Hope everyone has a happy Mother’s Day!
My mother is doing a little bit better at the hospital. If you’re not on my Facebook profile (and you should be as I don’t bite!), I was given some shitty news from my stepfather that turned out to be a lie. He was either told the wrong information, or he intentionally gave me the wrong information, and that is really an awful thing to do to someone. So I went into panic mode. I was really afraid that my mother was going to die. Then I went to see her on the 8th. She was stable, her body is fighting the infections she had (pneumonia and sepsis with some fungal infection). She was asleep because of the infections and is now on morphine to stop the pain. But she is alive, she is stable, and I want to repair my relationship with my mother. This bad-ass attitude that I have towards her is really for the birds and I have to get my affairs in order.
As of May 7th, for the next few months, I have a new shrink. I’m not crazy over him, but he seems to want to help. First thing he wants to do is stick me in the institution and have some observations and test run. Of course he does. What the hell? Am I the first schizophrenic patient these shrinks have ever encountered? Oh well. Might as well get it over with while I still have time off from work.
Have a fun, safe Sunday, everyone!
Again, still knocked up.
I’m starting to sound like a broken record, aren’t I?
I’m beginning to feel guilty of asking for so much time off from work, when the kid seems to be a permanent attachment to my insides. I read Carl’s FB post and he’s having a hard time grading papers, doing lectures and making PowerPoints for upcoming lectures, all while writing the third exam. I love his lines “I’d fucking fail this goddamned exam, if I had to take it! That’s how little I know this psychobabble I’m preaching to sleeping pharm students every morning and afternoon!” I think there was a GIF of my work ID photo burning as the icon. But, Carl, you wanted to be a full time professor! That’s what you told my boss! You even suggested that you be promoted just because you couldn’t get pregnant, in your own words, you were unpregnantable, a word that doesn’t exist, by the way, and therefore you were more reliable, responsible and respectable than I. Little did you know that I was over sixty percent of the meat in the exams, PowerPoints, Lecture notes, grades, and even the handouts and the agenda. I was that valuable.
Still, his brother is my dream man, so I’m going to forgive him this once, pretend that I was deaf at that staff meeting, and offer to come in and grade some papers or just go through the online grade book and assign everyone an F because that’s what they deserve if Carl is telling the truth and people are sleeping through his lectures. I say “if” because I know Carl lied about being more responsible than I (he’s behind in everything and it’s almost two weeks out of Spring Break!), he’s certainly not more respectable, naming names on his Facebook, friending students (my personal NO) and then linking to their profiles when he goes on a profanity-ridden fit when he’s frustrated, and forget reliable. Maybe Carl is pregnant? That’s got to be what’s wrong with him. He’s demanding help from other Assistant Professors tonight, and when they decline because they don’t want to get behind in their own work, he calls them irresponsible and lazy! Oh Carl, you are so not getting promoted in August.
So, since I’m legally going to be pregnant until August, and Mark told me to get rid of the brain tumor while I was off for four months, I feel that I should be doing something productive. Something. Anything. I even made Josh a PlayList for March because I just want something to keep my fingers busy, I’m sick of this …disease… that I caught from unsanitary Carl at the staff meeting a few weeks ago, and I need to occupy my mind. I need something to do. Something that makes me feel accomplished. Something that I can look back on and say, “I did so much while I was waiting for that kid to be born!” that I’m willing to sit down at my computer and write.
So I’m going to work on this site.
By “working on this site,” I’m going to start by changing my handle to “Acid Queen” but that’s not an LSD reference. Not for me anyway, and I’m not secretly Tina Turner nor have I fucked Roger Daltrey or any other member of the Who. I like the name, and I once drank a flask of hydrochloric acid in high school chemistry, I lived, cancer-ridden but alive, and still here to talk about it today.
Being the Acid Queen is one of what I consider one of my stories.
By stories I mean interesting things that have only happened to me.
