No wonder I'm tired

That's a lot of laps around the sun.

Goodbye, my friends and enemies

Today was the DEA's National Take-Back Prescription Drugs event. I knew it was coming, as did Frank. He wanted me to clear out the Cabinet of Pharmaceutical Delights, now that the only prescription medication I take is hormones.

What Frank doesn't comprehend is that I've been keeping those medications "just in case." In case it all happens again. In case my brain implodes. In case I want to kill myself. Mostly, I was holding onto all of those medications in case I decided to kill myself.

Last night, Frank asked me what I was going to get rid of. I told him that I had to think about it. At about 11:00 last night, I held a meeting with The Cabinet of Pharmaceutical Delights. I lined up all of the bottles (about 35 total) and explained that not everyone was going to be able to stay.

All combined, the medications would have made a fabulously lethal cocktail guaranteed to grant me a painless exit from this world. My plan has always been to wait for a night with sub-zero temperatures, heavily overdose myself on everything on hand, and then go and lie down outside (out front, in front of the porch, so my body would be convenient and easy to move), and just die from either the drugs or hypothermia. My stash includes an anti-emetic to help guarantee a successful exit.

When I saw all of the bottles lined up along the counter, it brought a sad realization about how hard I have tried to find relief from my brain, from my thoughts, and from my physical discomfort. So much money, so much science, so much disappointment.

It was time to cull the stash, at least enough so Frank would feel I was sincere about getting rid of "dangerous" drugs. I started.

• Lyrica: gone. It made me fat and stupid. I estimate I had about $800 worth of pills.


• Lexapro: gone. It made me live in a severe mixed state.


• Wellbutrin: gone. It made me super-manic and sent me into the stratosphere.


• Trazadone. Hmmm. I never took it. It was prescribed for sleep, actually, but when I read it was an anti-psychotic for schizophrenics, I was so embarrassed and frightened, I refused to take it. I heard it could be lethal in an overdose, though, so I kept refilling the prescription anyway. I decided to keep it. I'm not convinced I won't need it some day.


• Vicodin: gone. Makes me throw up relentlessly.


• Baclofen. Keep.


• Ambien. gone. Mostly, it made me hypno-shop online. It also made me cry relentlessly.


• Lamictal. gone. Unnecessary.


• Hydroxyzine. Keep. Prescribed to alter nerve activity, it failed at that but it does wonders when my allergies don't respond to anything else.


• DriTuss. gone. It was old, and if I get pneumonia gain, I'll get something current.


• DuraTuss. gone. See above.


• Bextra. gone. Useless.


• Celebrex. gone. Useless.


• Diclofenac. Keep. A fabulous NSAID when ibuprofen can't get it done.


• Oxycodone: gone. It was, like, 10 years old.


• Lithium. gone. I do not have bipolar disorder. It also made me fat and screwed up my thyroid, so it deserves the incinerator.


• Xanax, four different types. I kept all of it. I like it for when I can't sleep. It's out of my system quickly and doesn't seem to have side-effects.


• Lunesta. gone. I swear it's a placebo.


• Valium. Seriously? Keep.


• Elmiron. gone. It did not cure my bladder of bad behavior.
  

There were others, nothing very interesting, most just way past their prime. I had forgotten they were in the house.

I dropped off my medications at a local hospital. That was the designated spot for my area. As I approached the drop-off area, I could see a couple dozen pharmacy students trying to prevent reams of pamphlets from blowing off a long row of tables. Ahead of me, a large group of police officers and DEA agents waited at the curb. I hadn't thought about this. I mean, I knew the DEA was sponsoring the event, but I thought the students would be greeting us as we pulled up. That was a benign image in my head throughout the process. It hadn't occurred to me I would have to be around cops. I took a deep breath and waited my turn in the drive-by drop-off.



I had a fairly large plastic bag of drugs on the seat next to me. I pulled it into my lap. When I was first in line, a smiling cop came to the window, extended a bright green nylon bag to take the deposit, and asked, "Do you have any questions? Would you like to talk to a pharmacist today?" I told him that, no, I was pretty up-to-date on my medication knowledge.

Before I could pull away, a young Asian man in a starched, white lab coat leaned in and handed me a pamphlet. He said, "Here's some information for you."

I glanced at the title, "Talking to your doctor about pain." I didn't know whether to laugh or throw it at him. Instead, I said, "That's timely. I'm in excruciating pain, but trust me, there is no pharmaceutical way to address it."

He insisted I talk to a pharmacist. Right then. I pulled over to the curb and waited a second. A man in his sixties approached my car. He shook my hand and introduced himself as the dean of the pharmacy program at the local university. Wow.

