I Remember

2018-07-082018-07-11 Miss Poison Poison In Lethal Doses, Writing Anne McCaffrey, Grief, Honesty, In Memoriam, July, Loss, Love, Memento Mori, Musings, My Grandfather, Poison In Lethal Doses, Remember, Writing

I Remember

This day is emblazoned within my mind. I would learn so much within a forty-eight hour span of time, and I would be permanently changed. But no one tells you that when you’re a child. No. They try to keep you “innocent”. Except in my family. My mother decided I was not going to be lied to or be told nonsensical stories. I’ve been treated like an adult, with free thoughts and a free spirit, my entire life. There’s much to be said for this methodology because, even today, people do try to shield their children from many things. There’s no perfect way to be a parent. Did you just shake your head? You can disagree. That’s fine.

There are so many moments in life, but as someone with extreme intuition, this one still gets me.

I remember a full day of fun, spent with my mother, brother, and Grandparents. I remember exactly where we were, and that we had been in a specific store just minutes before the tension began. I remember feeling confused when some form of visibly silent arguing began, which is when my mother and her parents would switch languages in front of my brother and I. My brother probably doesn’t have any recollection of this, but I do. Whenever another language was spoken around me, I paid attention. I still do.

I remember my mother becoming frustrated, bordering on furious. The plans had changed and she was hurt, trying to rein in her temper. She was trying to put on a brave face in front of her children, but I felt the shift in emotions immediately. Once again, my Great-Aunt and Great-Uncle would get their way, and my mother was not pleased. She was not manipulative and didn’t appreciate manipulative people. She was never fake by nature, but in those final moments, she was putting on a show.

Me, always questioning everything, precisely as she taught me, demanded to know what was going on. “Where are they going? Why are they leaving? I have to say goodbye to Grandpa.” At that point in my life, my entire world revolved around my mother, Grandfather, Aunt (my mother’s sister), and brother.

My mother, of the softly spoken everything, of her calm, easy-going nature, would reply with a tone better suited for a teenager that arrived home at four a.m. drunk, without a phone call. “You don’t need to say goodbye. You’ll see him tomorrow.” I remember trying to get one final hug and kiss, and being forcibly taken away from him. I was angry. He and my Grandmother waved, promising me tomorrow. Tomorrow didn’t happen the way any of them expected, I am sure.

It was extremely early in the morning. Ever the night owl, I left the room I shared with my younger brother to find out what was going on. I remember facing my Grandmother, her always stoic expression conveying something was wrong. I had never seen her so quiet, so sad, so lost.

“Where is Grandpa?” I demanded. You rarely saw one Grandparent without the other, even though my Grandfather was the predominant force between the two. She looked up at me with a blatantly sad expression on her normally expressionless face. “He’s gone.” was the answer I received.

Gone. What did that mean to me? It made no sense. “Then we have to go and find him.” was my reply. I was adamant. I knew he would not leave without me, without talking to me, without saying goodbye. The fiercest part of me knew that he would never leave by choice. Never. She shook her head and waited for my mother to explain to me that the single most important man in my life was “in heaven”.

I quickly learned that NO ONE understood this concept. They would look at me sadly, point up to the sky, and tell me my Grandfather had “gone to heaven”. I did not believe them. I had already extensively searched the clouds and he was not there. Because they all pointed up, I believed he had gone to a castle in the clouds. He would always study the sky with me and show me things, so this made sense in my mind at the time.

I remember his funeral. The entire chapel was filled beyond capacity. People were huddled in to make additional room. Hundreds of people had come to pay their respects. My Grandfather was beloved, respected, admired. I remember looking at all the people, so many of them strangers to me, and everyone looked back at me sadly.

I remember the cemetery. The line of cars was unreal. Again, a testament to this great man. I remember my Great-Aunt Minnie and Great-Uncle Charlie wanting to dote on me from the funeral home to the burial site. I remember my cousins, Gloria and Lenny, trying to lighten the mood in the car. Lenny was known for his sense of humor. My Aunt Minnie tried distracting me with cookies. I was not to be distracted, though. I was this man’s only Granddaughter and I knew I had a purpose on this day. After all, I fought to be there. No one thought I should be “subjected to death”. I’d heard this stated quite a bit in the previous day, and knowing myself, I was paying exceptional attention to who said what and how they said it. I’ve always been a keen observer.

My mother sat down with me and explained everything and asked what I wanted to do. I remember her friend Ellen saying “Don’t you want to stay home and play with me and your baby brother?” I remember looking up at her coldly and saying “No. He is MY Grandfather and I AM GOING.” My mother actually stared at me, shocked by the tone of voice I had used. Before that moment, I had always been described as the “little girl with the ancient eyes”, even as a baby, but in that moment my mother knew I was the fierce warrior she had prayed for. There would be no further argument. I had stood my ground.

Cemeteries are for the living. It’s how we remember those we’ve lost and try to honor them. There is nothing more final than seeing someone’s name and the dates of their birth and death etched into granite or marble. Is it bizarre that my Grandparents’ headstone is the same as my parents’ stone? Not really. I remember asking my mother what she wanted for my father and she said “Just bury us together. Get one stone. Something similar to the one for my Mom and Dad, okay?” Her only concession was that her side have a specific design. I custom-designed that stone with the help of someone who does that sort of work. The final result was startling, same as it was to see my Grandparents’ names etched in finality.

After my Grandfather’s death, I remember heated discussions. My Great-Aunt, my Grandfather’s only sister, asked my Grandmother if she could still go on her vacation, despite the traditional 3-7 days where Jews sit Shiva. My Grandmother acquiesced, as she always did in situations such as this. My mother didn’t speak to my Great-Aunt for YEARS after the fact, and my own anger would become part of the mix as I got older and heard the entire story. If, G-d forbid, anything ever happened to my brother, I would not be on a plane the day after his funeral to go anywhere. I would never show his life such disrespect. It’s nonnegotiable. How the hell does someone claim to be in mourning and then get on a plane to go anywhere to enjoy themselves?! I will forever feel haunted by that move. In reverse, I can assure you my Grandfather would not have done something so despicable.

My Grandmother never spoke about it. She had friends, family, tons of well-wishers, and her children and grandchildren by her side. She became a prominent, front-and-center Grandmother in the wake of my Grandfather’s death, whereas she was very much in the background most of the time before his passing. There was NOTHING she did not do for us, take care of, or handle if my father refused. If my brother or I ever needed something, it did not matter what it is, she was there. She went to all of my gymnastic competitions, every drama performance, every Glee club performance, every Graduation. If it was during the day and my parents had to work, she was the face we saw in every crowd. She loved us, she helped raise us, and she was always right across the street. With her, we would get extra time before cancer came and took her from us. The insidiousness of that disease, coming along and taking someone who stayed out of the sun (I always remember her being under an umbrella or sitting in the shade.), never smoked, rarely drank, was devastating. It just goes to show you that no one is immune.

For roughly the next three years, after things had settled down, I would openly discuss suicide, a word that had NEVER been used in my home or in my life. My family did not discuss such things, EVER. My parents would stare at each other in dismay, and I know what they were thinking. “Where did she get that word from?” I had never been exposed to it, but it was constant. I was determined to be wherever my Grandfather REALLY was, and I made this clear. Every time I would talk about it, my brother would become hysterical, clutching me and telling my parents “She’s my sister. She can’t leave. Don’t let her leave me.” His face would turn red and he’d cry himself into an asthma attack at times. We were incredibly adult for kids, I now realize, but back then, I thought all people had similar family lives and discussions. They did not. They do not.