Back in the day, before the perils of being forced to upgrade to WordPress because Josh is a cunt and makes me do uncomfortable things, I had pages on here of my stories. They were 100% true fascinating things that had happened to me in my twenty-eight years on Earth. I’m going to be thirty-three, the Jesus age, this year, so I think I should have an accomplished and full website like I had once before. Oh yes, this site, due to my own negligence, has become just a shell of what it was just a mere five years ago. When I first had my own .com and was in college and thus had a lot of time on the computer to write, I frequently wrote about things that made me interesting. I edited my own HTML (remember that? do you even know what that is???), made layouts on the college’s Dreamweaver, uploaded with Blogger.com and an FTP client. I had to link to all my own pages with my own editing. Nothing was automatic like it is with WordPress. You kiddies don’t know! Blogging and site maintenance was once something that required time, skill and patience. Now anyone with a fucking keyboard can be a site master and appear to be good at it.
What will my stories contain? That’s the wonderment of you’ve got to keep coming back here and checking things! I can give you a taste, though, for example, did you know that I had a lover who died in the 9/11 terrorist attacks on New York? That I’ve fucked someone super-famous (it’s not Roger Daltrey, I promise!)? Actually two someones, but sex no longer counts once you marry the one you’re fucking. That there is a famous love song out there that is about me? That for the first fifteen years of our relationship I couldn’t tell my husband from his brother and his brother regularly got sex from me because of it? Okay, that last one is just me being a horny bimbo, but, hey, it’s interesting, right? I could make something of it some day! The best of all of this is I am considering naming names. Famous names. That are on Wikipedia and you’ve probably not only heard of, but that you’ve got songs by on your computer or your CD shelf.
Now that you know all that, aren’t you just itching for me to dish, dish, dish?
Of course you are! But I’m doing this as a side pregnancy project and only through August, though I can probably whip up to thirty pages per month, if I’m really dedicated to it.
Oh, and I promise not to write about drug experiences, with the exception of the prescription drug I was given that caused amnesia. That was a pretty fun experience. I could do shit and not have to feel guilty about it the morning after. I pissed off a pretty good amount of people while I was on that drug. Oh well. The true ones stayed.
Have a good night everyone. Don’t stay up too late!
Thirteen years ago, I was contemplating sex with a stranger, at the risk of being labeled a slut. Today I am contemplating screwing the lead guitarist of a band that my father bought every album of, just because I will be covering the band’s concert here this spring. Open relationships mean one thing: Trust is more important than monogamy, and “hunk o’ burning love” is taken literally. The problem arose when Dennis did not want me sleeping with any man except himself, something that wasn’t fair, as he confided in me that he had had several “encounters” on the road, then “clarified” that they had all been between bandmates. What? He’s screwing other men? It’s not surprising to me, but it really threw our therapist back a few inches.
But if I had sex with another woman and he could watch, that was fine.
Isn’t it always?
I have been in conversation with the guitarist that I am planning on conquering this spring, and he’s really a nice guy. He doesn’t know what I’m planning, yet, and a good groupie doesn’t divulge what they are planning until the moment happens, but he offered to buy me coffee and talk about the tour. How nice. I needed a shot of insulin after that conversation.
Hey, my manager says I have to be nice to the bands that I interview! It’s out of my hands! If we give them bad publicity, they may shit on our publications, and we’ll lose readers. Normally. Knowing today’s youth, if a band said “[This] magazine sucks!” millions of people may jump out and buy it or order subscriptions. Unfortunately, the managers don’t think like that, and if we get bad publicity from a band, the reporter who caused that bad publicity is fired. Permanently. So, it’s my motto to be a groupie in disguise of a reporter! Besides, I’ve been a groupe since I was fifteen, and I’m still waiting for that one “bad thing” to happen to me to spoil it all.
