created by the crystal bowl is this “lacking” or space to be filled. To say that something is missing would be incorrect. This would be like saying the wooden hole that waits for the peg is missing something, or that the baby bird in the nest with its beak open for food is missing something. True, the baby is hungry, but nothing was lost, misplaced, forgotten, or overlooked—the bird is waiting to be filled. In this way you can see the “lacking” or the need for complete balance, as an innocent being waiting to be filled. What good would it do to point to the bird and say: “Birdie, you are missing food?” This would prove nothing. This would help nothing. Better to look at the bird and say: “Birdie you look as if you are hungry. Would you like some food?” If we point, the bird doesn’t understand and only becomes more hungry. This is how the process works for people. We are each lacking; thus, we are each missing. We have holes to be filled, and we point to the holes and say: “Your hole is this; your hole is that.” Instead we must see the lacking and ask to fill the lacking.

A person with no friends—become his friend. A person with no healthy food—give him healthy food. A person with no time for movement of body—walk beside him. A person with no time for prayer and meditation—meditate beside him. In this way, in the seeing the lacking and then feeding the lacking we will grow. In this way of pointing to the lacking, perceiving it as missing, and then doing nothing—in this way we remain stagnant. Many, many words have been written about humans’ deficits, behavioral wrongs, intellectual debates, defeatism, work ethic, and more. Little, little words have been written about feeding one another. Yet, if you look at all the great works of the world, each considered Holy by the masses, the theme of “giving” remains steadfast. This is what must be done. This is what will be done.

So little one, when you ask: “How do I balance the life?” I say to you that first you must ask another question: “How do I feed the world?” In feeding the world, in feeding the lacking, you consequently balance your life. Two for one. One for two. So say to me next time that when you are lacking, when you are less centered, look not down into your holes, into your perceived lacking, look unto others, and feed them. In this you will remain balanced.

357: My Pain Conditions

I don’t often talk or write about my physical pain, mostly because pain does not define me as a person. Currently, I have several pain conditions. I suffer more in the winter months and do amazingly well in the summer. Sometimes I can get hit with flare ups from multiple conditions all at the same time, typically around my womanly cycle. That was this last weekend, and yes, that was basically hell.

The pain is not so intense that I require pain killers to function. In fact, I usually only take one over-the-counter pain killer (Tylenol) once or twice a month. I save those beauties for the super tough days. But the pain is always with me; it doesn’t go away.

In doing research about hyper-joint mobility syndrome (closely related to EDS, if not the same?) I discovered it is not uncommon for people with this type of condition to have extreme fatigue by mid-afternoon. That is me for certain. Each day at about four in the afternoon, I am ready to settle on the couch. If I sit, in the latter part of the day, then I will have a difficult time getting back up. Sometimes I have to move all day, e.g., standing, walking, cleaning, errands, etc. because more often than not, as soon as I wind down and take a rest, I won’t be able to move much anymore. That’s why I am prone to spend one or two days a month doing massive non-stop cleanings of the house. It’s the only way I can do housework: all or nothing. Housecleaning itself usually sets me back two to three days in intensified pain, but manageable.

When I take my three to five-mile walks, most days in the summer, and a few times a week in the winter, I am fighting through the pain. Pain in my knee joints, hips, and sometimes back. When I say, “I am taking a walk,” it means a lot more to me than just a walk. Forcing myself out the door means forcing myself through the pain.

Simple tasks, like opening a lid on a jar, bending to retrieve something from the floor, or walking up and down stairs, hurt. I don’t loosen up and feel better after stretches. Stretches actually make me feel worse. My pain feels very much like what I imagine a person would feel after he or she hiked ten miles up hill. It is an all over, generalized body-ache. Sometimes I feel like I took a huge fall or was run over by a thousand little trolls. There are also specific areas in my body that flare up, in the sense it hurts more. I don’t actually swell or get red in areas. Flare ups usually happen in my wrists, fingers, elbows, hips, spine, neck, knees, etc. I am sure I am leaving out some area, but you get the picture. The flare ups feel like a dull ache, not severely painful like a tooth ache, just painful enough that sitting here now, as I type it feels like parts of me are throbbing and/or burning.