It’s important to discuss loss, grief, death, and every aspect of mental health with your children. I have suffered the majority of my life because my mother was afraid for me and my father was in denial. But as someone recently said to me “You could have harmed yourself so many times by now, and you’re still here. You’re still in one piece.” Only, I’m not truly in “one piece”. I’m very much a broken, pretty mess, but people only focus on the visual on front of them. They are sitting across from someone who is dressed appropriately, someone who is clean, hair done, makeup on, and they think that someplace, somewhere, I have it all “together”. Sometimes I do, but mostly, I do not. I don’t pretend. I am as imperfect as the amethyst I wear around my neck nearly all the time, except during a Full Moon.

To this day, I still suffer. I still hurt, wondering how different life might have been if he had lived another ten or fifteen years. I miss him terribly. But most importantly, I remember. I remember it all.

“The tears I feel today
I’ll wait to shed tomorrow.
Though I’ll not sleep this night
Nor find surcease from sorrow.
My eyes must keep their sight:
I dare not be tear-blinded.
I must be free to talk
Not choked with grief, clear-minded.
My mouth cannot betray
The anguish that I know.
Yes, I’ll keep my tears til later:
But my grief will never go.”
―Anne McCaffrey

So Much Misdiagnosis

2018-06-242018-07-01 Miss Poison Chronic Pain, Writing Chronic Pain, Health, June, Poison In Lethal Doses, Writing

When it pertains to your health, you are bound to be misdiagnosed multiple times over the duration of your life. According to books with hard statistics, women are far more likely to receive a misdiagnosis than our male counterparts. It makes me question the medical field on a whole, and Lord knows I’ve been doing that for quite some time already. I am not offering up trust at the moment. I have exactly two doctors I trust to care for me properly, and no one should have such low numbers when they need help.

When I was diagnosed roughly fifteen years ago with “inoperable spinal damage between C-3 and C-7” (that’s five disks in total) in my neck that was “pressing on the nerves going in and out of my spine”, thus causing the excruciating pain I am still in, I was stunned. At the time, I didn’t know much about the internal aspects of the spine. Obviously I was well aware one could injure themselves and that you could become permanently paralyzed through no fault of your own, but I wasn’t up on the medical lingo. Until that day, my back and neck were simply an every day part of my body, albeit parts that hurt like hell. Now, all these years later, I am far more educated on the ins and outs. So when I met my current spine specialist in January, I had to report the information I had previously been given. Instead of requesting those records, he ordered an MRI. We both had to put up a fight to get it approved, and once it was, I was thrown into the difficult position of completely changing my insurance just days before a doctor’s appointment. That meant getting the MRI approved through the new insurance company, and I was prepared for yet another battle. However, they approved it immediately. Unfortunately, I did not receive a letter regarding the approval until about six or seven weeks later. There was no way in hell I was getting into an MRI machine when I didn’t have the approval in hand. Call me crazy, but I didn’t want to see an enormous bill for this MRI over a missing document with the approval on it. I’ve seen this happen to people, and I can’t afford to be stupid.

I had the MRI done on June 13th. It was quick, painless, and frankly, not worth the months of built-up anxiety for twenty minutes of my life. When I saw my doctor to go over the results, I was shocked silent to hear that my neck “looks great”. I said “Excuse me?” and he replied by saying that the damage I previously had “probably healed over time”. I stared at him and said “Why didn’t anyone ever tell me that could happen? And why am I still in so much damn pain?” He shrugged and then pulled up the images to show me how perfectly straight my spine is (Thank you for all your lectures about perfect posture, Grandma. I can still hear your voice whenever I don’t sit up straight.). However, this “perfectly straight spine” isn’t normal. Most people have a curve to their spine. So while I have the curve aesthetically, if you’re looking at the back of my neck, internally, it is straight. My diagnosis? Arthritis. It was a genuine “What the fuck?” moment from beginning to end. I’m in excruciating pain and he’s sitting across from me telling me that my disks are perfect and well hydrated, and even said “You have the spine of a thirty year old.” I have anti-aging bones to match the genetic fact that I also look far younger than I am. Awesome! <I’m rolling my eyes, and being slightly sarcastic.> He noticed that there’s a lot of tension in my upper back/neck area, which he says is where most people store tension. I know my back and neck bear the brunt of a lot of my stress. He looked at my medication history and suggested Trigger Point Injections and referred me to a colleague for Biofeedback. When he discussed meditation and “lowering my stress levels” I said “Hello, have we met?!”, which was apparently confusing for him, so I had to explain my stance on things that haven’t worked for me in the past. I was given an appointment for the TPIs, and left his office feeling dejected beyond words.

I then went downstairs to the lab and submitted to a random drug test for medication I’ve never abused in my life. Let’s be frank when I say I have never abused ANY prescription drug. In fact, I am the last person anyone would ever accuse of having a substance abuse problem, but I did it to reassure my doctor that nothing has changed, just in case her records are audited. With the serious decline I have received in treatment these last few months, that could be sooner rather than later.

My doctor has systematically, over the course of two months, cut my medication down by roughly 80%. It is not for pain, it is not something I can “get high” on, and again, I’m not abusing it. Once my test came back, she wrote me a prescription for 33 pills. My normal monthly dose is 180 pills, and I only ever take them as needed. She has a doctor who oversees the controlled substances in her office. I was supposed to meet with this psycho (You’ll have to trust my assessment here. There’s nothing sane or normal about this woman.) for the second time, but she chose to cancel on me without giving me twenty-four hours notice. Her secretary had the audacity to inform me that I may receive a bull for HER cancelling on ME. If I receive an $80 bill from her office, she had better HIDE off the fucking grid because hunting her down like a rodent will become my new mission in life, right after I report her for fraudulent billing practices. She has her secretary call me to cancel and actually says “Tell her she can stop by Wednesday or Thursday.” Like I have nothing else going on in my life? I wanted to say “Please tell her to go fuck herself.”, but instead I said “I am booked for the next two weeks. I can see her July 3rd.” I intentionally chose this date because I am a bit of an evil genius who, now that I know who I am dealing with, has decided to be as challenging as possible. Her secretary gives me an appointment, after saying she has several other patients before me on the same day and then adds, “I don’t know if she’ll be in, it’s a holiday week.” July 4th is on Wednesday, if she’s planning on not being in the office, then I’d better not receive six confirmation e-mails like I did for the cancelled appointment. I intentionally ignore these e-mails and any text messages asking me to confirm so that they have no paper trail of confirmations or cancellations from me. I will be calling on Friday to confirm because I want to record the confirmation call. If she cancels again, my doctor is going to hear about it because I’m the one being punished by having my medication reduced each time it is renewed, and if I get the call on Monday, she had better be prepared to write a new prescription on Tuesday when she’s in the office, or have a colleague do it. If this was going to be an issue, she should have said something to me directly when she saw me at the end of March. Instead, she chose to say other things and there was no discussion regarding this topic.

The drug in question is a well known anti-anxiety medication (It’s not Xanax.). There are major health risks involved if I am not slowly weaned off of it over a two to three year period. If I should have a seizure, heart attack, or stroke due to this rapid reduction in medication, this particular doctor is the first person I am authorizing my family to sue the living crap out of (I’ve already told two family members about the situation, just in case.). I have even had my insurance company call them and warn them that this is both negligence and medical malpractice. They have been advocating for me due to communication issues where my calls don’t get returned for 5-7 weeks at a time, as opposed to the same day. I am trying so hard to focus on my health and get everything straightened out, and this office is constantly doing something to piss me off. Even the insurance company has said “I’m playing phone tag with the nurse who works for your doctor. I understand your frustration in being ignored because I call several times a week, too.” They want to get paid by my insurance company, but they can’t return a phone call in a timely fashion? Frustration is not the word I would use at this stage. Especially knowing that they just billed nearly $2000 for a drug test, my third this year. I expect my insurance to cut them off from further testing at some point, especially since they fork over $1800 each time. There are companies who wouldn’t pay $300 for this constant bullshit, but obviously they have an agreement regarding this. It’s absolutely ludicrous. There is no fool-proof way for my tests to be accurate. The first one was positive for the medication I take. The second was negative, but my sample was also disposed of after it reached the four hour mark, so I don’t know why it was reported at all if they disposed of it. The third was positive. It doesn’t get sent out to a special lab for analysis, it’s merely someone dipping a stick into the sample and then submitting a report back to the doctor. There’s nothing precise about it since the tests declare that they can be inaccurate since they are not set up for this type of medication. It actually lists about ten medications and says it cannot guarantee accuracy for them.

