Archive for May, 2011


Post a Week 2011

I haven’t been having much of a problem making my post a week goal, which has surprised me. Usually I have some angry tirade I can go on, but today, I don’t have a lot. My problem from work today is resolved, the asshole I encountered on the way home is in the past and I’m trying to just let it go. Even if I was dwelling on it, there’s not much that can be said other than “people are assholes.”

This Post a Week thing has actually be really beneficial for me in a lot of ways– I never quite realized how relaxing it was to have to pick something each week and go on a ramble about it. It clears up a ridiculous amount of space in my head that would otherwise be taken up with going over a problem or irritation repeatedly.

So, I’d just like to thank you folk that read this blog for wandering by and reading my rambles, and assure you that the ranting and raving will resume next week.

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So, I started a new job and I’m in training. I love the job. I play with tech, my supervisors are funny, it is GREAT. I’m not here to complain about the job. No, people have gone and annoyed the shit out of me, and here’s why:

So, you all have had a part time job before, right? They hold your pay the first two to three weeks, depending on when in the billing cycle you were hired. So, when you’re paid, you’re paid for the work you did two weeks ago, not the work you’re currently doing. Yes, I realize that’s not exactly how it goes, but bear with me here. Okay, now take into account that even most FULL TIME jobs have a delayed pay schedule like this. I think we can all agree that if you’ve ever had a job, you know about this. Good? Good.

There are three girls that were ranting and raving and bitching and moaning about not getting paid for three weeks. This was brand new news to them. This tells me they have never had a fucking job.

I’m in a room full of, for the most part, 20+ adults, if not 30+ adults. These girls fall into this category. They’re in college. Judging by the shit they wear, the purses they were carrying, and the shit they buy, they’re not hurting for money. Okay, fine, so they haven’t had a job before. Fucking fine. I still don’t think your ass should be sitting in these seats without any customer service experience (since you’ve never had a job, you know, and this is a fucking call center), but whatever.

Then one of them says she has a scholarship. Such a scholarship that MY FUCKING SCHOOL PAYS FOR HER FUCKING PHONE WITH THESE FUCKING SCHOLARSHIPS because she has her phone bill billed to her university account. Convenient. Fine. Fucking fine. I’ll pretend that these scholarships are merit based, even though this chick is dumb and it shows, and also a person that has to open her mouth every five minutes just because she can’t shut up. Okay. Assuming these are merit based, they still have a need based component. Okay, so maybe I was wrong in thinking this chick had money. But then, I wonder, how the fuck has she never had a job… maybe it was a work study type job, if she had one, so she wasn’t paid per se, but instead worked to get money off her school bill.

However, that pissy part of my brain is just pointing out inconsistencies with these theories left and right. How can she afford to buy shit at work every day if she’s so fuck broke? How does she have an apartment (that was later explained– it was a school-run apartment complex)? And most importantly…

HOW THE GODDAMN MOTHERFUCK CAN SHE AFFORD A GODDAMN MOTHERFUCKING TABLET WITHOUT A FUCKING CONTRACT AND WITHOUT ANY TYPE OF A DISCOUNT?

She keeps going “I NEVER WANT A CONTRACT” when people ask about who her cellphone is through, so that’s how I know she bought this thing out of contract, and this motherfucking tablet is $800 dollars out of contract.

Now, take into account this chick is stupid, and while I have been in training with her (a classroom environment that you get PAID for being in) she can’t pay attention, she doesn’t follow along, she talks incessantly, and at the first thing that gives her trouble, she throws up her hands and goes “I can’t do it” and waits for the answers to be given to her or just doesn’t do it at all. Now throw on top of that that right now, on top of that tablet, she has a goddamn Blackberry. Those aren’t cheap either, even with a contract, and we know how she feels about those.

