Every day, I wake up and think about dying. Specifically, I wonder if the burning, cramping pain around my liver is anything that might kill me, sparing me the effort of doing it myself someday.
I have no other symptoms apart from the pain, so I remain confident that it's yet another uncomfortable but benign condition. No, I have not seen a doctor about it, nor do I intend to, just as I have set aside the nonsense of pap smears and pelvic exams, mammograms, annual physicals, and just about anything else having to do with doctors.
A couple of weeks ago, I went to the dentist. I still do that twice a year. My dentist is fabulous, and he never tries to sell me any procedure that isn't warranted. So far, he's not made a dime from me apart from whatever insurance pays for checkups and cleanings. He doesn't even do X-rays because, well, they don't appear to be necessary.
While we were chatting about his practice's new logo, somehow the topic of my post-herpetic neuralgia came up. Probably around the time I was talking about giving back all of the useless drugs that didn't help me when the DEA had their annual roundup. I mentioned that I should just have antivirals ready to go as a pre-emptive strike when symptoms start, but I've sworn off doctors, so I just suffer when the relapses come.
My dentist walked over to his computer and printed out a prescription for Valtrex. He smiled and said, "I'm obligated to tell you to use these at the first sign of, um, a herpes blister on your lip or in your mouth." We both laughed out loud. I love one-stop shopping.
I did not mention my daily thoughts related to my own demise. Why would I? That's between me and me.
Lately, I've been working a lot. Really a lot. That's something I was specifically told not to do because it's bad for my central nervous system--the part of me that doesn't work quite right but no one can diagnose. How does anyone know what's bad for me when they can't even identify the underlying problem?
Working a lot is my new suicide strategy. I've been working on several projects related to refugees, community education, awareness, as well as just creating a new work situation in my regular duties that will make the whole situation much more difficult and demanding. I hope to collapse and be done with it. This way, no one can say that I killed myself, but more importantly, even if I do take the blame, no one can accuse me of having wasted my life. Everything I do these days is making the world a better place. I'm helping humanity. I'm helping my coworkers. I'm bending over backwards to be useful around the house, to work in the garden, to keep the place neat.
I'm a lot of things, but I don't ever want to be a drag on anyone. Useful it is, then.
I have no obligation to be a good person. I could, theoretically be a slacker and that would be OK, too. Instead, though, I'm hoping to go out having worked my ass off making the most of what I have to offer to the world: Compassion (and it is, actually, sincere), project management skills, an analytical, problem-solving mind, and a dedication to hard work. I'm going to give all I have and hope it kills me.
I have no friends here where I live. I am awkward in social situations and because all I do is work, I am not interesting to talk to. I don't expect the friend situation to change anytime soon. work fills the gaps and isn't nearly as painful as exercise. It is painful for me to know that people I like don't like me back and can barely contain their contempt. This situation is very real. It is often more painful to know this than to feel what my nerves are doing to me.
My body hurts. A lot. Constantly. It's not just my liver or pancreas or whatever is causing me pain in my upper right abdomen. No, my pelvis feels like it's shattering. My right hip hurts so badly, sometimes I can't sit or stand comfortably. My right knee is on fire. My lower abdominal cramps can take my breath away.
Ah, but as we know, according to western medicine, I'm just a nutjob and this is some sort of emotional problem. Doctors. Why bother? I will not be humiliated again. Well, I likely will be, but not by a doctor.
May Voirrey is exhausted. I am tired, worn out, and weary. I don't want to stay in a world where people like a very speficic version of me, but don't want anything to do with the real, complete version.
The week after my birthday, my friend Jolie was here. She commented on the plethora of birthday cards displayed in my living room. She said it was evidence that people cared about me. Looks can be deceiving. The display space was small, so it doesn't take much to fill it. A handful of cards can look like a bounty. There were four cards from my mother, all pointedly mocking my half-century birthday. There were two cards from my husband, a large fold-out card from my coworkers which most of them never bothered to get around to signing, one was from my real estate agent, one was from one of my brothers, one came from my insurance company, one from my boss, and one from my in-laws.
I do not consider this a very encouraging inventory of my value to the world on a personal level.
My inherent dorkiness and lack of feeling loved as I am is what is killing me.
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