It's my journal 
(if you already read the intro about interstitial cystitis, check out today's thoughts underneath the row of pretty pretty stars)
I thought it would be cool to document teh life of a chick who's got the girlie-disease "interstitial cystitis."
A lotta people don't know what I.C. is so here goes: incurable tiny ulcers inside the wall of your bladder make it hard to walk, exercise, eat, drink, fuck, dance, breathe, smell flowers, blah blah blah.
The thing is? I have this disease and i'm still kickin' ass.
And other for-real chicks that have bullshit going on with their bodies can relate.
No matter what our mutherfucking misogynistic doctors, sadistic nurses, well-meaning family members, and uninformed aquaintances say, we are awesome, and we can do a good job of taking care of ourselves, thankyouverymuch.
***********************************************************************************************************************
Thanks for the dancin', guys!
So, one of the main reasons I started this journal is that historically, I haven't been very good about taking care of myself. By ingnoring my health problems, I've actually exacerbated the situation quite a bit. So last year, I started therapy with a "body centered" therapist in the hopes that I could end my denial about my physical limitations and thus lead a healthier life.
I kept my health a secret for a long time. I'm still uncomfortable discussing it, not because I'm embarrassed, but because I hate to be thought of as someone who feels sorry for themselves. I hate to be a complainer. So, I write the stuff I don't want to talk about with my friends here in my SG journal. It's a first step to opening up more to my friends and family.
I'm reluctant to write about what is really going on, even here. You're always so afraid of scaring or alienating people when you are sick. I mean, they don't want to hear about a terrible incurable disease who's main symptom is unending pain because THEY DON"T WNT TO FACE THE FACT THAT THIS COULD HAPPEN TO THEM.
This could happen to you, guys.
Your best bet is to listen, to the extent that you are able, to the people you know who are sick. Don't run away from it, at least not entirely, because then you will be caught off guard when YOU get sick. It's better for you to listen to us, even just a little, because people like me have a lot to teach you about coping and dealing with the fucked up medical system in this country. Don't feel like you have to be everything to the sick people you know, but give them a listen every once in a while is all I'm saying.
I don't normally complain a lot in my face to face life, but this is one of those days when I'm just going to say "Hey, I feel like shit," and just have a good rant. I guess I feel okay about ranting here cause you guys can just go back to the naked ladies if you don't want to listen.
Along with I.C. come a lot of environmental sensitivities. Today is the first real spring-ish day here and it's hitting me like a truck. I have a migraine, a rash, nausea, sinuses that feel ready to explode, and the usual pelvic pain. That is all accompainied by my period, which won't go away because the shitfuck medical system takes forever to get messages to my doctor, who needs to change my pill, because the levels of hormones in this one obviously aren't working for me. I wouldn't be in so much pain if it weren't for the bastards who want to make money off my suffering. They are somehow allowed to force me to buy 20 of my pain pills at a time. I have to pay per perscription, not per pill, so they make bank by allowing me only a little medicine at a time. If I ever meet a insurance exec or a pharmaceutical higher-up, I swear to God. I mean, I swear to you, I will kick as much of the shit out of them as I possibly can before someone manages to pry my hands from their repugnant throat. I literally have fantasies of tying those execs up, forcing acid up their urethras and then holding the basic solution that will end their pain just out of reach of their writhing hands and saying "Oh - yeah, we have the cure, but you'll need to fill out the same form 10 times before we can get you an appointment. Of course, you'll have to have a pre-appointment interview to qualify for an actual visit with a doctor. This interview will consist of some nurse accusing you of drug addiction and calling you a drama queen. 3 months later, as you squirm and piss blood, you will finally get to visit an actual MD. This physician will suggest therapy as a first option, since this is all clearly in your head. If you do manage, 6 years later, to get an actual physical examination and be diagnosed with an actual physical problem, you'll have to call a few times a week for months before your prescription is written. Think you're almost there? Not even close. As your friends drift away and your life is limited to trips to the bathroom and suicide plans, you'll be informed that you're only allowed 1/10th of what the doctor prescribed per month because that is all your insurance will pay for. It's cheaper for them if you stay sick or kill yourself, you see? They don't want you alive and happy, they want you either always begging for more drugs or dead so they don't have to pay for your medicine anymore. How do you think that will make you feel? What do you think that will do to your mental health, to have your life controlled by people that cruel? At this point, if you have the extra money, you can go and pick up the amount of medicine you need. Expect to be treated like a criminal because you are picking up pain medicine. It's a medicine that, I might add, you could actually grow in your own backyard for about $30 a year if pharmaceutical companies hadn't used their considerable political influence to outlaw the plant that your medicine comes from. Now, those companies can charge $20 a pill for what is essentially just seeds from an average backyard flower. HOW DOES THAT SOUND, MOTHER FUCKER? " Then I would kick him a few times in the crotch, just to make my point abundantly clear.
That's my favorite fantasy on these tough days. That and a fantasy based on a memory I have of swimming at a birthday party when I was 10. There was no pain. My body worked. I could go all day, eat what I wanted, just have fun, be one of the gang.