Think about all of that. You’ll probably reach the conclusion I did, which is that her scholarships are not merit OR need based, and she had money given to her on the grounds of another criteria. While I have my guesses about what that goddamn criteria is that overrides financial need and merit, it would lead to an entire other rant, so I’m not going there. What I’m focusing on today is that all the words out of this bitch’s mouth are “When do I get this?” “Can I have that?” “Do I get that?” all of which translate to “GIMMEGIMMEGIMME!” This girl, if she finds out that there is anything that someone does not nail down and say “this is mine,” she will take, or demand that she can have. Our trainers have prizes for getting shit right? She wants all of them. As soon as she sees something without a name on it, she goes “Give me it.” Not “What can I do to earn that?” or “What do we do to get that?” it’s always: “CAN I HAVE IT?” It’s also never once. She says things over and over and OVER A-FUCKING-GAIN. “Can I have the prize? Can I have it? Can I? Can I have the prize? Can I have it? Why Can’t I have it?” On loop until it’s put away.

This girl is twenty years old. She’s been in college a while– twenty is at the low end of the spectrum for how old she is. The way she talks about liking margaritas, I’m guessing 21 or older, but I know that’s very possibly not the case, so I’m going with twenty. The point is, she’s twenty years old and she wants every shiny thing she sees, talks to hear herself talk, and has never had a job, and yet HER school is paid for to the point she can afford a $800 tablet while I’m struggling to pay my bills and cannot get a fucking scholarship to save me despite a 3.5 GPA and a ACT of 30 when I can’t afford school, and FURTHERMORE, far more deserving people in far more dire financial straits than I with comparable grades and a thousand times more drive can’t get scholarships and due to credit fuck ups that are not their fault (their guardians managed to fuck their credit in the past year, screwing them out of loans from the government), can’t get student loans to finish school that won’t leave them without, you know, food because they’re such pathetic, meager fucking offerings.

Maybe that bitch just got lucky, and maybe the people I know were really unlucky, but I think that if you have a scholarship and you’re buying $800 pieces of equipment you don’t need, your scholarship should be immediately reduced a WHOLE FUCKING LOT. However, this girl in my class that has all these things? She just wants more. And more and more. And then, when she’s done, she’ll take some more, because I guess she’ll just never have enough.

I realize there are many things that may be at play here that I don’t see– she could (hell, probably did) buy the tablet on credit (such a wise choice, you know, for something you don’t even need) which certainly doesn’t say she has money, just a lack of sense with money. They’ll give anyone a credit card, after all. She could…

No, that’s all I’ve got. Credit and sucking with money. You come up with some other scenarios. I, frankly, don’t give a shit. I’m still back on the fact that this bitch gets her school paid for, and when friends with actual merit and financial need go to the financial aid office, they get laughed at.

Call me a jackass, but that other criteria should not exist. It shouldn’t impact your education or your being judged as worthy for help getting said education. No one should be able to bar you from education based on anything but merit, and no one should be able to get into school based on anything but merit. If you’re a good student, nothing should keep you out of school.

And yet, these brilliant people are kept out of school and this dumb bitch is not only in school, but seems to be being paid excessive amounts to go to school. And she still wants more.

So, thank you America, for teaching your children that they are special little snowflakes that deserve everything their heart desires and that they shouldn’t have to work for it.

I hope you reap what you sow in the form of your entitled fucking kids spending all the money that would have gone to your retirement home and medical care. After all, they needed the money for what THEY wanted, and you always taught them that what they want is what they should get, no matter what the cost to anyone else!

So, I’m really, REALLY glad I’m quitting my current job. And now, after a hefty shot of good whiskey, I’m gonna tell you why.

I work for a retirement home as a server. Management is a bunch of useless assholes. That’s to be expected in my experience, no offense to any management in the audience, but good managers are rare.

Tonight, we didn’t have a normal meal service. Tonight, I was used as tits and ass as a part of a grand scheme of lies to lure new residents into the home. The way they presented things was that you got a restaurant quality meal every night (sort of true) with wine (not true) and a fancy dessert (not true), and that “lovely ladies” would serve it to you.