Dennis has been trying to get me to rethink many things on my agenda. Things such as sleeping with this guy, packing up and leaving the family, and other “mistakes that I am going to regret” in the future. I replied that he sounded like a middle school teacher, preaching about “the future” all the time. I’m at that point in my life where I don’t care about the future anymore. I just want to make it through the present and learn to let go of the past. If that means that I am a whore or a slut, or a “druggie whore” as one of my lovely blog visitors has referred to me as (I can see those referrer logs, dumb ass!), then so be it. It’s amazing that people really care that much about what I think of them that they are willing to insult me over an invisible media. There’s the discussion of what this may be “setting for Chloe.” I can honestly say that my own mother’s promiscuity had no effect on how I grew up, other than I wish she had not physically and emotionally abused me in the process. Other than that, it’s her body, her pussy, her choices. I’m not married to her just as Chloe is not married to me. If Chloe grows up and has sex with Marilyn Manson, good for her! I hope she at least gets his autograph out of it all!
My biggest concern is that I don’t know if I can go through with it. I’ve been having that problem for a long time now. Call it a conscience, call it chickening out. I don’t know what to make of it. Ideas?
Before any rumors start to fly, why yes, I did some dumb shit and hurt myself this week:
Today Dennis was released from the hospital. I wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t expecting him to call me and say that he got a ride back to our place. Getting that message at 6pm, I packed up what I could from Vance’s place, gathered my little ones, wrote a letter to Vance explaining where I was going, and left. He’ll find it at about 6am, when he gets home from work. It was harder to leave Vance than it was Dennis. Vance always kissed me good morning, good night, hello and good bye. He kissed me for no apparent reason other than I was there, and he felt like being affectionate. Dennis, on the other hand, thinks that by marrying me, he never has to tell me that he loves me anymore.
My mind has been wandering tonight. First from the medical tests that revealed Stage III cancers in two more places, to discussing surgery, alone, in that huge hospital, to knowing that I am going to have to see the therapist tomorrow. My tits are sore from the mammogram and the biopsies. My armpit is sore from the biopsy. I feel as though I will be alone in my battle, had I not gotten back together with Dennis when he called me. Vance would not miss work, no matter what, even the day that I had my Gamma Knife surgery. He dropped me off at the clinic, went to get coffee, and came back in about two hours and picked me up, distorted and disoriented. I was essentially alone. Today was a horrible reminder of this.
The thoughts that raced through my mind kept me anxious. When I heard the technologist tell me that lumps were found in my breasts, that a lump was found in my side, I wanted someone there, someone familiar, to hold me. I wanted someone to be there to tell me that yes, the road was a frightening and strange road, but that I was going to get well, and I didn’t have to go down it alone. That would have made the entire procedure 100% less frightening for me. The only person there was the technologist and I, and I certainly couldn’t hug her. She was so cold and sterile. The x-ray machine was cold and sterile. My nipples bled during the procedure. I was shaking by the end of the procedure, wanting to sit down between shots, but the technologist kept telling me to stand there, we were “almost done.” Forty minutes later, and much blood on the x-ray machine, I was told we were finally “done.” I was shaking. I’m not used to standing that long. I’m not used to something squeezing my tits that hard for that long, in those exotic positions. But I survived it. Alone. In that huge, cold, lonesome hospital. As I was walking back to my car, I saw that it was pouring rain out. I walked slowly to the car, feeling embarrassed that I had just shown my tits to a stranger, and that I had to face said stranger. I also felt as if the hospital was going to swallow me up, with the twists and turns and such. I just wanted to get home, change, and sleep it off. But then Dennis called to tell me that he had been released from the other hospital, and was at our house.
Gamma Knife surgery was as bad as the new diagnosis. They screwed a box to my head. Underneath the skin. The box was to keep my head still, and only allowing movement when the huge CT-esque machine was ready to move my head. Couldn’t they do this some other way?! I could feel the screws grinding against what I could only logically assume was my skull. I wanted to faint, but I’m not wired that way. I stay awake for the whole gore-y situation. No matter what is being done to me. The same thing happened when I got my root canals done a few years back.