Being medically strung along does not make me feel comfortable or safe. It does not foster trust. It took my regular doctor seven weeks to change a medication for a serious health issue, and have someone call me in regard to it. Seven fucking weeks! I am now forced with calling back and saying “The new medication made me deathly ill. Please change it.” How long will it take her to change it at this stage is anyone’s guess.

So, as I navigate all of this, I’m also struck by the annoyance that the medication in the Trigger Point Injections wasn’t even explained to me. I spoke with someone and did a little research, only to find out it’s basically steroids, anesthesia, and a muscle relaxer. He did say that if it worked at all, it would last about two weeks. Due to a new-to-me medication I am getting from my neurologist (I will probably talk about this next year. I am, intentionally, being tight-lipped about it because I want to see if it’s going to work or not.), I had to ask her if it’s safe to have the injections. She gave the green-light, but I still don’t feel comfortable jumping into it. He never addressed the issues with my lower back, and during the physical exam, when he pressed on my spine, I nearly flew across the room when he hit my lower lumbar area, yet he did not order tests or answer my questions about it regarding pain. That’s going to bug me, and as a result, I have decided to get a second opinion. I do have an appointment for the injections at the end of July, but this is still MY health, MY body, and if I don’t feel 100% comfortable, then it’s okay to admit it and it’s okay to have someone else take a look. I have my x-ray report, I have the MRI images on CD, so asking for a referral to another spine specialist is being fair to myself. I like this doctor, but that doesn’t mean a whole lot since we went from “I can prescribe something.” to “Let’s start injections ASAP.” Overall, he IS an anesthesiolgist and what do they do in pain clinics? They perform injections all day long. I’ve never been under any form of anesthesia in my life, and if I can avoid that going into my body, I will. Obviously, if the other doctor is on the same page, maybe he or she will better explain their perspective, but that doesn’t mean I have to agree to their methods. This doctor and his needles will still be available to me, if I choose that route, but for now, I would like to see what alternatives are out there. Pain management shouldn’t immediately fall under “anesthesia” and needles. At least not from where I am sitting, as the one in pain.

I am hoping and praying I get real answers soon. For now, I’m going to listen to my intuition and get a second opinion. Possibly even a third, if necessary. There’s something telling me that I need to dig deeper, and I can’t ignore that voice.

I’ll be back soon. Make sure you have fun without me. 😉

Sometimes It’s The Retelling That Sucks

2018-06-172019-07-01 Miss Poison Father's Day, Writing Baseball, Father's Day, June, Memories, My Father, Poison In Lethal Doses, Writing

Saturday afternoon someone asked me what I was doing for Father’s Day. I had actually forgotten that Father’s Day was coming up, so this conversation was yet another reminder for me regarding the fact that my father has been gone for ten and a half years. Somehow, my brain just wasn’t absorbing this holiday. Even today, I probably wouldn’t have even thought about it if someone in the grocery store hadn’t been discussing lobsters for her husband’s “Father’s Day cookout”. It legitimately went in one ear and out the other. I didn’t fully grasp it until late in the day.

Having to reply to the question, “What are you doing tomorrow for Father’s Day?” meant rehashing a wound. I blinked and said “Nothing. My father’s been dead ten and a half years.” The person automatically apologized, but the question didn’t bother me. It was the thoughts the question conjured up; those bothered me.

My father was not good at accepting gifts. One year we gave him a watch. He desperately needed a new one and it was given with a full heart, but he tried it on and flat-out told us to return it. I remember thinking “Wow. He can’t appreciate anything we do for him.” Because for years, my father would reject whatever we did for him. One year I got him a movie he asked for. I had actually pre-ordered it so he’d be able to enjoy it immediately on release day. About a week or so later I asked “Did you like it? Was it good?” A few days later, it arrived in the mail. I was not pleased. When I questioned him about this he said “I’ve seen it once. I won’t watch it again. Enjoy.” I was utterly dumbfounded. It didn’t matter what the gift was; there was always some sort of rejection attached to it. For me, someone who LOVES to give gifts, it was a slap in the face. I reached a point where I would only agree to cook a nice meal for him if he was choosing to visit.

A few years before he passed away, I got him tickets to a New York Yankees game in Philly as a Father’s Day gift, even though the game would be roughly two months later, if memory serves me correctly (I still have the ticket stubs somewhere.). I scored excellent seats, mainly because no one was attending Phillies games at the time, but being in close proximity to New York, there was a lovely mixed crowd of sports fans. Surprisingly enough, my Dad made the trip out to spend the weekend and we went to the game together. I had additional tickets, but my brother didn’t want to go.

When we got there, batting practice was still going on, so we got to enjoy it. Jimmy Rollins, I want you to know that my father’s first comment during that game was “The shortstop for the Phillies is an absolute STAR. He’s an incredible infielder.” He was so impressed. It was the truth. My father called it; Jimmy would go on to win a World Series with the Phillies in 2008 and was traded in 2014. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw that Gabe Kapler is the Phillies current manager, but I digress…

It was a blisteringly hot day, and my “perfect” seats were in direct sun the entire afternoon. Halfway through the game my father said “Now I know why I like my baseball at home.”, which I understood. He had gone to games as a kid, but he wasn’t well, and he thought he was masking this from everyone, but he was the worst liar.

We left the game early, worn out and badly sunburned. For me to get burned is a testament to how intense the sun was that day. I was completely covered in sunscreen and had a hat on. My father, in the midst of battling cancer, only wore sunscreen to pacify me and purchased a Phillies hat once he saw how necessary it was. My father, who never donned a single article of non-New York sports attire. It’s pretty funny when I think about it now. It was even funnier because he brought a hat back for my brother from the game. He threw it back at him and declared “I can’t be SEEN IN THAT!” My brother now works in and around Philly and cheers for Philly teams. I pretend not to know him when he does this. I currently live in Massachusetts, but you won’t ever catch me cheering for the Red Sox. Some things are sacrilegious.

A few years later, my father would be gone, less than two years after his brother passed away, also due to cancer. That day at the ballpark is one of the most prominent memories I carry because it wasn’t a negative experience. For maybe the second time in my entire life, that day, he was just a father with his daughter. I’m sorry my brother chose to pass on the experience, but maybe there was some cosmic reasoning involved.

Father’s Day opens up wounds for me. This year, I choose to put what I can behind me and move forward. Believe me, the last thing I need is another reminder.

Dazed, Confused, and Out Of Sorts

2018-06-022018-06-08 Miss Poison June, Pieces Of Me, Poison In Lethal Doses, Writing Feelings, Health, June, Musings, Pieces Of Me, Poison In Lethal Doses, Stress, Thoughts, Writing

I’m running out of ways to describe my current state of mind. Earlier this week I had a different sense of self, and then I came home to discover I had lost my house key and the remote for the alarm. Thankfully, they were found and brought to “Lost & Found”. I received a return call the following morning letting me know they were safe and sound, and that I could come and get them, which I did on Thursday. You cannot imagine how stupid I felt in the moment, especially considering my history. I have had a set of house keys since I was eleven years old. I still have keys for every place I’ve ever lived, except my last place of residence where I tossed the keys onto the front lawn on the final day of moving. That was my way of shedding myself of the negativity of a horrible experience that is still haunting and affecting me on a daily basis. It wasn’t an exact science, but in the moment, I didn’t want to physically be carrying around a physical memory filled with pain.