We chatted about my options--how I think I don't have any and how he believes I just haven't found the right doctor (yeah, no kidding). He suggested opioids, and I thought, "Buddy, that is the last thing I should have in my possession. That would make exit way too easy."

I smiled and thanked him for the information, while shingles neuralgia made it impossible for me to lean back in the driver's seat. As I pulled away, tears started coursing down my cheeks. I immediately regretted getting rid of the drugs I had hoped would help me, and then had kept on hand so they could kill me. I had just committed myself to a harder way out, if out was what I eventually chose. I had finally admitted that there was no better living through chemistry. My moods and brain blips were going to be all mine to bear, as were my physical pain and nervous system malfunctions.

I cried the whole way home. Ten point two miles.

Again? Seriously??

I have shingles again for the third time in three years.

Just.shoot.me.now.Please.

You may be an asshole, but you're saving me money

Dear Dr. Asshole, A year ago, you called me a nutjob and said that my issues were obviously somatic illness. Of course, you had only known me about ten minutes at that point, but who am I to argue with someone who has a big medical degree and who works in a distinguished field such as cardiology? (I probably shouldn't mention that my primary care doctor said cardiologists are largely arrogant, egotistical pricks with a god complex).

In the year since that meeting, I have managed to essentially eschew all healthcare. Oh, I still go to the dentist, but that's it. A pretty smile matters when you work with people, as I do.

You see, at first I was angry, but then I realized you gave me permission to be set free. If I die from an illness, we can say that I may not have been a nutjob who did not have somatic illness after all, and we can also acknowledge that I accepted my life the way nature intended me to live it. There's something Zen about that, right? More people should do it.

Now that I don't have to pay any medical bills or deductibles, I can enjoy my earnings. That's a positive right there. We're currently interviewing landscapers and Pilates instructors.

I am free. I am unburdened by medical advice and other usually erroneous bullshit.

As my 50th birthday approaches, I have given myself permission to opt out of looking for trouble. It feels wonderful to be in charge with no egomaniacal but clueless doctors telling me what to do. Oh, I still have more pain and discomfort than I ever did, but now that I know it's apparently coming from my psyche (according to you), I pay it no mind. Unless I see blood (and that could just be the miracle of stigmata, right?), I see no reason for concern since you saw no reason for concern.

Yes, as 50 looms on the horizon, I celebrate the discomforts I do not suffer. I take no medications except the one that spares me having a period! No gynecological exams! No colonoscopy! No annual physical! No mammograms! No inane forms to fill out!

Free at last! God almighty, I am free at last!

No privacy

In 2001, I set up a Yahoo! email account because my home account went all kaflooey for awhile. When I opened the Yahoo account, I set it up under a fake name, with corresponding fake personal information from birthday to home location. I never closed the account, and I still use it occasionally to answer questions on Yahoo Questions, and I get some newsletters that I've just never migrated to my regular account.

Today it appeared that my Yahoo email account had been spoofed, so I logged in to change my pasword. What I saw next was not only appalling, but it actually caused me to break out into a sweat. All of my real personal information was in my profile--my real name, my home address and telephone number, my personal email address, my work email address, my current city and state, and more. I clicked on a tab for something called "Y! Pulse," and it appears to be very similar to Facebook. Listed in the Pulse was something akin to an RSS feed showing an "update" every time I posted on this blog, and clearly labeled as "my" blog. Except this blog and the Yahoo email address are not linked in any way. At all. That I know of. This meant that anyone who had a "Yahoo Connection" to me could see these updates and then see my real identity as a blogger.

I thought I was going to be sick.

It took me about 20 minutes to delete all of my personal information in my profile and to undo any identity connections Yahoo had made on my behalf. Essentially, I returned my account and profile information to what it had been when I first set up the account and set all permissions for viewing even that information to "no one." How it all got changed in the first place is still a mystery to me, but now I can't stop stressing over who all saw that information and how long it might have been visible. Part of the reason I'm writing this post is to see if it shows up as an activity update in the Y! Pulse thing that I certainly never agreed to be a part of.

I still feel kind of sick to my stomach.

Down time

Most boring blogger ever. There's actually a lot on my mind--deep thoughts, the kind people actually seem to read--but I've decided to focus on the inane minutiae of my day because it's easier to write about:

No work today. I had such plans for myself, such a robust to-do list. Instead, I've spent the day puttering. Farting around. Being pseudo-productive.