How do I know I was being pimped out, you ask? Well, a few reasons.

1. All the servers tonight were slender and could be considered traditionally pretty/attractive.
2. All the servers were white (if any of you know me from Retail Hell Underground, you know of the racist assholery that goes on at this job. Our only server of Asian descent, for example, was expected to like and eat “Chinese” food daily, and our only African American server was referred to as a “negro” by a resident. In both these instances I applauded these ladies offended for not fucking hauling off and slugging the fucking people that said these things. There’s also a lot of fun blatant homophobia at this good “Christian” (seriously. They stressed that about ten times in orientation) business.)
3. All four of the servers of tonight were scheduled for tomorrow as well. This never happens. And the people that are off did not request for the time off.
4. Another server came down to help us and was quickly shooed away when we *did* need help. She is not ugly, certainly, but she has a kid and is not a teen to twenty something that looks cute sashaying around with plates of food while being forced to smile and make small talk.
5. Current residents were not only told to find their own food tonight if they were “independent living” residents, but they were shooed out of the hallways so they would not be seen with their walkers and canes. More proof they wanted everything to look “pretty” rather than like a retirement home.
6. The general atmosphere of “shut up and smile and look pretty.”
7. I was the oldest server. I’m twenty-two.

This revelation occurred to me as we were walking back from being applauded for being such lovely young servers, right after they failed to say that there were more things unusual about the meal service that night than just the specially made dessert which was a “special occasion thing” (bullshit). All of them, except me, were the ones that wore make-up to work every day, that styled their hair. Only one could be considered even a little heavy, when in reality, she’s average sized. But not one of us could be called ugly, not even in hairnets and ugly uniforms. We were the ones that the male residents flirted with, that the little old ladies tried to set up with their grandsons.

I’m fucking pissed off. I’m not pissed off just because I was used as T&A. No, if that’s part of my job description, then fine. If it’s in my job description to look pretty, fine, then I see that as a requirement of the job just like being able to stand for 8+ hours or whatever. I’m pissed off because my attractiveness was used to lie to people, making me a co-conspirator with these fucking assholes I work for. I’m pissed off that I was used to lie. I realize all of this falls under the realm of advertising (a business of lies) because they were trying to recruit new customers and the buyer must beware, but I’m still fucking pissed. I feel like a whore. I don’t appreciate being trotted out as some little show puppy for you to lure people into your business under false pretenses and tricking people using the beauty equals good hypothesis.

This is all on top of the fact I have caught my managers blatantly lying to me about scheduling, on top of the fact they make us come into work sick when we’re working with the elderly (whom are immunocompromised) thus endangering their customers, on top of all the racist, homophobic bullshit, and on top of the fact that the bulk of management are uselessly catty bitches who play favorites and are either just cranky on a good day or outright two-faced cunts on bad days. This is all while being paid 7.70/hr to be bitched at, complained at, glared at, and treated like shit by residents and knowing that even if a resident jumped up and started to strangle me, if I raised a hand to defend myself, I would be shitcanned. No joke. Ask anyone who works in a retirement home, it seems to be a common rule.

Fuck this fucking job. I’m so glad I’m fucking leaving and being paid a living wage. Even if I am in call center hell, at least I’m out of this goddamn place.

I’m a twenty something. I’ve been in college a few years now and I’m close to getting out. Over the course of those years, I’ve realized just how many of my high school friends were not due to similarities, their better qualities, or actual ability to be a friend– it was due to proximity.

We all have, and/or had, friends like this. Co-workers, high school friends, people in our classes or studies programs. When removed from the situation we originally befriended them in, too often their shortcomings become clear and just why you befriended them does as well: You needed companionship and a mutually beneficial relationship to get through a situation, nothing more. They don’t fit into your life, and the more you see them outside their original friend-habitat, the more you wonder why you ever liked them in the first place.