I don’t normally lose something I tend to keep my eye on. That error made me so upset, and it made me question myself for days. It was an enormous “What the fuck is wrong with you?” moment, at least for me. I know many people will say I am human, no one is perfect, and/or shit happens, etc., but I take my responsibilities seriously. Anyone who thinks otherwise doesn’t know me at all.

Despite that incident, I had an extremely productive neurology consult with a new doctor. I waited nearly six months to see her, and I was definitely feeling iffy walking into the situation. After going through all of the standard questions, a quick baseline test, and doing a neuro history to rule out what I have and haven’t tried, she immediately discussed the treatment method with me that she feels I am the best candidate for. I was relieved to hear someone cut through all the bullshit and go straight to precisely what I have wanted to do migraine-wise for the past six years. I have a three to six month wait, but she feels it will be worth it, and I am hopeful. It’s by no means a cure; I will still get migraines, but after my first year of treatment, I shouldn’t be getting daily migraines any more, or migraines that last for weeks at a time. In less than three years, I have had eighty migraine-free days. That isn’t even two straight months without searing pain. To be taken seriously right out of the gate and have someone treat me with such respect was truly a bit of a shock. As I’ve likely said before, my faith and trust in the medical community is basically nonexistent. In the past year, I have met three good doctors and maybe one or two decent medical professionals, but everyone else has been a medical failure, and for me, even one medical failure is one too many.

When I explained the appointment to my brother and told him how it went, he asked me what I am supposed to do for my migraines for the next three to six months. His exact words were “What are you supposed to do in the meantime? Chew Excedrin?” It was a valid question, and it reminded me that I had not asked for an abortive, so I will call ASAP and see if my doctor is willing to get Relpax approved until the new treatment begins. Thus far, my insurance company has been very on the ball with nearly all of the things I’ve needed, so I hope this won’t become a battle. I honestly can’t handle another moment where I have to battle anyone or anything. I am mostly a basket case (which is truly nothing to joke about) on Promethazine. As it turns out, stress really DOES affect us far more than we realize.

I have seen myself decline in a dramatic way over the past year. I have never felt more “off” or out of touch with myself than I am now. Being chronically ill isn’t fun, nor is it glamorous. It is a daily battle just to get out of bed. This is something people don’t seem to realize, unless it’s happening to them.

I am having a difficult time wrapping my mind around the fact that it is June. I rarely say “I want to go back to this month and start over.”, but I have definitely been feeling like this quite a bit lately. The heat waves and then 30-40 degree drops in temperature have taken their toll on me. But from here on out, I expect this to be a disturbingly hot summer and I am stressed with the thought of trying to navigate through it. I don’t want to deal with being sick, dehydrated, and isolated. There’s not much I can really do about any of these things, but the knowledge that it’s all headed my way is genuinely too much for me.

I am trying to keep up with everything here and still live my daily life. The truth is, my daily life is exceedingly dull and unhappy. I lack the ability to be fake and pretend it’s something it isn’t. So while I am clearly not writing as much as I would like, I am still doing the best I can. I thank everyone who has stuck with me all these years, for better or worse. Having an outlet for my thoughts is important to me.

Hopefully I will be able to write more this summer. I can’t make any promises, but I can try my best. Here’s hoping I achieve more than heatstroke over the next few months.

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Sorting It Out

2018-05-212018-05-22 Miss Poison Writing Authenticity, Conversations, Friendship, Loss, Love, Loyalty, Musings, Observations, People, Poison In Lethal Doses, Relationships, Stress, Suffering, Value, Writing

I hope everyone had a restful weekend. I’d like to welcome the new subscribers who have come on board in the last few weeks. 🙂 I’m glad you find me interesting enough to follow me on my journey. Please feel free to message me and/or leave comments. I always reply.

Today was hard for me. It was the anniversary of my mother’s funeral. I still have her eulogy typed up, and every so often I go back and read it. Mostly to remind myself where I was in that moment and how far I have come since that day.

I tried hard not to think about it, but by six o’clock in the evening my stomach became ill and my current nine day long migraine intensified. The only thing I could do was turn off my computer, set it aside, take my current migraine medication, which isn’t much, and lie down with a cold pillow over my head. If you know me, you know how much I LOATHE being sick. Suffering from a long list of chronic illnesses doesn’t mean I enjoy it. These are things I never asked for and would not wish upon anyone else. I do my best to navigate each of these things, but I also have to prioritize my health as opposed to forcing it to the back burner. I neglected aspects of myself for a long time and as a result, I am sicker today than I ever was before.

I know constantly having to fight for my rights, advocate for my health and proper treatment, and always feel like there is no certainty, just battles, isn’t helping matters. People often read my posts and get offended when I say “I don’t have much of a support system.” I wasn’t aware I was invalidating people who are, predominantly, quite vacant in my life. If all you do is call me when it suits you, text on occasion, message me here and there, and ask me questions about things of no real importance to me, I don’t consider you a part of my daily “support system”. If you feel invalidated by that statement, the issue lies with you, not with me. There are plenty of people who I have offered support to and have received the equivalent of a slap in the face in response, so excuse me if I don’t deem these people “supportive”. My assessment is quite accurate.

Standing by someone while they sort through their health and unhappy situations means you don’t ever intentionally trigger their anxiety, anger, or emotional suffering. If you never say a kind thing to another person, you certainly aren’t bettering their life in any way.

I was raised by two women, my mother and Grandmother. My Grandmother would always turn to my brother and I and say “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” My mother’s version was different. She always encouraged me to speak my truth. I was five when she told me “The truth is more respected than dishonesty. If someone chooses not to believe the truth, and they try to discredit you, at least you know you’ve told the truth, regardless of what they are choosing to believe.” Those were profound words for a young girl, but she always encouraged me to use my voice, and not allow others to attempt to rob that power from me. Having lost both of them, I know they are each in the unique position of being able to see how people treat me, to hear the conversations and comments, and to know precisely who is and is not doing their best. I am far from perfect, but I am doing the best I can.

My Grandmother was such a strong believer in family. After she passed away, I quickly saw through all the things she tried to keep in tact. Her belief in the “family unit” stemmed from how she was raised, but in truth, there was no “family” at all. There was this immense illusion. My mothers’ side of the family chooses to have nothing to do with me, and the feelings I have in regard to their behavior are things I don’t always verbalize. I try not to think about it too much because I am justified in my anger. I have zero respect for a lack of decency, lack of common sense, and basic humanity. The same is true for my fathers’ family. I witnessed so much growing up, always wondering why my Grandmother held tight to the idea of this “family” dynamic. I watched how it became nothing and continued to become less and less the day of her funeral. Losing both of my parents put everything into perspective for me.

I don’t doubt that certain people have feelings for me, but do I believe those are feelings of love? Rarely. I know my brother loves me in his own way. He steps up at times when I am not expecting it. I know that other family members love me in their own way, too, but I often feel excluded and dismissed. I often feel set aside as a person with no thoughts, no feelings, and no validity. If one more person has the audacity to say “Are you ever positive about anything?”, I will probably lose my temper.

I have never had anyone who truly knows me or anyone who follows my work deem me a “negative person”. I am my most authentic self when I am writing and speaking. I am the same way in every aspect of my life. And yet, I’ve noticed snide remarks of late that question my genuine authenticity. I have walked away before saying “Go fuck yourself.”, because I will not engage with someone who is intentionally looking for a fight and/or being an asshole. I have walked away before saying “You’re clearly projecting if you’re questioning MY authenticity. I question YOURS, but I’m classy enough to keep my mouth shut.”