After checking email, Facebook, and Dear Abby, it was time for a shower. After that, I spent an hour counting all of the loose change I had gathered from all over the house ($18.57) while also watching "I didn't know I was pregnant." Counting all of the change and organizing it for a future bank deposit certainly felt like I was doing something.

Next I took the time to brush the very hairy cat and cut some mats off of her underside. By then, it was almost time for lunch. I bought Miracle Noodles some time ago, but I've been putting off eating them once I realized they really only lend themselves to Asian recipes. The texture defies description, but if smothered in enough of any Thai sauce recipe, they're manageable.

I set out to cook up a Thai version of sesame noodles. Halfway through it occurred to me that the amount of sesame oil used in the recipe probably negated any benefit from the lack of calories in the noodles themselves. It took me an hour to actually produce lunch. Part of the problem is that cooking is the last frontier I haven't really conquered in terms of ADD. It just takes me longer.

Eventually, lunch was prepared, I ate it, it was still weird, and I had trashed the kitchen. Add 30 minutes kitchen cleanup. By then it was time to watch "The Doctors," during which I got the urge to bake oatmeal cookies. Maybe it's because I bought a massive plastic sack of Sunmaid raisins and vat of Quaker oats at Costco last week. Lately, I've been possessed by some bizarre streak of domesticity. Not sure where that's coming from, but so far, it has not inspired me to do any actual, useful, or necessary housework. Like cleaning. Unless you count brushing the cat.

Now it's late afternoon. I had to go out to the supermarket to buy sugar, butter, and brown sugar for the cookies (still not started, let alone baking).

Frankly, I'm exhausted.

Glurg...

My brain is melting. Middle age is robbing me of cognitive function, sleep, IQ points, hipness, libido, metabolism, eyesight, and the ability to get a haircut that is not age-appropriate.

Being in the demographic

The school multipurpose room was packed. Students were stationed at tables and along the walls, ready to do their three-minute presentations about the intensive job-shadowing projects they had recently completed.

I was there in support of the refugee kids. I knew their parents wouldn't be coming, but it seemed important that a familiar adult show up in a gesture of support and solidarity.

Weaving my way through the crowd, I tried to figure out if there was any order to the arrangement of tables and projects. Someone called my name, and I felt a hand on my sleeve. It was Susan, the one-woman champion of refugee kids in our state. She doesn't work for anyone--technically she's unemployed, but she is, for all intents and purposes, both a social worker and a parent liaison. She works long days shuttling refugee kids to school, to appointments, to activities, and occasionally, to court or community service. She makes sure paperwork is completed, major assignments are understood, and grades are explained to parents who have no grasp of the U.S. education system.

Susan led me over to the table where Mohamed was ready to talk about his exposure to the field of acting. His poster listed traits of "Bad Acting" and "Good Acting." Unfortunately, the video he had worked so hard to film and edit as the culmination of his project would not run on the laptop that had been provided for the day.

After Mohamed finished telling us about good and bad acting, we headed to the corner of the room to hear his sister and her best friend tell us what they had learned about hunger in America and nutrition. The girls were giggly, but tried to pretend that we were just like anyone else who would stop by that afternoon.

While i listened to them recite statistics about why fast food is a nutritional nightmare, we were joined by Judy, the social worker who had helped shepherd these girls through middle school. As the presentation wrapped up, Debbie, a 43-year-old social worker from an agency similar to Boys and Girls Clubs, greeted Judy with a big hug.

We laughed that all four of us had come to the event because we were concerned that the refugee kids wouldn't have any adult support on this important day. The room was packed with students, siblings, parents, and teachers--and the four of us rounded out the mix. We joked about how it really does "take a village," and how happy we were to be in our village together. As villagers, we we were fairly well-coordinated in terms of what we were able to accomplish behind the scenes.

In the midst of this conversation, I had a brief thought about my previous life in the corporate world and how I tried so hard to fit in there, but with mixed results. I hadn't worried about fitting in among colleagues for a very long time. Then, I almost laughed out loud. I was looking down at my feet, and I realized that what I saw were four pairs of feet in black tights or socks, tucked into clunky black clogs. All four us were similarly dressed: long, loose skirt, a short, boxy, mostly-shapeless jacket, and a rumpled shirt, all in shades of black and brown. We were four frumpy middle-aged women who looked like we definitely played for the same team.

I never thought of myself as being in a particular work-style demographic, but now I see that our village has a very definite look. Hey, we're comfortable, we can easily sit on the floor in a house with no furniture, and if we get dirty doing that, it won't show.

Years from now, I doubt the kids will remember what any of of us wore, but I hope they'll remember that our bedraggled bunch made time to show up because it mattered.