I am thankful I can go through my days and still function. I can climb stairs with ease, despite the pain. I can clean. I can walk. I can drive. Somethings that are more jolting on my muscles are actually dangerous for me, as I never completely heal from injuries, and actually develop something similar to scar tissue where the collagen should be healing. Thusly, I still feel the three times I suffered whiplash from car accidents, the time I took a hard fall and landed on my left shoulder, and the time a glass-framed painting fell off the fireplace mantel and landed on me. Those pains won’t ever completely go away.

My children are used to seeing me on the couch. It’s what they have grown up with. What they know as familiar. It’s one of the reasons I find so much time to write. Fortunately, when I write, I can escape my body from time to time. I think my pain is one of the reasons it is hard for me to practice being in the present moment. I am fairly certain that the combination of sensory (bombardment) challenges, Post-Traumatic-Stress Syndrome, and constant pain, make it difficult for me to want to be present.

I wake up several times a night during the harder days, usually from the hip pain. I have to shift my body a bit, and then I am able to fall back to sleep. I consider myself fortunate. I fall asleep easily at a reasonable time of night and stay asleep for the most part. However, part of the reason I fall asleep is because I am utterly exhausted from doing relatively little all day. Just sitting on the couch hurts.

I maintain a fairly good disposition. As much as I hated hearing my mother repeatedly tell me that “Things could be worse,” when I was growing up, it is true, they could be. I do have some almost pain-free days. And on those days, I can truly appreciate the beauty of just being. And on my high-pain days, the longest stretch usually lasting five days, I can remind myself, or ask my husband to remind me, that this too shall pass.

I don’t worry too much about the future. My pain has been pretty stable; in other words, I have felt this crappy for about fifteen years and the crappiness hasn’t increased, at least.

I know NEVER to run; even a short fast sprint to catch my dog will result in body pain for several days. A tumble or a fall might keep me down for a week. And the only “minor” surgery I ever had, a small laproscopic “scraping” for endometriosis, took me a year to heal from. It should have taken two days. And, yes, I still feel the pain there, likely scar tissue that never will heal.

I am super thankful I listened to my angels about six years ago. I was scheduled for a full hysterectomy. I had the operation date, and was already setting up childcare when I heard a distinct and audible: “No.” I can’t imagine what would have happened if I had the surgery. I don’t think I would have ever been the same. If minor surgery took me a year to heal from, what would major surgery have caused? Plus, my acupuncturist at the time, a healer I still see when I travel to California, she gently had offered: “I would not take out any part of a body unless it was a life threatening condition.” In other words: keep all your parts as long as you can.

I think sometimes I accept my pain conditions too much, to the point I practically forget. I get super down on myself for not being able to get up and go, to run out the door and go toss a ball or shoot some hoops. Like other things in life, I sometimes long to be “typical.”

Sometimes I make a sacrifice and will do something I know will cause me days of pain, like painting or roller skating, riding a roller coaster, chasing my son, or climbing hills. Sometimes the sacrifice is very much worth it!

The pain has been a gift in many ways. Like I said, I appreciate the days of less pain. And the days of almost no pain are like heaven. And I have been able to spend valuable time with my children. If I didn’t have this pain condition, I dont think I would have left my teaching job (I am disabled.), because I loved teaching and brought income home for the family. If I was still teaching, I would not have been afforded the opportunity to be a stay-at-home mom and to homeschool my middle-son with Aspergers.

Because of my experience, I have gained empathy for those in physical pain and/or with chronic fatigue. And I have gained a remarkable awareness regarding my own body and my needs.

I also am blessed with a patient husband who never complains when I am down. And I get to experience his love demonstrated through service and support. I have seen miracles, too. Like this last month, when I drove over 1600 miles, in a few days time, and experienced little to no risidule pain. I kept asking my angels to relax my body and heal me. And when I do my automatic writing, much of my pain disappears, too.