Somehow, things just feel like they should be this way, you know? I feel as though I should be here, in this house, digging through a mountain of laundry, lightly teasing Dennis, while we watch worn-out, has-beens in rock. It just seems like this is they way things should be. Even though my heart is craving kisses and smiles and someone who doesn’t scream at the kids at every opportunity, the Continuum is no longer in danger of Chaos.
If you don’t get that last reference, it means that all life as we know it would cease to exist because I wasn’t playing my part in the Universe. Now that I am, I have saved mankind, somewhat. Be thankful.
Our house guest is still here. He was only supposed to stay for the recording, and that was only supposed to last for three days, max. Then he wanted to be in the filming and the portraits. Why? We were planning on giving him full credit for his work, along with paying him for the time he was in the studio. I don’t like him here because he insists on things being done in certain ways, and I just don’t have the energy to cater to his requests.
I am in need of surgery. I have an infection that is just going to get worse and worse without surgery, and I cannot be on penicillin longer than a couple of weeks. With my new diagnosis, I cannot receive treatment for that and penicillin at the same time. We could easily afford the surgery, but my mother wants me to work and earn the money this semester. Infections like the one I have will damage my heart, permanently, to about 10% working, within the next six months. It’s really imperative that I get this surgery, within the coming week, so I can continue my treatment. Of course the doctors who are seeing over my treatment told me that at any given time, they could find more wrong with me so I may need more surgery. My mother, on the other hand, wants me to spend the money I have now on her crack whore sister, buying her a new car, finishing her house payments and throwing in a few thousand dollars for spending money, then buy my mother a new car, etc. I’m completely selfish in doing anything else. Those aren’t the words of my mother, they are what I feel in my heart. My family should come before me, and I feel bad running off to have some ridiculous, frivolous, unnecessary surgery when my family needs me.
Talking to the treatment doctors, they told me without treating the infection permanently through surgery, by June my heart will be so weak and damaged I will no longer be able to get out of bed. From about then on, the disorder I have will be so out of control that treatment will not help. As of January 3, they have given me a maximum of eighteen months, without intervention. The doctor I talked to specifically said he hoped the “Great Being” will have mercy on me, and the infection will render me brain-dead before the pain sets in, so I won’t have to feel it. Right now I can’t chew or swallow, so I’m secretly hoping to bypass the whole infection/desolvation and go straight for dehydration. Of course my mother wants me on a feeding tube if it gets that extreme so she and her sister can continue to get my fentanyl and hydromorphone and norco for a while.
I know what you’re thinking. I already hate my family. I hate the situation I am in, and I hate that I am made to feel guilty for simply wanting to live long and comfortable into my prime.
Yes, my mother is really that greedy. She doesn’t believe my condition is severe enough to need surgery, or if I really do need surgery, I can find someone to do it for dirt cheap. She Googled around last night and found out I could get the surgery for about $30 in Iraq, I think, but the plane ticket there and back is more than the cost of the surgery here. The surgeon whom I talked to is going to do it for free — I just have to pay for the equipment to seal off the place where the flora is getting into my bloodstream. The surgeon I saw Thursday saw me, examined me, and did blood work, confirming that I need the operation, for free. He even wrote me out a prescription for norco and some penicillin. The surgeon she found wanted to do less than that for a $200 office visit. Never mind that I completely trust the surgeon that I have picked out, and he has done work on me before, and it has yet to fail. He’s also very sympathetic to my condition and has guaranteed his work for ten years. If the equipment fails or breaks in those ten years, he will redo everything for free. He made good on that promise the last time I had him do work for me.
I wish I could come to some happy medium. Right now my mother is living with us, and making my life super miserable because I have brought up the fact that I need surgery and it’s going to cost money. She was mad when Chloe needed to be hospitalised right after Christmas for a urinary tract infection that had been left going out of control for so long, the poor baby couldn’t even sit down, and she was seeping blood constantly. My mother simply put a maxi pad on her, told her she was having her period and soon she’d be a slut. Nice woman. Chloe is all of seven years old.