Zits

OK, seriously. I'm almost 50 years old. What's up with the fucking acne? My face is a mess, and I feel just as bad about it now as I did 35 years ago. So gross.

But remember

I am a good person.
I am kind and generous, even when I don't want to be.
I'm a safe and courteous driver.
I help people on a daily basis.
I'm dependable.
I work hard and I am productive.
I contribute to making the world a better place.
I vote, but not until I've researched everything on the ballot, even the judges.
I'm helpful.
I'm cooperative.
I'm responsible, ethical, and I try really hard to be considerate, although I recognize that one may be in the eye of the beholder.
I put money in other people's about-to-expire parking meters.
I'm punctual because it's polite, even though punctuality is a life challenge for me.
I'm careful to center my car in the parking space, and I'm extra-careful not to cause door dings on any vehicle near mine.
I'm obedient.
I put in extra effort in almost anything I take on.
I follow up.
I follow through.
I pay my bills, not only on time, but usually a month in advance.
I try not to be overtly rude, if I can help it.

I mention this because I don't ever want to give the impression that I just sit in a corner wringing my hands about the things that cause me anxiety. I actually try to live mindfully and to be as productive as I can be. For whatever that's worth.

Why I'm here

Really, I should stop whining about not having anyone to talk to. That's the purpose of this blog--to keep up the conversations in my head as if there were someone listening. Somewhere along the line, I started to get concerned about reader interest, but I never started writing here for anyone except me. It was because I really had no one to talk to.

I tried to explain to Frank tonight that it's hard for me to try to be the person that everyone else likes--especially since that means I need to be someone different in at least five different contexts a day. First I have to figure out what each person (who matters) likes and doesn't like. Then I have to remember which traits to assign to myself and produce on demand depending on who's around me. It has been exhausting.

More than exhausting, it has been frustrating. It has resulted in failure. Despite my efforts at presenting the custom-tailored personality on demand, I still have no one to talk to on a regular basis. I'm annoying in any context. Boring, too, apparently. How embarrassing is that? Frank isn't interested in any of the things I would normally talk about in the course of the day. He actually came out and said that about a year-and-a-half ago. I was down to what I thought was the last topic I could still chat about, but Frank was standing there at the kitchen sink. He stopped what he was doing, looked me in the eye, and said, "I just don't care. This isn't anything I have any interest in hearing about."

And here's the part of that that really sucks. He goes on and on and on every day about the same four topics: Thuy, the annoying woman he works with, public policy related to federal funding where he works, fixing the upholstery on his car seats, and the dog. Now, for the most part, I've heard it all many times over--it's just variations on a theme, but at least I am polite enough to listen and to bite my tongue and to not blurt out that I don't give a shit about whatever it is he's going on and on about. I don't walk away, interrupt, or change the subject while he's mid-sentence. This is my life, though, and exactly what I experience every day at home and outside of it.

I know I need to just shut the fuck up. I get it--I have nothing of value to say and I'm fucking boring. Still, is it so goddam hard for people to be somewhat polite, tolerant, and at least pretend to be engaged--like I do?

When I pointed out to Frank that I had essentially stopped talking at home, I also said it was painful to me that he hadn't really noticed. He said he had noticed, but assumed that I just didn't feel like talking. Then he accused me--as he often does--of intentionally remembering everything he says that I don't like. Well, yes, I told him, that's exactly what I do because all of those things are lessons--they are the things I need to catalogue and remember because that's what becomes the rules about how I'm supposed to behave. If something makes you unhappy, I need to never forget it so I can make sure not to do it again. I've done this my whole life, and as the third child in the birth order, I always observed what got my older siblings in trouble so I would know not to do whatever that was.

If I could take a vow of silence, I would, but it's not how my brain is wired. I still feel compelled to talk. I told Frank that the anxiety and effort of trying to remember all of these lessons so I don't disappoint or exasperate anyone is proving not to be worth it, and what I really want is to just be dead so it will be over, so it will stop, so I can stop. I told him that I have nothing. The house is his, not mine. I have no friends here--not even remotely close by. I have nothing. Trying to be me hasn't worked out, and trying to be who everyone else likes me to be hasn't changed anything, either. What's the point? My whole life has become about trying to make other people more comfortable, and in return I get...the loud and clear message to be neither seen nor heard.

Frank told me I should go back to therapy, but therapy is stupid--a scam. I am through paying someone to sit there and listen to me. That may be the most humiliating thing I've ever had to do to give myself the illusion that someone is paying attention.

I do solemnly swear

I won't leave debt and I won't leave a mess. The bills will be paid ahead for at least a month.

I promise.