Now, this is not to say that all friends met in these places are this way. You can meet your best friend and/or soul mate in school or on the job, no one denies that. However, it is not the norm. Not from what I’ve observed.

The reason I’m rambling on this is recently, more and more people from high school that fall into this category keep contacting me. I’m not sure what it is– they felt no need, or little need, to talk to me, nor I to them, before this. Often what I discover on their end is that they have run through all the friends they had after high school due to one circumstance or the other; Either they have made a stupid ass decision and their friends left them to screw up their life after trying too hard to save them too many times, or they are in the same position I and others I know are: we realize our high school friends are still mentally in high school, even if they haven’t had an epic childish screw up to prove it. What matters is who is dating who, what’s on TV, what the hippest phone is. Some people never leave that stage and that’s fine, if that’s all you really want out of life. I think you should want more, but that’s just me. You want to stay there, fine, but don’t expect me to humor you.

Let me be frank: If I am friends with you, it is because you do not bore me and you’re not a pain in my ass. One can sugar coat the reasons they are friends with people all they want, but it comes down to two things most of the time: you are either useful or a pleasure to be around. That is why you have different “classes” of friends, they each have different things they are best for. The same person you cry to when your boyfriend/girlfriend dumps you is probably not the same person you go and discuss high philosophy with or go on spur of the moment trips to Canada with. If it is, you are damned lucky and I hope you realize just how rare such a thing is. Very often, there are certain things that are utterly off limits with some people for whatever reason (sexuality, gender, politics, religion, the list goes on), and if you want them to accept all of you, that’s often a problem. They may tolerate the fact that you’re Islamic and they’re Christian, but they’re probably less accepting it and more ignoring it exists so they can still use you for whatever end you suit. If you’re looking for “true friendship” that’s not it, even if that person bends over backwards for you on a daily basis.

In any case, I don’t like making people upset if they were once friends with me by telling them precisely why I have no desire to be friends with them anymore. I’m not going to tell them “Leave me alone, you’re bloody obnoxious, YOU are the reason your life is in the shitter because you refuse to keep a job because it’s ‘hard,’ and keep making the same pattern of mistakes because you refuse to believe the world isn’t your oyster.” Instead, I’ll just not answer some of the time, then most of the time, then almost all of the time, then never. It avoids all the melodrama. It’s a coward’s way out and I fully admit that, but again, if you were once a friend to me, I’d much rather avoid a melodramatic blow up and crying and carrying on. I’d rather keep up the pretense that we just naturally drifted apart because we’re both busy. Everyone’s happy, and it leaves the door open for contact to resume in the future, and maybe by then things will work out. I’m uncomfortable cutting people totally out of my life unless they do something to deserve it.

Unfortunately this approach’s upside is also a downside: it leaves the door open to resume contact, and often the dance begins all over again. Thus, I keep getting contacted by people whom I simply have nothing to say to. I feel awkward talking to them and the conversation frequently stalls. When we do speak, it usually becomes apparent quickly that there is little to talk about, yet they keep initiating conversation. I’d like to think that when I realize conversations with an individual are going nowhere, I give up and politely excuse myself. Sometimes, people just don’t have much in common and that’s really okay. Really. It is. Trying to force conversation repeatedly is not going to change our differences.

For some of these people, it may be that they are trying to get their high school days back and by forcing contact with people from those days. They felt safer and more in control then than they ever do now, and they mistakenly associate it with the people they spoke with during that time when really, it has nothing to do with that. It has everything to do with the fact that the way high school and childhood are set up now, with layer upon layer of protection from accountability and responsibility, the real world is a very nasty shock. The real world has a very different set of rules than in high school in the fact that even if it does have any, they’re certainly not static. No one is going to write out a rule book and hand it to you upon the end of high school, college, or whenever mom and dad cut you off. Even if they did, by the end of the day the rule book would be obsolete, so there would be no point. Who wouldn’t want the days of when you knew exactly what was expected of you and how to accomplish it back? I can’t exactly blame them. I don’t think it’s my place to tell them to wake the hell up and realize high school is not only not all it’s cracked up to be but also not coming back– the universe will do that for me, there’s no need for me to rub it in.