I don’t know why I live a life with physical pain, anymore than I know why I experienced a difficult childhood or why I have Aspergers. I do know that all my challenges have made me a stronger and a more loving person. I know that I am capable of extreme empathy, because in this short life I have experienced so very much. And perhaps that is my gift: how my suffering enables me to love more fully and to connect more freely.

I cannot imagine my life any different. If one day my pain goes away, I am sure I will be delighted; but in the meanwhile, I am so happy that I know how to choose contentment over victimhood. And I am thankful that I recognize my pain is not who I am.

I wrote this post because there are other people who experience pain syndromes, and I want them to know I understand. And because I wanted to share a little bit more about my journey.

I think we all have special gifts to share with the world, and that if we can turn our trials into compassion for self and others, then we have already accomplished so very much.

In closing, I believe there is a reason for my life. I believe we have each been called to service and each given the tools necessary to answer our calling. For me, one tool in particular has been the continual humbling of spirit. I thank my pain for reminding me of my fragility and humaness, and for bringing me that much closer to reliance on something higher than self.

Diagnosed with:
Fibromyalgia
Chronic Fatigue
IBS
Endometriosis
Fibroids
Hyper-joint mobility syndrome
Lyme Disease (The test has an over 60% fail rate. The test results were questionnable; the doctor based this diagnosis on ongoing symptoms. I tend to think I don’t have this, though, and my pain is a result of the above conditions.)

Self-Diagnosed:
PMDD

Perhaps I have?
Classic Ehlers-Danlos syndrome (I haven’t been diagnosed with this, but it is so similar to hyper-joint mobilitiy syndrome; though I do have most of the symptoms)

352: Here Comes the Mud

Last night I dreamt two boys, my son and a friend’s son, had painted my stairs with clay-colored shit. On close examination, it wasn’t shit at all, but mud they’d dug out of the water-creek area centered at the heart of our house, the outside elements inside, below the stairs. There were shovels there; they’d been digging for water in fun, until they were scolded by my friend, the one boy’s mother, for spreading shit inside the house. She had climbed down and brought up a clump in her hand, smelled it and insisted it was crap. I, then, knowing this to be false, proceeded to the site of the wet muddy bank and scooped up my own lump. I held it to my face, with only a touch of doubt, and inhaled deeply. It was dirt. I was certain. Wet dirt. “It’s not shit,” I insisted, a bit irritated, but thankful feces were not smeared across my carpeted steps; but my friend, the son’s mother, she insisted it was shit. And that was that. The last words spoken: Shit.

I think my angels are telling me something. It’s actually quite clear. Where I am at right now, currently, feels like shit, looks like shit, and even, quite frankly, when I first wake up, tastes like shit; but a part of me, the analytical and hope-filled part, she knows it is just all mud, and like all mud, this too will be swept up in the rain, cleansed and removed.

This is all coming about, this feeling of “shit” because of my hormones and that “time of the month,” aka
“Hell.”

I have gained weight. The weight gain could be the result of the reduction of thyroid pill, or my binge eating from PMS, or reduced walking…… or just the cold winter season. Regardless, bodily changes freak me out. Really do, to the point I don’t want to wear nice clothes and I don’t want to leave the house.

Unless of course I deem the changes positive.

And it makes no difference how often someone reassures me I am still pretty or enough, or beautiful on the inside. It just doesn’t. I get comfortable when I weigh less. Not super skinny, just enough skinny so the fat doesn’t disgust me.

Now, other people, like my friends, if they gain a little weight, I don’t care! It’s so unfair. I really don’t care if they are ten pounds heavier or one hundred, as long as they are healthy and happy. They are lovely no matter what. (sidebar: In all honesty, I have to say with boyfriends in the past and in considering my husband’s weight gain or weight loss, I can be bothered, because I see that person daily and….clearing throat….naked.) And I mean that. Some people even look better with a little more weight. Especially as the female face ages and grows more gaunt. But for me I have a double-standard. I must be a certain weight or I am deemed “not enough.”

Truth be told, last I prayed, I wished to go head-to-head with my bodily issues and with my hang ups on appearance. To face the demons. So here it is! The shit, at least appearance of shit, being dug up and hitting not only the fan, but the stairs leading to advancement and a higher place…hmmmmmm Tricky angels I have.