(if you already read the intro about interstitial cystitis, check out today's thoughts underneath the row of pretty pretty stars)
I thought it would be cool to document teh life of a chick who's got the girlie-disease "interstitial cystitis."
A lotta people don't know what I.C. is so here goes: incurable tiny ulcers inside the wall of your bladder make it hard to walk, exercise, eat, drink, fuck, dance, breathe, smell flowers, blah blah blah.
The thing is? I have this disease and i'm still kickin' ass.
And other for-real chicks that have bullshit going on with their bodies can relate.
No matter what our mutherfucking misogynistic doctors, sadistic nurses, well-meaning family members, and uninformed aquaintances say, we are awesome, and we can do a good job of taking care of ourselves, thankyouverymuch.
***********************************************************************************************************************
Thanks for the dancin', guys!
So, one of the main reasons I started this journal is that historically, I haven't been very good about taking care of myself. By ingnoring my health problems, I've actually exacerbated the situation quite a bit. So last year, I started therapy with a "body centered" therapist in the hopes that I could end my denial about my physical limitations and thus lead a healthier life.
I kept my health a secret for a long time. I'm still uncomfortable discussing it, not because I'm embarrassed, but because I hate to be thought of as someone who feels sorry for themselves. I hate to be a complainer. So, I write the stuff I don't want to talk about with my friends here in my SG journal. It's a first step to opening up more to my friends and family.
I'm reluctant to write about what is really going on, even here. You're always so afraid of scaring or alienating people when you are sick. I mean, they don't want to hear about a terrible incurable disease who's main symptom is unending pain because THEY DON"T WNT TO FACE THE FACT THAT THIS COULD HAPPEN TO THEM.
This could happen to you, guys.
Your best bet is to listen, to the extent that you are able, to the people you know who are sick. Don't run away from it, at least not entirely, because then you will be caught off guard when YOU get sick. It's better for you to listen to us, even just a little, because people like me have a lot to teach you about coping and dealing with the fucked up medical system in this country. Don't feel like you have to be everything to the sick people you know, but give them a listen every once in a while is all I'm saying.
I don't normally complain a lot in my face to face life, but this is one of those days when I'm just going to say "Hey, I feel like shit," and just have a good rant. I guess I feel okay about ranting here cause you guys can just go back to the naked ladies if you don't want to listen.
Along with I.C. come a lot of environmental sensitivities. Today is the first real spring-ish day here and it's hitting me like a truck. I have a migraine, a rash, nausea, sinuses that feel ready to explode, and the usual pelvic pain. That is all accompainied by my period, which won't go away because the shitfuck medical system takes forever to get messages to my doctor, who needs to change my pill, because the levels of hormones in this one obviously aren't working for me. I wouldn't be in so much pain if it weren't for the bastards who want to make money off my suffering. They are somehow allowed to force me to buy 20 of my pain pills at a time. I have to pay per perscription, not per pill, so they make bank by allowing me only a little medicine at a time. If I ever meet a insurance exec or a pharmaceutical higher-up, I swear to God. I mean, I swear to you, I will kick as much of the shit out of them as I possibly can before someone manages to pry my hands from their repugnant throat. I literally have fantasies of tying those execs up, forcing acid up their urethras and then holding the basic solution that will end their pain just out of reach of their writhing hands and saying "Oh - yeah, we have the cure, but you'll need to fill out the same form 10 times before we can get you an appointment. Of course, you'll have to have a pre-appointment interview to qualify for an actual visit with a doctor. This interview will consist of some nurse accusing you of drug addiction and calling you a drama queen. 3 months later, as you squirm and piss blood, you will finally get to visit an actual MD. This physician will suggest therapy as a first option, since this is all clearly in your head. If you do manage, 6 years later, to get an actual physical examination and be diagnosed with an actual physical problem, you'll have to call a few times a week for months before your prescription is written. Think you're almost there? Not even close. As your friends drift away and your life is limited to trips to the bathroom and suicide plans, you'll be informed that you're only allowed 1/10th of what the doctor prescribed per month because that is all your insurance will pay for. It's cheaper for them if you stay sick or kill yourself, you see? They don't want you alive and happy, they want you either always begging for more drugs or dead so they don't have to pay for your medicine anymore. How do you think that will make you feel? What do you think that will do to your mental health, to have your life controlled by people that cruel? At this point, if you have the extra money, you can go and pick up the amount of medicine you need. Expect to be treated like a criminal because you are picking up pain medicine. It's a medicine that, I might add, you could actually grow in your own backyard for about $30 a year if pharmaceutical companies hadn't used their considerable political influence to outlaw the plant that your medicine comes from. Now, those companies can charge $20 a pill for what is essentially just seeds from an average backyard flower. HOW DOES THAT SOUND, MOTHER FUCKER? " Then I would kick him a few times in the crotch, just to make my point abundantly clear.
That's my favorite fantasy on these tough days. That and a fantasy based on a memory I have of swimming at a birthday party when I was 10. There was no pain. My body worked. I could go all day, eat what I wanted, just have fun, be one of the gang.
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And thanks. I admire you, too.