Love, loyalty, authenticity, and all my friendships and relationships are some of the most important things in my life. In this, I am a supreme perfectionist who is honest about her imperfections. Someone told me last week “I can see that authenticity is very important to you, and I respect that.” When one person chooses not to see it, and everyone else sees it immediately, it is much easier to cope with one person trying to take a pot shot, as opposed to thousands of people viewing you negatively.

I am going through a lot, but I’m still the same person. I am working on myself, and I am doing the best I can. If you don’t know every single thing in my heart, you have zero right to judge me.

This week I move on to other battles. I am hoping for some downtime at some point to be able to find a sense of calm. I have a consult with a new neurologist next week, so I am hoping there’s a positive outcome there, especially since I’ve waited nearly six months to be seen. Fingers crossed for some good news.

Wishing you all a wonderful week ahead… Li

A Decade

2018-05-172018-05-17 Miss Poison My Mother, Poison In Lethal Doses, Writing A Decade, Emotional Pain, Honesty, Loss, Love, May, My Mother, Poison In Lethal Doses, Writing

If I added up the minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years I have spent missing my mother, I am pretty sure it would be an astronomical number. All those moments have brought me to this day; the tenth anniversary. A decade without my mother. It makes me sick to my stomach, putting the words out there into the universe.

My life has changed in such dramatic ways since I hung up the phone for the final time the night she passed away. No matter far I have come, no matter how much growth I have achieved, no matter the rises and falls, I am still gutted by every moment that led to her death.

The people who loved me the most are all gone. I live in a world where no one mentions my mother. No one talks about her, no one acknowledges that she even existed, and it deeply affects me.

I remember when she was alive and people would often accuse her of being “too emotional”. I don’t think people, especially now, are emotional enough. I don’t think people are anywhere near as human, kind, caring, or compassionate as my mother was. Occasionally I catch myself looking for those qualities in others, and I find people sorely lacking. Perhaps this is why I am more introverted and isolated than ever before.

I am by no means searching for a “mother figure” or “mother replacement” because those are simply things that do not exist for me. No one else could ever be her. I can hear my father’s voice whenever I speak to my brother, but my mother’s voice has grown distant and foreign, and for me, that is very sad indeed.

I’m never not going to be disgusted to have someone, be it a family member or a friends, act like today is “just another day”. Today is the day I lost my mother, my best friend, and my guidepost. As imperfect as I am, I will never be the kind, caring, loving person my mother was to her children and other people. I have learned to accept that.

Lighting Yarhzeit tonight was difficult and highly emotional, but I did it. I’m doing my best. My Mom always told me “Your best is all you can ever do, and if people don’t like it, at least you know you didn’t sit around ignoring a situation.”

I’m a writer because of my mother. She introduced me to power through my voice, and that’s something that will never change. Nor will my commitment and devotion to her memory.

“Seek the sweet surrender of simplicity. Listen to the sound of faith like a flute playing inside your chest. Go within. Serenity lives always within your reach.”
-Ching Qu Lam

I’m Still Processing

2018-04-28 Miss Poison Poison In Lethal Doses, Writing April, Empowerment, Honesty, Horrible Experiences, Life, Mars, Musings, Navigating Life, Observations, Pluto, Poison In Lethal Doses, Saturday, Scorpio, Strength, The Mind, Truth, Writing

Hey, everyone. 🙂 It’s been a rough time for me. Unfortunately my “rough time” is on a never-ending loop. No one is more tired of it than I am.

During all of this chaos and pain, I haven’t had “Writers Block”, but I have certainly had “Writer needs a break.” and “Writer needs a fucking vacation.” Unfortunately, the devil is in the details and any kind of break isn’t in the cards.

For me, one of the most crucial things about being a writer is choosing your subject matter. Do I want to write about people dying? Not so much. Do I want to write about Kate Middleton giving birth? No. Do I care about every single thing going on in the world? No, I don’t. That doesn’t make me a bad person, it simply means my priorities are different. My brain has an insanely fast processing system for certain types of information (I’m not kidding. Even when I’m asleep, I feel like I haven’t ever been “powered down”.), and sometimes I want silence. Okay, more often than not, I genuinely want silence. Inner peace is more difficult to achieve than one realizes.

I had a horrible experience last week that I do want to talk about, but in fairness to myself, I am still processing everything so that when I do speak up and speak out, people will understand why I am doing it. It’s important to call certain things into question and raise awareness. When it comes to mental health, any form of chronic pain, and migraines, I am NOT going to be silent about my experiences. These are small medical communities full of daily sufferers who aren’t being taken seriously. They are being cast out and demoralized by the very people they turn to for help. It’s disgusting. I refuse to be someone who doesn’t use the power of her position and voice to help others to the best of my ability.

Initially I was quite embarrassed over the incident. I do plan on talking about it, probably in my next major post. In the midst of having to feel ashamed and embarrassed, I thought “What if this happened to someone who wasn’t as smart or as strong as I am? What if this happened to someone who couldn’t advocate for themselves and go home at the end of this?” It’s been slightly over a week, and my mind is still in shock that I went through it and came out the other side. I know my behavior was in check, and I know I didn’t lose my temper until things escalated, so I shouldn’t be embarrassed at all. It’s important to explain and share it. I would hate for any of you to have gone through this. I had a few minutes where I was angry and afraid, and then this deeper part of me responded. Sometimes I forget that I’m a knock down, drag-you-by-your-hair, lay you out on the ground, make you cry for your mother, FIGHTER. Sometimes I need to be reminded of that. Of course, I’d like to be reminded without the outrageous drama. This will all make sense soon, I promise.

To those of you who have reached out to me over these last few weeks via social media, or by phone or text, please know how much your thoughts, kindness, compassion, and words mean to me. When friends and readers come to you with support, those are some of the best moments in life. Cherish them.

I think part of why I felt overwhelmed by the support I received is because I don’t ever assume my words or thoughts are making a difference for someone else. To then hear how my experiences, struggles, humor, and grace under pressure have helped someone get through their own battles, well, it puts a lot into perspective for me.

For the most part, I write something and I click publish. I might look at it once or twice after the fact, but I don’t usually go back. I put it out into the universe to be read, and I go on with my life. There’s only so much self-promotion I am willing to do. I don’t respect anyone who shoves their work down your throat, so I refuse to be anything like that.

More and more, people are coming back to me, sometimes months later, to thank me for speaking up, for sharing my very real thoughts, and for inspiring them. I am only egotistical to a small degree in that I am proud of the things I put my name on, and I’m the first person who has to laugh at my jokes and weirdness. When someone calls me and they’re genuinely hurting and upset, but by the end of the call they are laughing hysterically, I realize I have a gift that helps people. Perhaps G-d really does work in mysterious ways. 😉 I am a firm believer that people are drawn to you for specific reasons. Anyone drawn to me is either looking for strength, loyalty, a genuine ear, a genuine friend, or all of the above. Because in the beginning, we are all just words. You have no idea how that will transition into real life, but anyone who has ever met me and become a bigger part of my life will tell you I am consistently the same person. I can be hysterically funny and make you feel better, I can completely have your back, I will take your secrets to the grave, and/or I can be detached. I don’t think a single one of my true friends has ever witnessed the detached side of me. I am well aware that I’m rare. I have had to accept my rarity throughout the course of my life, but I feel like the right people come into your life and they stay. Anyone with an agenda, who doesn’t get what they want, is going to leave. It’s difficult to know what someone wants when they’re “new”. I suspect anyone who first meets me is meeting the cool, detached person who isn’t about to kiss anyone’s ass or try too hard for anything. I’m not looking to impress anyone. I am not starving for attention or friendship. I would rather have one genuine friend than one hundred “friends” coming into my life with an agenda. I can spot bullshit immediately.