What I want is for this to be over. I want my mother to actually sit down with me and talk, and not have it be this way. I want a family that gets along and takes care of themselves, not throws fits because a member needs a life saving surgery and has to spend money. I want a family where the members are not madly in love with the all mighty dollar, and see money as a tool for better living and not as a trophy to wave infront of their own greedy relatives to win whatever childish competition they have going on there.
Sometimes, I’m glad my mother’s family ‘disowned’ me. I only wish they hadn’t taken so long in doing so.
Sombering day. Strange night before the day. When I woke up, I was certain that I had had a bad dream. I used to dream about my online interactions all the time. This time, I was certain that I had been dreaming awful things.
The dream was frank and to the point. I dreamed I had logged on to the Idiots’ Board, and made a post in the Early Adopters’ forum, that I was going to do something on the last weekend of this month. I was going to do it out of sheer spite and cattiness. It’s how we rolled, Roxanna and I. I would “accidentally” email her pictures and videos of me and Billy naked or in bed together, and she’d start shit with him, and anonymous comments would start appearing on my blog, calling me filthy names, anonymous sites on free servers would pop up with all the pictures of me I had ever sent her, and commentary of how ugly and fat I was, but at the same time, I was a whore, a slut, a home-wrecker. I used to reply to those sites that I wasn’t a home-wrecker — Billy never married her! And for good reason: She wanted to put his sixteen year old son in a nursing home to die with his “stupid cancer”. Whaaaaat?! Yes. That circulated the web and scared the shit out of poor Jess at the same time. I can’t count how many times I consoled him because of the hateful things she put out there on the web.
Her last ploy was telling us she had lung cancer. She, as herself, was a better person to us, but the anonymous sites about us still poped up, and I still had flocks of people coming to my blog telling me the cruelest things you’d ever heard. For a long time she and her minions ran a “Kill Christine” community on LiveJournal. They invited Dennis to join. How’s that for gratitude.
Roxanna used to complain to me that no one liked her online, then when I offered to vouch for her to be a member at the Idiots’ Board, she complained when they teased her, like they do every other member who has graced their elite community. It wasn’t intended to be mean, but she could put on a burlap sack and get offended if you thought it was anything less than a Versacci.
Then Billy told me that she had cancer. Immediately my mind was spinning, assuming it was another lie.
See, Roxanna had a bad habit of lying. Not the innocent “my name is really Jamie” kind of lie to advert a stalker from finding her weblog in Google, but more like the lie that “My elderly mother kidnapped my daughter, stole my car and I’m in the middle of a highway chase on I-99″ type of lies. Good lord. She and I were supposed to meet up there, and go to the show together, but she sent me that distressing email, like a dumbass, I believed it, and spent the day searching for her, calling police stations, calling her mother’s number, and finally, when she came back, she told me it was all a lie, that she wanted Billy all to herself and her daughter. That was when I stopped trusting her. I still talked to her occasionally, and so did Jess, but we took everything she said with a grain of salt. Billy, on the other hand, still clung to her every word. To this date, he is the only one from our group of Internet Idiots that ever met Roxanna in person. However, he’s about as reliable as she, since he blamed “demon possession” when he beat me in the head with a machinist’s mallet. I’d written about her dishonesty before. And her fairy tales that she strung me along with.
It seemed that every time that I would catch her in another whopper, she’d turn the tables on me. Suddenly I was an expert photoshopper and video-photoshopper, and purchased tombstones to “prove” my sister died, faked pictures when my dog died, and when I went back to school. I don’t know how many times I sent her undeveloped film with pictures of me, Billy, and all that she wanted to see, on them. But that wasn’t proof enough. I must have paid off Kodak to make that film appear authentic. What the hell…? If I had that kind of money, I would not have wasted it on props to fool her or anyone on the internet with! I’d just hire a hitman and be done with the squeaking wheel. Her logic and reasoning never quite fit each other.