I’m not sure if all of this is really progress– perhaps it is just my becoming more selfish with my time and energy. I don’t necessarily believe this is a bad thing, but I could also be wrapped up in happy clouds of denial. Maybe I should be more grateful that someone wants to talk to me at all. But as it stands right now, I’m taking the position of Ditchwater Sal: “I don’t deal with time wasters.” Talking to someone that makes you uncomfortable, whatever the reason, is a waste of both your time, neither of you are getting what you want out of your company. Life is just too damn short for that kind of thing.

…I don’t believe in fairy tales…
…In love with a zombie…
…Love like winter…
…No one suspects at all…

So, I’m sitting up, feeling sick. Curled up on cold porcelain, my insides revolting from CHICKEN, of all things, NOT the bloody Taco Bell I had earlier, I’m going into one of my states of catatonia.

This will be another one of those posts rather akin to my “Watson, using only musical theory…” post, so those of you that didn’t like it, do feel free to skip this one.

Music is said to have a curious effect on people unlike any other stimulus. It can evoke emotions with nothing more than sounds– not so much that the sound is connected to an event, like with scents triggering memories, but that sound itself is a language our brains seem coded to understand on more than one level.

Some people say music keeps them alive, but usually it is those that actively produce music. I rarely hear someone say that simply listening is what saves them, it is the creation of a tapestry of sound from nothing that seems to be most cathartic. If you ever get in the same room with a great musician, watch them as they play their instrument. They may connect to their audience, they may look at you, but they don’t really seem to see you, and if they do, fuck is it uncomfortable. The intensity they possess while doing their passion is positively unnerving.

Occasionally, however, I do meet an individual that is like myself. Massive music connection, seemingly random things thrown in here and there, and an inability to go through a day without listening or your life just feels empty. I sometimes even meet them on another level: we each have music that simply does something to us. Sometimes, even despite our best efforts to dislike it.

For example, take “Wonderland” by Natalia Kills. I’ve never been one for Alice In Wonderland, save for Zenoscope’s take on the tale. In many ways, the ideas have been said many times before, and probably said better– after all, it is a love song. Yet, after I heard it for the first time, something stuck. Something under my skin itched, something was missing. I watched the video. I then watched the uncut version of the video. I’m back to listening to it. Something in it simply settles into my head and lulls me into a state akin to being tipsy, or to being under the influence of painkillers… my eyelids get heavy, my eyes pass out of focus and my mind runs off to make its own connections to what the lyrics mean. For this particular song, my mind climbs all over the jungle-gym of connections that makes up my ideals and thoughts on love and partnership and my relationship with Jess, and how a relationship is like a type of fucked up dope that makes the world go away. If I’m not actively guiding my attention back to reality, I’ll stay wandering around in my red cloak with the Jabberwocky threatening my bodily integrity until the song ends.

At times, it can be a bit dangerous, let me tell you. Hell, it’s sometimes songs that start the trains of thought that tend to eat me and make me stay awake for hours– Hell, it was Judas’s fault that this particular post was written. Despite my wanting to look at Gaga and go “I really don’t care about you reconciling yourself with your religion” there’s still something in the song that hooked those velcro barbs to the nerves in me. Even gritting my teeth and going “DAMNIT, GAGA, YOU’RE GOING OFF THE DAMN RAILS!” something is bothering me about that damn song and won’t let me go. I hate the style, and yet here I am stuck listening to it. Maybe it’s my perverse fascination with the hypocrisy of religion and what is considered “blasphemous,” but I doubt it. If that was it, I’d snicker at it a few times, but I wouldn’t have a compulsion to listen to it again. And again.