In the midst of the ordeal I am still processing, I was asked “What do you think your purpose in life is?” I think we can all safely agree that is an exceedingly DEEP question to ask anyone. Like anyone else, I am still discovering my path, navigating my talents, and taking things one minute at a time. I will almost certainly spend more time wondering about purpose, and seeking it out. For many people this is defined by their roles in life. Mine is not. It’s a little bit like when someone says “You’re obviously a great Mom because you have cats.” The look on my face when people say this to me is always one of “Where the hell did that come from?” One thing has nothing to do with the other, and the analogy is kind of disturbing to me. It’s highly possible for a woman to be great at something and not have it likened to anything other than “You are great at this.” As human-beings, we wear many hats, but those hats should not be all that defines us.

I often find myself in situations where I feel appointed as the chief “slayer of demons”. While some people might say I don’t have to take on that responsibility, I will take on that which is of deep importance to me. If something could become a much bigger incident, I am more likely to see the bigger picture and get on board quickly, as opposed to backing down.

As a Scorpio, my sign is ruled by Mars and Pluto. Only one other sign in the zodiac has the same ruling planets. I’ve always found it interesting that Mars, which falls in line with the Roman God of War, would be attached to me. The way other people describe me is much the way astrologers and astronomers describe Mars. Combined with the constant regeneration of Pluto, it makes an awful lot of sense to me. Whether you believe in this sort of thing or not, I always notice how much these things tend to influence us. For many, it is without any knowledge whatsoever. I much prefer to be knowledgeable.

This incident is an enormous demon, and will probably not be the last one I have to slay in my lifetime. Not for a single second did I hesitate about retaliating. So while I navigate all the legalities and take a stand, I hope others will understand that I’m not only doing it for myself, I am doing it for everyone and anyone who is too afraid to speak up, or for those who fear backlash and/or repercussions.

I’ve been reminded of who I am. It’s taking a little time to mentally process all I’ve experienced and the knowledge that followed. I am determined to keep my head fully in this battle, and I know I will get there.

Wishing you all an empowering weekend and a fierce Full Moon ahead. 🙂

Writer Down

2018-02-15 Miss Poison Writing Being Sick, Health, Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, Pieces Of Me, Poison In Lethal Doses, Writing

Hello everyone! I want to thank all the new readers who have come on board in the past month or so. I appreciate each of you and hope you will leave comments and participate in this aspect of my life as a writer.

I rarely apologize for not posting regularly, but this time my body is just plain DONE in the sense that I’m way beyond stressed out. I’m dropping things I normally have no problem handling, I’m rarely hungry (I feel like my taste buds have died.), I’m bottling way too much inside, and nothing seems to help.

For the past few weeks I have been on medication for a health issue I desperately tried to avoid getting. I mean it; I did EVERYTHING right in order to avoid being diagnosed with it. Having a nurse tell me “There’s nothing more you could have done. It’s here, and now we have to try to fight it and/or keep it in check.” I would have had a better reaction if she’d broken a foot or a hand with a moving car. 😦 Some things don’t bother me, but other things I just have this emotionally painful reaction to, and this part of my health is one of them.

Bone-deep exhaustion set in right about the time I started taking the medication. As in, I can sleep for eleven hours (or longer), wake up, write a little, catch up on some things, and by noon I need to sleep for 3-4 hours because I cannot keep my eyes open or my head up. I am SO embarrassed to be SO ill that I can’t function. There are a lot of times I’m not asleep, I’m just lying here unable to move, unable to speak, and I’m fully aware of the fear coursing through my body that I might be completely paralyzed in some way. Alas, the paralysis wears off after a while and I’m able to move, but I’m still struck with being wide awake and unable to do anything. It is painful and scary, to say the least.

When someone suggested that my exhaustion might be related to the flu, I definitely wondered if it was a legit possibility. However, my symptoms don’t match up at all. They do, however, match up with Myalgic Encephalomyelitis. I made an appointment to see my doctor, after I was informed that it’s definitely NOT a side effect of this new medication. Because this diagnosis (ME) is predominantly NOT one you see in the United States (virtually every article I found about it was out of the United Kingdom), I am going to bring some documentation along with me. Hopefully she can diagnose this herself or refer me to someone who can, preferably before I keel over from the insane exhaustion I feel. Even now, I just want to crawl under the covers and SLEEP for the next month…or five.

Not being able to make important phone calls, do laundry, clean, and handle normal daily tasks is upsetting when you’re sick like this. It leaves me with zero purpose, because if I am going to be faced with a lifetime of this, I’m not accepting that. This CANNOT be my sole purpose in life. I can’t agree to suffering for the rest of my life. That isn’t the kind of life I signed up for.

Please know that I DO have posts I am working on. Unfortunately, at the moment, I’m too sick to finish them. I’m around, barely. I’m doing my best.

Has anyone else been diagnosed with Myalgic Encephalomyelitis? If so, who diagnosed you and how long did it take for you to respond to treatment, if available?

Fighting Your Internal Dialogue

2018-01-162018-01-17 Miss Poison Chronic Pain, Disrespect, Writing Anger, Bad Doctors, Chronic Pain, Doctors, Experiences, Musings, Observations, Pieces Of Me, Poison In Lethal Doses, Right and Wrong, Truth, Writing

Hello everyone! I hope you’re all doing well. I’m not going to lie; today was a rough one. 😦

I made an appointment sometime last month to meet with a spine specialist (read: anesthesiologist). My new doctor had asked me to meet with the in-house substance abuse doctor as well, so she could prescribe the one controlled substance I take, until I find a new doctor who would then take the prescribing duties on full-time. She said “You only have to meet her once.” I don’t know what my face looked like when she dropped that bombshell on me, but she tried to reassure me that this is merely procedure. I was okay with that. However, after today I can tell you that once was ENOUGH. I physically had to keep myself in my seat, choose my words carefully, and fight my own body so I wouldn’t lean over her desk and punch her in the face. Yeah, it was one of THOSE days. I am going to be seeing red for a while.

My day started out stressful. I didn’t get a lot of sleep, and I’d fasted for blood work, so I was functioning on next to nothing. No amount of water makes up for the fact that you feel weak and dizzy by the time you get to the lab, because at that point it had been well over twelve hours and if I don’t eat, I will inevitably get a migraine.

I arrived at my first appointment of the day; the spine specialist. I’d read his reviews in advance and was very mixed going into this appointment, but decided to keep an open mind and hear him out. I am happy to report that he was one of the nicest doctors I’ve ever met. How often do I say that? Almost never.

He took notes, did a physical examination of my spine, was very careful with my neck because the range of motion is poor, and he agreed that I definitely have weakness on the left side of my body. Before he made any decisions he turned to me and said “Do you WANT an MRI?” He told me “I will never order a test or force a treatment on you that you don’t agree with.” I thought my jaw might hit the floor from the kind, respectful treatment, but I remained in check. We agreed on the MRI, and he even ordered an open MRI so I won’t have to deal with any potential claustrophobia, which I experienced during my last few MRIs. Generally, I am not claustrophobic at all, but I felt he should know about it, just in case. He then said “Go when you’re ready, they’ll send me the results, and we’ll follow-up then.” Non-aggressive, highly respectful, and extremely laid back. I walked out and said “The doctor was LOVELY.” I don’t usually say things like that, but in this case, it was true.

We did talk about injections, which I am against, and he said “There might be some medications we could try again at different doses.” and he even said he might refer me out, depending on the results of the updated MRI. He doesn’t think an epidural in my neck would help with the pain that travels down my spine, into my left arm and leg. He believes they are two separate issues, but is wondering if I have a narrowing of my spine, which is highly possible. I remember my mother having it, but I shouldn’t have it this young. He looked at my x-ray results and explained that where the technician said, in the reports, that I had a muscle spasm or a shadow in my spine in two different areas, it was likely just my body’s natural response to being in so much pain for so long. He said it was probably residual tension, as opposed to an actual spasm. I inquired about a steroid pack, because so many people have suggested this to me, and he said he doesn’t think they would help because I’ve suffered for so long, or he would have prescribed it immediately.