Through this all, I knew few things about Roxanna. Apparently, she was who she said she was, in the brief personal things she told us, but there were other things I discovered that she didn’t tell any of us. It wasn’t too personal, just nicknames, what she had done in the past, but I felt lied to yet again during my research last night, as I uncovered some more things.
After posting on the message board last night, I got a reply that “it wouldn’t work” from Josh. Feeling a little sarcastic, I replied, “Why? Did the bitch die?” his response: “Yes.” my answer: “Liar!” his reply: “Go check the Social Security Death Index Database.”
I checked. Her name and a blanked out date popped up. I’d need to sign up for a free trial to see it. Good thing my credit card had some leeway on it. I signed up, fearing that she really was dead, but hoping it was just something that had captured a marriage license, or something.
I got my account, logged in and searched again.
I was wrong. She died. On October 20, 2011.
Shocked, I searched for an obituary, and found one. I found the cemetery where she was buried. I called Billy with my findings, even though he was just outside by the lake, and I asked him if he knew Roxanna had died. He said yes and that she was the “kutie” he was posting about on his blog.
Well fuck me.
He’s called me “kutie” since 1999. I assumed it was me he was writing about.
It turns out that many people knew of her death. I’m the last to know, and that bothers me. It bothers me that my friends and loved ones wouldn’t tell me something like that. Damn her lies and tall tales, she did defend me some times on the web. She did tell me that she was my friend, probably back in 2002. But no one told me she died? Billy said no one had told him, either, and that’s why he was having the benefit shows. Oh. I asked when had she been crowned “kutie” and he was silent for a moment, then said, “When you said you hated me.”
He also told me that about a year ago, she contacted him and told him that she had lung cancer, and she wanted to talk to us all. He thought she was lying again, and just humored her. Today he feels bad, because he thinks that last email caused her to give up and just die. I told him not to flatter himself. I brought up the nursing home. From my research, a nursing home was listed as the place where Roxanna died. So she got cancer, became a nuisance and her loving daughter and sister threw her in a nursing home so they wouldn’t have her in the way or have to watch her die. I’ve worked in nursing homes, as early as 2003, and they are hell holes, despite what Lynne and Marcia spout on the O’Boards. My response to that was: Karma. This stunned the devil himself. How could I even think that, let alone say it!!!
My words made sense: She wanted to throw Jess in a nursing home to die when she was going to marry his father. It was karma that she died the exact way she tried to curse a sixteen year old boy to. I remembered the hours I had spent calming Jess down, telling him that he wasn’t going to any institution, and if she persisted, Dennis and I would move, take our kids, and take him too. Far away where is father and evil future step-mother could not harm him. Normally that followed several Xanax pills and soothing incense. Those nights never quite left me.
Tonight, as I watch the cold September rain beat down, it all seems so unreal. I never got to say good-bye to Roxanna, but then again, there were many times that she attempted suicide and basically told me to piss off when I would be telling her how much I would miss her. The many nights that I was in surgery or recovering from my car accident in a hospital, she would accuse me of sending her viruses and the likes….fuck, I didn’t know how to make or send a virus! I was always on a Mac, plus when I was in the hospital, I didn’t know up from down, and I was more concerned with getting out of that place where I was so confused and upset at.
I’m not totally made of stone. I’m still in shock that’s she’s gone, or this was just some strange dream, and she’s really hiding out on the web, stalking mine and Billy’s blogs, trying to see if we’re mad at her. I cried when I found all that evidence last night. Tears ran down my cheeks for half an hour. See, before I found out that she had died, for this last year or so, I had been saving little tidbits from around the web to send to her, when she got better. She never did that to or for me, but I’m different. I care about the people I have spent time with. Sometimes I catch myself finding something that Janna would have liked, and then I remember what a piece of shit-scum she was, and delete it.
