Now, I can see why these things don’t go hand-in-hand but, I promise you they do. I am chronically ill- I have chronic pain, chronic migraines, my immune system is absolute s h i t, I’m depressed and, I’m pretty sure there’s more going wrong with me that’s still undiagnosed. But what does that mean exactly, especially when caffeine is supposedly bad for all of the things going wrong with my body.
It means I am going to drizzle the salted caramel syrup all over the inside of my favorite coffee cup right now, fill it up with my new favorite K-Pod coffee, add too much cream, and enjoy my fucking coffee. There are far more things I cannot do than there are things I am able to do. Unlike most people I cannot walk without pain, or my leg swelling, my hips or knees locking up, or my leg just giving out as a whole. A sudden weather change can and probably will put me in the midst of a migraine attack that may stick with me for days at a time. My insomnia has become a joke, and I cannot tell you the last time I slept well, or without waking up every twenty-minutes to an hour. The list goes on.
So… let me enjoy my fucking coffee.
Don’t tell me that it’s bad for me, or I’ll pay for it later. Don’t tell me that the caffeine will keep me up, make me even more tired than I already am, or will cause me to get the shakes or jitters. I don’t care. I don’t want to hear it. If I avoided every little thing that was “bad” for me I would have laid down and died eons ago.
At this point, I think I just might be fucking immortal because the human body should not be able to physically function by being in pain all the time. Yet, here I am. Running on what’s going on 3 cups of coffee, anxiety, a tomato cheese and mayo sandwich, and a couple strawberries. Some might say I’m on my way to fighting God or becoming Him but, you know what? I just want to fucking make it to Friday in one piece.
So, I guess it’s finally fair to stop and talk about the nerve blocks. I’ve had two so far, with another scheduled for tomorrow, and I’ve noticed no significant changes. When I wake up in the recovery area, it’s normally pretty numb, and that’s a great feeling but, I’m not sure if that’s actually from the nerve block or the anesthesia when they put me under. Because by the next morning, everything is back to “normal” aside from the pain in my back, and the damn bruises up and down my arms. Lord, the bruises might just be one of the worst things in the world. Especially the monster-sized one that always forms at the injection site.
Have you ever thought about how many times you bend over in a day? Need to sit down and use the restroom? You bend over. Need to pick something up off the floor? You bend over. Want to sit somewhere? You bend over. Want to lay down in your bed? You generally must bend first. It is just a constant cycle of aggravating an already tender and aggravated area.
And this week, I don’t get a buffer.
Last time, I got 2-weeks in between surgeries or procedures, whichever word you prefer. This time, however, I don’t even get a full week in between. No, not me, instead tomorrow at 2:45p.m. I have to be at Rush, where the nurse will no doubt blow out yet another one of my veins despite the fact that I am still not healed from the first two procedures. Where I will sit around forever and a damn day while they wait on pregnancy test results and Covid results despite the fact that I haven’t been with a man in five-years. Then, once I’m dehydrated, hungry, and no doubt crabby it will finally be time to subject me to the torture that is this nerve block.
After that, it’s being driven home in rush hour traffic…
Yay. Fucking. Me.
I had an appointment with my allergist for my allergy shots yesterday, and instead of seeing the doctor I like I had to see the other one. The female who suggested that I see someone about my depression, anxiety, and bitterness. I have bruises on the backs of both of my arms from those injections too. All I am is a bruise now. But, I looked this woman in the eyes and I laughed at her. I couldn’t help myself. I have been in almost constant pain for 277-days.
277-days.
9-months.
3-days, and at the time of writing this post (4:15p.m. Tuesday, May 25, 2021) one-hour.
But who is counting, right? Oh, yeah. Me. I’m counting, and I cannot stop counting because no matter where I am, what I’m doing, or who I’m with the pain is there. It hangs over me like a dark cloud, constantly spitting rain. It can go from a dull roar to an absolute monsoon that floods and drowns out everything in seconds.
Yet, she felt the need to butt in and point out that I am depressed, anxious, and bitter as if I didn’t already know. I wanted to tell her that if she had been the one in pain for the past 277-days that she would be all of those things too. Especially when I’ve gone through doctors upon doctors, been misdiagnosed, been told I’m lying, and physical therapy that hasn’t helped.
I’m just tired… that’s all.
And it doesn’t help that lately, I haven’t been able to do any of the things I want or love. I love writing. I wanted so badly to be able to post a chapter of my new WIP every week to Wattpad but, I just don’t have the energy. I just don’t have the strength, or the willpower, or the mental capacity to pull off the mental gymnastics that it takes to make the words or create the stories.
I don’t even have what it takes to read the stories. I can’t play video games because honestly, every time I think I take ten damage. I don’t know if there’s anything I can do.
-Sky
Leave a comment