It’s sometimes days or weeks later that I discover why it is that a song clicked so well with me and why it won’t leave. Sometimes it is because it reminds me of something so strongly, sometimes it’s because it evokes an overall feeling, sometimes it’s a piece of the lyrics. It was only fairly recently I discovered why “Prelude 12:21” and “Miss Murder” stuck so well:

“This is what I brought you/This you can keep/This is what I brought/You may forget me/I promised you my heart/Just promise one thing/Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep”

“…Hey Miss Murder/Can I make beauty stay/If I take my life?/”

Other than those two songs making you think I’m seriously depressed, they also carry expressions of my depressing/sociopathic views on love. I do carry the belief that should the only one for me, my person, my match leave me, all I ask is one thing: Do come back once more to see me, even if it simply is to close my eyes on my death bed. Kiss my eyes and lay me to sleep. Then you get into my mania with Miss Murder: Okay, so you’re murdering me by leaving and destroying the thing I care about most, you and my relationship with you, and while it makes me a selfish prick, I’m eying that knife over there and wondering if I can avoid feeling the loss by stabbing myself in the chest. If you’re dead, technically, your love was just interrupted. No one broke up with anyone, another circumstance broke you up. So I didn’t fuck up and drive you away. YAY!

Hey, stop looking at me like that. Van Gogh cut off his ear and gave it to a prostitute. I admitted I’m being a selfish, psychotic prick with that previous bit. Van Gough thought it was just fine to give a severed limb and was annoyed when the chick ran away screaming.. Of course, that was probably due to the long term effects of lead poisoning, but that’s neither here nor there.

The point is that due to music’s ability to do this to me, it makes for a fantastic way for me to cope– the only problem is that only certain songs manage to have the full effect, the rest are just distractions. It is at that point I turn to other things to help take my mind off things more completely… like blogging nonsense at three in the morning about my musical listening habits and the meanings therein.

Also, for those of you still concerned for @DrHowl’s safety/sanity, do feel free to warn her to leave before I lock her in a closet and start calling her “my precious.” However, if you’re one of those people that takes something like that seriously coming from me, this blog may not be the best of places for you. Take a spoonful of salt with what I say in regards to violent outbursts, and for maximum effectiveness, take said spoonful on the rim of a tasty margarita. Do that and suddenly, things will start to make a lot more sense around here.

So, for those of you that wandered by for my post “You’re Going to What in My What?”, here’s an update/recap:

Biopsies from a colostomy and an endoscopy of my stomach came back a bit tetchy, with bile found in unusual amounts in my stomach, just kinda chillin’ out, serving no purpose. Meanwhile, biopsies were taken. Whee!

So, got the call thursday going, “Hey! The biopsies are normal! Ain’t that great? Guess what, your problem is that your stomach just doesn’t empty completely after meals the way other folks’ do. No treatment but some low fat food and eating lots of smaller meals!”

“Oh! Well, that’s all?”

“Yes! It’s called gastroparesis. If you’ve already been improving with smaller meals and lower fat food, you should be fine, just call us if anything gets worse, okay?”

“Sure!” I said. And we hung up. I made a mental note to eventually look up what this funny “gastroparesis” thing was later, because I like to be educated on what’s going on with my body.

I want to punch that nurse. It’s not her fault, she was probably trying to keep me calm, but I want to punch her. You want to know what gastroparesis is? It’s partial paralysis of the stomach. My stomach is a cripple. Yes, that’s not a PC word. FOCUS. Focus on the fact my stomach is, apparently, partially PARALYZED, and they just went “LOL, no worries!”

Of course, they can’t exactly be blamed. The cause is idiopathic, since I don’t have Type I diabetes, and they can’t say for absolute 1000% sure because it takes another, much more expensive test to confirm, but they’re pretty sure that’s what it is. And, furthermore, there’s no real treatment– some drugs that kinda work-ish, but mostly just diet/eating adjustment. So, hey, no point in panicking the little 22 year old. There ain’t shit she can do!