I’m just not programmed to just forget and throw away people. That’s why I’m in the messes that I am in to this day. I won’t let them go as easily as they would let me go. Billy has told me that he’s the same, but I’m not sure that I believe that. Jess was a person he was willing to throw away. I have a higher tolerance for people. I believe people are put in my family for a reason. I never gave up on Jess’ right to live. There were many nights when his pain was so bad he was screaming for hours, and I finally woke from my deep sleep to see Dennis loading the needle the oncologist gave us, just in time to take it away from him, and remind him that we don’t euthanise here. I would then take the needle, waste half of the green mixture in it down the sink, and inject what was left into Jess so he was pain-free, and able to wake up and live the next day.
I’ve spent the last decade of my life, online, cleaning up after Roxanna and her ridiculousness. I’ve spent even more time in therapy cleaning up what her words did to my family members. I don’t regret it, though. I guess that’s why this hasn’t beaten me down into the doldrums of some back alley, although I have yet to see Billy get drunk or even take a drink since this all went down.
Would I do it all over again? Yes. I have no regrets.
I don’t know what is wrong with this site. I don’t know if it is my WordPress
installation or the Plugins, or something else. It keeps failing, and I really want to know why. This seems to be only happening on this server and with this theme. I’d hate to have to change themes just to have it do it again and I have to deactivate all my plugins and then slowly eliminate one every day as it “breaks” so easily. Maybe this is a bug with the new WordPress version? I’m not sure. If there are any WordPress techs out there that want to help me, let me know, because I could certainly use your help right about now! This website is making me want to tear my hair out. I’m thinking about exporting my entries and just changing hosts, although I would hate to do that because I worked so hard at tweaking this one until it was juuuuust right.
I’ve been so tired lately, falling asleep at 6pm and waking up every hour or so during the night, only to force myself back to sleep. It’s so weird. I want to stay asleep, but when I am awake, I feel like I am just going to pass out at any moment. I’m on a 500 Calories or Less diet, doctor’s orders, until my appointment on the 16th. I’m afraid if I don’t lose that 20 lbs and be in the 140s come August 16th, he can legally have me put in a mental hospital. It’s not like he’s never threatened to do it before. I’ve been bullied by this ass for the last four years. “Take this!” “Do that!” “Have this procedure done!” “Don’t do [this]!” and if I don’t want to? “Well, I guess you need a three month psych evaluation again. Maybe they let you out a little too early? Maybe you need to stay for a year or five this time?” And so whatever he tells me to do, I do it. Lose weight. Take pills that make the room spin. Only eat 500 or less Calories a day and suffer blood glucose levels of 48 or lower on a daily basis. Pay outrageous costs for drug testing that we both know will be positive because I am on Fentanyl. For a while I was paying for pregnancy tests, and he was the man who ordered my hysterectomy! This time it was “get your weight down to the 110s or ‘be evaluated’ again.” And here I am, starving. My food consists of a half a sandwich and two to three cans of pop a day.
I usually wear out by 6pm. I wake around 12am with severe neck pain and tail-bone pain. I ask for something to be done about that, and not just doped up with more narcotics, I meant x-rays and suggestions or telling Dennis that we need to get some more pillows or add some more water to the bed, and dear doc acts like I have a drug problem. No, it’s just easier to get Dennis to help me out if a doctor sides in with me that I need the physical help.
I really don’t know what to do. If I change physicians, I know my doctor will not release my records. He wrote them, they are his property. If I want to buy them, fine. $100 per sheet. $6,000 minimum. I’m also reminded that not a lot of doctors in the area take insurance-less patients, something about how their liability insurance doesn’t cover them as well as someone an insurance company covers. This is probably where I’m supposed to read between the lines and see where he’s going to put something in my records or prevent me from getting another physician to take on my medical case. He’d do it too.
But this is just until the 16th. I can hold out till then.