Ever get one of those messages that leave you hinged on the edge of anxiety?
I have.
Got one tonight. My co-worker left me a message about what's up at work.. saying something along the lines of "things are stewing"... no details, no idea if she's quit, if someone's been fired or if there's talk of hiring someone to replace me and then give me the squeeze when I return.
I'm all full of anxiety about the unknown and a job I hate.
In truth I don't hate it, in truth I'm more affraid of not having it.
I saw my rheumatologist today, he was really... well impatient. And maybe I'm just too sensitive to my surroundings, esp when I'm vulnerable... but I hate to feel rushed in talking about my health, what I feel is my future. It's funny, as the years have passed, it seems this is the one when things are coming out about when I was sick... how the Attending Doc was disgusted when he found out the Resident interns that were assigned to me fucked up SO royally and nearly killed me.... how my surgeon came out and spoke to my mum and was visibly upset at what he'd found when I was wheeled in to him.
Somehow hearing these things makes me feel validated... and some part of me feels angry and cheated.
Probably because I'm dealing now with reprecusions of others mistakes... I doubt they were even reprimanded or held accountable for. To those now doctors somewhere I was just some college aged girl with an odd case that got fucked up... no name, no face, no reality that a life was altered by them.
I never got an I'm sorry... and now, years later I wish I had sued. Sued for an apology.
I keep coming back to hospitals, like a horrid magnetic pull.
I hate them, I really do. And yet, here I am watching "grey's anatomy" like some kinda TV drama junkie craving another hit. I've now seen all of season one... I want more!
Anyhow, so yeah, my Doc apt.
I've gained like 15lbs from somewhere. I swear out there in space is some black hole that leads to my ass, some fat transporting wormhole physics magic has overnight made my body mass grow.
I left with the advice that I:
walk at least 20min a day no matter what (because it seems that's the be-all-end-all cure to fibro)
and oh yes... take more drugs... gotta try more drugs
Like I haven't had enough meds in my life. The idea is for me to try head meds! Yay! To alter hormone levels and chemistry altered by this central nervous disorder from hell and maybe bring me better sleep, more energy and less general pain. Course I could just wind up jittery, thinking I can fly or completely numb and non-responsive. Crap shoot either way.
Basic lesson from today's visit-
"Wrap and elephant in wool and call it a sheep often enough and then it will suddenly become one."
which in my language means- you only have bad fibro symptoms when you let yourself be aware that they're there. Fuck that. If something hurts it fuckin hurts.
I left wanting to cry with complete and utter frustration. I walked out confused if I had a good visit of if suddenly I was the 2 inches high that I felt. I haven't felt like that in a long time and I remembered why- I don't usually go to doctors anymore. When they can't magically fix it, you feel like the asshole and like you're wasting their time.
I don't want my job anymore.
Can't afford to not be employed.
My body is still damaged, and when it's healed I have to maintain a strict regimine (notice I don't give a shit about spelling anymore?) of stressless and healthy living to live an at minimum comfortable life.
I have no idea what the hell I'm doing.
I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THE HELL I"M DOING!!!!
I've chosen that I have to do freelance.
I've chosen that I'm going to attempt to only work at my job for the minimum # of hours to keep insurance until I can figure out a way to make enough money to support myself as I have been.
I'm going to do freelance.
Oh god I'm fuckin crazy.
I'm gonna be so poor.
I'm a HORRIBLE organizer... no no actually I'm a good organizer of crap and things... just not deadlines and money and art supplies and space and living and social things and time...
I'm so fucked.
fucked fucked fucked
and I already know, this is what I'm supposed to do. If it wasn't I wouldn't be this scared.
Comments (3)
I don't know what to say.
I guess, I'm a little worried that you feel trapped into freelance. It's not an opportunity, where you're taking the leap with a smile. It's a corner, and you're leaping to try and get out of it. I'm worried that it's your pride that's cornered you - that the decision is one that satisfies 'independence' and fuels your thirst for 'accomplishment' and 'success'. I'm worried that what has you trapped is pride, in that you feel powerless and fear feeling belittled. You aren't at peace with yourself, and I would prefer that your decision to freelance was you, embracing who you are (not resisting circumstance).
I'm a little worried about your insurance too. If there's a gap, your next one won't cover anything related to what they consider a 'preexisting condition'. You need to be careful to make insurance changes a seamless transition, or to check into a medical card (and that's going to be tough to do ahead of time).
And otherwise, I want you to freelance too. I want you to be independent and successful and glorious. And I want it to be easier. But if you were working for a company, being those things, I'd be just as thrilled.
I want this too. I want this for you. But it's not right this way. It's not free and soaring.
Where did you come from? Because I know somehow I must've come from there too... it's a comfort finding friends again this time around.
It's true.
I do feel trapped, but in ernest I did actually ask for it. No, I mean really... I asked.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to do next, I don't know where the path is going I'm all foggy, help me out here and make it so damn clear a moron could see it, give me smaller options"... and VOILA, boom, as usual request answered undeniably. And as usual I hate HOW it was answered.
I asked to be in better shape... so I got Fibro, the one disorder that MAKES you have to exercise each day.
I asked to have purpose in my life... I hear over and over "go to the hospital"... I ignore it, I wind up in one, again. I realize I'm supposed to help people somehow.
I asked to have guidance... to have a blatant sign that points to what I'm supposed to do next. I end up like this, here, at home for weeks without the constant sublevel pressures and stresses of work with Rachel and realize, despite the injury I actually feel better in ohter ways than I have in months. I feel like I can breath, like I'm not rushed and that I have the time to take care of myself....and know I can't stay there, can't go back to how it was.
So I am terrified.
I'm affraid of putting myself out there without shelter.
I've been avoiding it for years.
I'd love to be hired to do art to help people full time for some corporation that has me on salary in my own studio... but that's a pipe dream and not reality.
I'm trapped in the sense that I have to leave a comfort zone... I'm trapped in the sense that my life is unlike many my age.
But in truth, it never has been the same at any age of my life.
I have a game plan, it may work, it may backfire.
But I gotta find a way.
I have no choice and sometimes... under conditions like those some people work better.
I think I may be one of those.
The constancy, between the push in each of our lives, might just be that it's never a gift that doesn't challenge us with how we will be about it. It's always a trial by fire. An occasion to rise to.
The similar line you and I take, might be the posture we make, in accepting the gift of formation.
I'm good with your choice. Know that. I'm excited, anticipating reading alongside as you go (presuming that remains an available option). But I worry about you, feeling trapped. I feel better about it, knowing that you realize it's you giving you fits, not the world around you. In the blog, I thought you'd found a scapegoat or two.
It's the soul of you I hope for - wherever the wind. I feel better since your reply.
And after all, it only matters that I feel better about it, right?