I must be careful what I pray for. I must. I must!.

When I gain weight, I wig. I spazzzzz. I obsess. My “fatness” becomes my fixation.

For me, it feels like my weight is one of the few things in this world I can find familiarity in; something that doesn’t shift and vary with each ticking second.

I hate being me right now.. I would pay someone to take me ahead five years, preferably un-aged, to menopause. Don’t age my children though; I don’t want to miss out. I just can’t stand these spikes in emotions.

I blame some of this on the changes of hormones since I stopped the natural pig hormone for thyroid issues. The pig hormone, I concluded after much research, was causing peaks of progesterone and then rapid drops which lead to the muscles in my tongue responding while I slept, which led to waking up with sore throats, which led to a head cold every month for two days before my period. And cystic acne (which I never had before) caused by the imbalance of other hormones.

Even though I quoted 50 other people whom had cited cystic acne after starting thyroid meds, my natural path didn’t believe me; however, my gynecologist did. And I have been doing this ping-pong battle of rights and wrongs in my head for seven weeks. “Stop the thyroid pill for six months, and then get retested” ……words served by gynecologist. “Cut the pill in half”… words served by natural path doctor.
I stopped. All symptoms seized. Weight came on quicker.

Well I have grown not to trust my natural path doctor. Even though I adore her and have trusted her for the last two years.

She had me at thyroid levels well enough left alone and then upped the dose in August to decrease my levels more. And as a result I was in a state of hyper-thyroid behavior for months, e.g., hair falling out, heart beating fast, rapid thoughts, increased OCD and need to process, and not gaining weight, no matter what I ate.

Now, my body is confused, as I’ve stopped, or not so much confused, but readjusting, and the equilibrium they are finding is not to my liking. I hate feeling tightness around my waist. And I hate disliking my image, an image I already was uncomfortable with, but slowly getting used to before I began to change…again.

I do not like the uncertainty of the world. I can’t deal with it at times. I can’t deal with anything right now: no noise, no decisions, no nothing; and this is likely why I have been housebound for three days, entirely on the couch or at my dining room table, fixated on organizing my blog and talking to others, fixating on escaping who I am.

I don’t get it, and I don’t get me; and I don’t like how hormones happenings can change ME. I dislike health issues; they are my major tipping point, my trigger, a fear-based swampland. I don’t do well with anything related to sickness. But even in the fowl, muddy-mood I am in, I do recognize my fear of health issues has in the last two months decreased ten-fold…a miracle in itself.

Which leads me to my angels. I can feel them still, sitting back and watching me go through this mucky mud. I know they are there. I know this is necessary for whatever reason. But it doesn’t stop me from wanting to turn them into visible, little fairies that I can stomp on for pleasure.

They get that. They do. And I think I can hear them laughing at the joke, and even giggling in relief they don’t have to be human. But I do. And it sucks. It stinks like shit even though I know it “ain’t.” And that’s the hell of it: Knowing it’s passing mud, but feeling and believing it’s shit that sticks.

I don’t know what to do except to write it out, to pound it out, and hope that someone out there is touched and healed, or at least relieved in some way. Perhaps in the knowing that as hard as I try, as much as I do, as strong as my faith is, that sometimes through it all, all I see is shit.

350: Crap! I have this. That’s all she wrote.

Crap! I have this (too). That’s all she wrote.

PMDD

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Premenstrual_dysphoric_disorder

http://www.mayoclinic.com/health/pmdd/AN01372

Here is a fellow blogger with Aspergers who writes about PMDD. http://worldwecreate.blogspot.ca/2013/03/how-to-deal-with-pmdd-part-2.html

And after lots of processing…she wrote a bit more!
Okay…. are studies being done about this COMT enzyme??? It affects emotions and executive functioning?? AND is thought to be possible cause of PMDD!!!

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Catechol-O-methyl_transferase

Could not feasibly the symptoms of PMDD be used as an additional indicator of Aspergers in Women, since there is the strong connection with the variant enzyme of COMT in people with autism? Yes, indeed, I believe so. I love my brain.