I left his office feeling positive, mostly because the appointment went well and I was treated like a human-being, which is always a shock. Because I had a little less than two hours to kill in between appointments, I went downstairs to the lab. That took longer than my consult with the doctor, but I was already there and it wasn’t that big a deal. Four vials of blood and I was out of there. Most of the tests are similar to what I had done last May, except this time, my doctor will be calling me with the results because she actually gives a damn about her patients. I am concerned about one of the tests, but here’s hoping it’s normal. I will say the lab tech did a great job, because I don’t have a bruise the size of my hand on my left forearm. I still bruised right away, but it’s small enough that I’m not concerned. I’ll use some Arnica on it until it heals. The last one took a long time to heal and it was hideous.

When the “substance abuse” doctor was ready to see me, I immediately knew where things were headed. Doctors really ought to be more careful with their approach to patients they’ve never met and do not know. One day, behavior like hers will result in someone taking action. That may seem sad, but it’s the truth. I am not going to sugar-coat this woman’s behavior.

I was drug-tested for the first time in my life, and told to leave the test in a public restroom. Yeah, because that seems smart! I was outraged by this. As anyone who has ever had a urinalysis knows, those things are not sealed. Anyone could have gone into that bathroom after me and done G-d knows what with the test. This is a test that they bill approximately $1100-$1700 to the insurance company for, which is INSANE because you can buy them over-the-counter at Walgreens. Because I had fasted for the lab work, and had already gone to the bathroom ahead of seeing her, there wasn’t much for her to work with, providing they don’t call me tomorrow to tell me my test is missing or needs to be redone. Downstairs, in the lab, they had to call a woman who’d been there earlier in the morning to say she needed to come back and have hers redone. The entire office heard this phone call, there was nothing private about this person’s medical information, and that’s a blatant violation. Whatever did or didn’t happen with her test is an epic screw-up from where I’m sitting. If they fucked up mine, I REFUSE to go back there for a drug test. They can bite me. I’m surprised she didn’t also ask for a cheek swab, a hair sample, and DNA. DO NOT read this and say “Lisa, she’s just doing her job.” There is a correct way to do this job, and that does not involve making law-abiding citizens feel like they’re doing something wrong by following a doctor’s instructions where a prescription is concerned.

When I returned to her office, she had no idea why I was there, asked if we’d met before, couldn’t find my file, and then proceeded with a list of questions my own mother (G-d Rest and Bless Her Soul) would not have asked me in a million years.

I was asked approximately six times if I use marijuana or cocaine. I’m sitting there trying not to roll my eyes as I give her the same answer each time; NO. Is this person forgetful or fucking testing me? I don’t care, because the answer is no, and the drug test will prove it.

To my face I was, once again, told I was an addict. I’m not, and because I have known addicts and been around addiction, I do know the difference. I can spot it in other people. I have responsibly taken medication that I assure you, is the ONLY reason I did not knock this bitch out. That and learning how to rein my temper in slowly.

It’s one thing to be doing your job with the questions, that’s fine, but it’s a whole other ballgame when you ask me to relive the worst trauma of my life because you don’t understand why I have a specific diagnosis (to which I nearly said “Talk to the fucking treating physician! Don’t repeat that question again.”), repeatedly ask the same fucking questions as if the answer is suddenly going to change, and demand to know where my doctor’s notes are. I cannot see what you’re looking at behind the desk/computer, so my answer was very nearly “Beats the shit out of me!” Instead I said “I can’t access them, either. Your guess is as good as mine. Would you like his phone number?” When I give someone professional, cold answers, it is a WARNING. Apparently, this woman did not see the red fucking flag waved in front of her face, and kept pushing.

“Do you drink coffee?” she suddenly asks me. I live a mostly caffeine-free life because of my migraines, but for the past few weeks I have been drinking coffee at all hours. Maybe a cup a day, sometimes two, but I’m not sucking down gallons of the stuff. She should take the psychoanalysis to the local Starbucks, because rest assured, caffeine is not an “addiction” for me. It’s something I’m drinking because I like the taste. I don’t have it behind me in an IV.

“Do you smoke?” No. “Do you drink alcohol?” No. “Is there a reason you don’t drink alcohol?” Mind you, the spine specialist asked me these questions earlier in the day, except when I replied no, each time, he said “That’s great.” and only when I said I don’t drink did he ask if there was a specific reason for that, and quickly asked if I was pregnant. Light, calm tone, no rudeness or insinuations. Not from her, though. She’s a first class bitch, in all caps.

She aggressively pushed every last button I had, until I thought about the one person on this planet who keeps me calm and grounded, and I told myself “This office is small and you could strangle her and/or rip her fucking throat out in less than thirty seconds, but it’s not worth it. Let it go.” When you’re fighting with your internal dialogue, it’s not always a good thing. My creative process on murder astounds me. I’m only half-kidding, but no one needs to worry.

I had already answered her questions regarding my diagnosis of Complex-PTSD and where it potentially stems from, so when she asked where my parents lived, that was IT. I knew she was intentionally trying to break me, because she desperately wanted to know if I am an addict. She has reached the point where she cannot tell the difference between a patient and an addict, two very different beasts. I should have informed her that there is an immense difference between patients and addicts, and that I don’t appreciate her aggressive behavior, but I knew she would go back to my doctor and say I was a combative addict, or whatever she chooses to say in order to appease herself.

When she told me it wouldn’t take 2-3 years for me to be taken off this medication, I nearly laughed in her face. My doctor told me it WOULD take 2-3 years to safely take me off of this medication in order to put me on something else, something safer. He was concerned about seizures and other side effects that I have only been made aware of in the past four or five years, and he felt that I wasn’t ready to begin tapering because of all that I am going through, both health-wise and emotionally. He’s right, and I stand by what he said to me. Here she is though, suddenly telling me I can be detoxed off of this quickly (NOT true. Yanking me off this medication could kill me, and it does kill people when it’s not done properly.) and that forty or fifty years from now, this medication MIGHT cause dementia. I wanted to say “I probably won’t live that long and quite frankly, I am NOT going to worry about what ‘could cause dementia or ‘might cause dementia’. Are you SURE you went to medical school?” I know people who take medication to improve their quality of life and that’s all this medication does for me, albeit not that well any more. From a medical perspective, it IS a high dose, but I’ve always been responsible with how I take it.

In June, my doctor asked me to start taking smaller doses, whenever possible, and I have done that. I am two months behind on my prescription and I still have enough medication for a few weeks. Instead of seeing this as a responsible thing, which is exactly what it is, this bitch took issue with that because she cannot understand what he said to me, because she can’t find his notes, and why I am being responsible and discerning with it. This didn’t sit right with her majesty.

She finally told me she will talk to my doctors and “figure something out”. She had about a hundred case files on her desk and as she desperately searched for mine, there wasn’t one. I suspect it’s because I am NOT a red flag to my doctor, who was a sweetheart to me and said she has no problem prescribing it, so long as this other doctor approves me. I don’t know if she will.

When I got home, I had to contact one of my doctors who she said she wanted to speak to. She does not have authorization to do so, because I didn’t sign a consent form, but I wanted this doctor to know, just in case. I didn’t want her to be side-swiped by this woman. She is the physical embodiment of a drive-by shooting, with all the subtly.

When she complained about the doctor who left, and not having his notes and diagnoses, I told her “This is where he works now. I’m sure you can find him.” She suddenly decided I need a “case manager” to get me in to see someone. Here’s a fact; I am NOT special. There is a LONG waiting list to be seen by so many specialists, and no one is going to move me up the list “just because”. I called before Thanksgiving to get an appointment with a migraine specialist and just last week, they told me I could be seen…at the end of May. I’m lucky they didn’t say “in 2019” after they said May. So, despite it being something I’d normally bitch about, I simply took the appointment and the receptionist promised she’d call me if there were any cancellations so I could get in sooner, after apologizing for twenty minutes because no one ever returned my call. The doctor has a five star rating which is the highest you can give a doctor, so I hope she’ll be able to help me.