Well, guys, frankly, I feel a little betrayed. Mostly because I’m deathly afraid that this will get worse at some point, progressing from nausea to vomiting. Progressing from just being able to eat a sandwich to being able to eat a couple chips before feeling full and getting sick. And there’s no cure, according to the boys over at the Mayo Clinic.

FUCKING REREAD THAT. THERE’S NO. FUCKING. CURE.

There’s also things on that page that say “Well, you can cope with some diet adjustment, but it may not be enough. And all the drugs have shitty side effects. Sorry.”

Thus, you get the two titles for this post. One, FUCK the doctors for not telling me EXACTLY what this was and two, I’m panicking. Can you really blame me?

Let’s look at this. I’ve had problems with food all my life. No, not an eating disorder (thank god) but I’ve always been prone to food poisoning. My stomach reacts badly to stress and hurts. I hate throwing up more than any sensation in the world. And now I’m looking at my stomach being broken and possibly having a future of that if this gets worse?

I’ll be honest. For all my ranting and raving, I’m also sobbing. I’m sobbing and scared and I don’t know what to do. I’m scared I somehow did this to myself through too much stress, or that when I was concussed it possibly knocked my stomach wiring loose. Or that for all the times I thought I was fat, that I just wished I didn’t have to fucking eat because it was expensive, that I didn’t want to eat because it was time consuming, because it was not something that particularly got along with me, that my body went “LOL, KAY! See how you like not being able to eat, and guess what? YOU GOT YOUR WISH AND CAN’T REVERSE IT. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHA!”

I know that so many great people had so much shit wrong with them it was ridiculous, usually relating to either severe health problems or being mad as a march hare. It was part of what made them great for one reason or another: by being influenced by it or by battling against it.

I thought being crazy via depression and anxiety was enough. I thought being fucking HATED by people all the time for no apparent reason was enough. I thought having a crazy fucking asshole father was enough. I thought having a mind that will torture and torment me and make even the things I love seem horrible and distort my perception was enough. I thought having mild PTSD was enough. I thought ALL of it was enough to pay my debt, to say “Cursed or damned with ailments, I will keep working. I will keep fighting. I will keep running and trying, no matter how fucking hard it is. If the universe is throwing all this at me, I must be meant for something great.”

I thought all that was enough. Now my body is betraying me too, after years and years and years of my immune system being awful and always being sick and my coping with that, my stomach is trying to go half-ass on things too. I thought my debt was fucking paid, that I had to put up with and work through all this shit. NOW I have to sit here and encourage all the rumors I still hear in my head from kids whispering I was anorexic because I didn’t eat much, and sit here and have people look at me when I say I can’t have high fat foods and go “HMPH, sure you can’t. Look at her, thin as fuck and still dieting.” I have to mess with a special diet and a special way of eating. This was after having to adapt to a special way of thinking so my fucking brain doesn’t eat me, and every day it’s a fucking struggle not to let my brain skip off with my common sense anyway, which will leave me doing things like hitting myself in the head to so my thoughts will stop racing simply from the shock.

I’m pissed. I’m scared. I’m really, really upset, and I know I’m being melodramatic. This just hit me. This is reactionary, just like my blog post for Born This Way. This is off the cuff and I don’t know if it is even coherant. All I know is that this is the only way I know to process this– by writing, and by asking for help and advice from everyone, including the faceless sea of anons and femanons on the internet.

Is anyone else out there living with this? Did it get better? Worse?

Anything is better than staring at the letters emblazoned across the inside of my head:

“There is no cure for gastroparesis. Making changes to your diet may help you cope with gastroparesis signs and symptoms, but that’s not always enough. Gastroparesis medications may offer some relief, but some can cause serious side effects.”

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