Chronic pain patients put up with a LOT of crap. For me, this was unnecessary drama that raised my blood pressure to the point of a migraine. The sad thing is, I would have received more kindness, compassion, and far better treatment if I had walked in with track marks and an active addiction that was visible. Instead, I walked in with flawless makeup (It’s force of habit, I’m not trying to impress any one.), dressed like a normal person, and once again, I was judged for that. It’s NOT acceptable and it’s NOT okay.

When I told a family member that I wanted to talk to my primary care doctor about how this woman treated me, I received a lecture about how it’s “her job to ask questions like that, it’s all a form”. Yes, it’s her job to determine who is an addict and who is not, but no matter what I did, this woman was determined to find fault with me. I was waiting for Homeland Security to be on hand as I left for a fucking cavity search! I’ve never had anyone tell me, after a medical appointment, to “Just leave, go out.” I wouldn’t talk to a dog like that!

I don’t want to live in a society where patients are treated like dirt for taking necessary prescription medication, which means they’re smart enough to know something is wrong and seek treatment for whatever ails them, and addicts are being accommodated for choosing to use street drugs. The message this sends to patients is a horrible one, indeed. If I didn’t suffer terribly every single day of my life, I would throw all the prescriptions I have in the trash. We ALL would. Pharmaceutical companies would be out of business, or would have to look for other ways to make money. What would happen to pharmacies if, suddenly, we were all healthy? It’s an amazing idea, for a dystopian novel. In the real world, illness exists. No one asks for it.

When a doctor is annoyed because you don’t drink, smoke, or do drugs of any kind, that is your sign that something is wrong with them. It’s not you. Every other doctor I’ve met has noted those things as positive. Not her, because she is determined that everyone she meets is an addict of some kind. As she judgmentally sips her tea.

To make sure it wasn’t my imagination, I went and read her reviews. She has a one and a half star rating, which is basically unheard of, but I am glad I saw it because it validated me. The review that is posted, before my own, states that “She should have her medical license revoked because she is a real piece of shit.”, and that was merely the end of the lengthy review that was a mere glimpse at my own interaction with her. This person states they were repeatedly asked the same questions I was, and that they were also threatened by her. To add insult to injury, this is an award-winning doctor! I have NO idea how that’s even possible, but if she fucks with my medication and my health, she is just another doctor whose unprofessional, aggressive behavior is something I will happily report to the state licensing board. She seems incredibly overworked and I’d like to provide her with a permanent vacation.

There are great doctors out there, and I will always honor one with a great review and my full respect, but there are also bottom feeders that make you sick to your stomach. I encourage you to read reviews whenever possible, and I encourage you to write reviews, for the good and the bad. More often than not, it’s the doctor, NOT you.

Patients with chronic illnesses are still PATIENTS. We don’t deserve to be treated like garbage simply because a doctor assumes we’re all secretly addicts. I am shaking my head tonight, knowing in my heart that I didn’t do anything wrong.

Stay safe, smart, and warm, my lovely readers. And if you’ve ever experienced anything like this, I want you to know I stand behind you, and with you.

Works In Progress

2018-01-05 Miss Poison Writing Goals, Life, Musings, Pieces Of Me, Poison In Lethal Doses, Works In Progress, Writing

The start of each new year is often the same; full of diets, gym memberships, promises to work more, or work less; promises in general are a big thing, and most of these “resolutions” are temporary. They last a week or a month, sometimes two, but very rarely become a new way of living for anyone. This is precisely why I don’t make them. Life is hard enough without adding additional pressure, and if anyone puts too much pressure on herself, it’s me.

I believe each year adds a certain amount of growth to us as human beings. If you’re on the more enlightened side, there might be significant growth each year. Overall, we do change at different rates.

My commitment this year is completion. Complete projects, put them out into the universe, and let the chips fall where they may. I also want to grow and expand a different side of my life because I grow restless without creativity and fresh ideas. I hate feeling stagnant.

I have a lot of writing in progress, and that makes me happy as a writer. To have ideas and be able to put them into words is a gift not everyone is given, so I don’t take it for granted. I have a lot of insanely creative ideas for the other side of my life, and I’m really excited about the potential there.

More than anything, I want this year to be successful. There are different levels, and with each level comes a new set of responsibilities. I take this all seriously, so I want to remain committed to my two priorities; writing and furthering my creative talents. One comes naturally to me, and the other needs some fine-tuning, but remains doable. It would be nice to have more support as I move forward on these things, but I’ve found that I will do what I feel is right with or without someone agreeing with my motivation. I don’t owe anyone an explanation as to why I am doing something, and if they need one in order to be supportive, I probably don’t need them in my life.

I have always found that as I grow, there will be people along the way who choose to grow with me, and stick by my side. There will also be many who will be left in the dust, and I’ve learned to be okay with that. I think it comes back to the quote about a reason, a season, or a lifetime. When people choose you, there’s generally a reason for their decision. The flighty and flaky need not apply, because I’m no one’s “season”. Sometimes you think you’ve found a friend who is going to be there for you come hell or high water, but you soon discover that they aren’t half as committed as they claimed to be. It’s sad, really. I’ve lost a handful of friends who could not keep up with my growth or who chose not to, for whatever reason, because I was never given one. I don’t think about it much, because I’m too busy to do anything but keep moving forward.

Of late, I’ve watched many of my relationships become stronger while others have slowed down or become silent. It’s okay. I have to learn not to take it all to heart, and to go with the flow. I cannot expect other people to be like me, that’s not realistic. Of course, I am a firm believer that everyone deserves to have at least one solid friend in their life. Unless they’re up on war crimes.

I am feeling more than a little claustrophobic at the moment from all the snow, but I have to say it’s been a productive day for me on the writing front. I have to give myself some credit there. Originally I made myself commit to one thousand words a day. Today I decided to re-commit and increase that to fifteen hundred words. Why not? After all, that’s how you take a “work in progress” and turn it into to a completed project. When the words and ideas flow, allow yourself to create. I have found myself writing many new scenes and being so proud of myself for allowing everything to come together organically. No one else is going to be your best cheerleader, so you have to learn to enjoy the small victories, as well as the larger ones. Or maybe that’s just my life, who knows for sure.

I have a long period of time ahead of me to focus on writing, reading, and research. I feel blessed to be able to do it all, because there are always occasional days where life is simply too dark and the last thing I want to do is what I need to be doing. I give myself those breaks where I’m focusing on my health and taking each day as it comes. I won’t lie; it’s not anywhere near as easy as it sounds.

Today has had its highs and lows, like most days, really. For now, I really want to focus on the highs by banishing negative people and thoughts from my presence. If you aren’t coming to me with love, respect, or tranquility, I am going to have to ask you to piss off.

I am making new rules regarding my life after enduring unnecessary hatred, hostility, jealousy, and other negative components for way too long. In life, sometimes we have to rise above everything and shut down that which does not help us grow. Hateful, jealous, angry people have no place in my world. Some people are about to be surprised by my decision to put them in their place and let them know I am stronger than their abuse. When someone is hurting you, they rarely, if ever, see themselves as an abuser. They will deny everything they’ve said to you, even though you know full well you’re not deaf or stupid. It’s enough to make you question your sanity, and that’s exactly what they want. They want you to think you’re crazy. They want you to be hurt while they deny their part in having said something hurtful, offensive, or cruel. That, my friends, is the other person in denial, NOT you. Acknowledge it for what it is and start cutting ties.

I have a pair of scissors to find. Have a great weekend, everyone. 🙂