yevlax

April Eighteenth

I wake up in the morning, shifting off of a the couch. My eyes flutter open, my bladder is full- a built-in alarm clock, if you will. The bupropion I've been taking for the last week has the happy effect of clearing the mental 'fog' from my head that plagued me for so much of my sickness, but my physical body remains unaffected. I move slowly and deliberately, going through my morning routine; water, pee, fire up slow-ass laptop, pee again, morning porn, sit and ponder breakfast. I might pee again after that.

I stumble into the kitchen and open the fridge, noticing that I'm low on milk and have no meats at all. Those are difficult to get/store by myself, and I usually have to wait for a ride to the grocery. While I am by myself I can get smaller items, vegetables, etc. My portion of the kitchen cabinets is filled with various starchy foods and small boxes of non-American fare that I'm always telling myself that I'll get around to cooking. I pull out a small box of falafel mix. It sits on the counter for most of the day. I eat the last of the beef stroganoff that I made three days ago, for breakfast.

I climb onto facebook to check my messages and to tell Shannon about a particularly vivid sex dream I had about her last night. I bounce around in her morning thread then describe the dream in great detail in messages to her, partially so I can go back and copy it later. The bupropion has the curious effect of increasing my libido without affecting my motivation to find a nearby partner to do anything about that. It also seems to be doing a really good job of leveling my moods. I feel a lot calmer than I have previously, or at least the lows haven't been nearly as bad. I can't honestly say it makes me feel 'happy' or 'hopeful', it just keeps me from getting so depressed I start thinking worrisome thoughts. I feel more 'numb', I suppose.

Gerard has messaged me the night prior, suggesting that we eat at Mike Lennings this Saturday. "SCRIMPS!", I write back, still trying to recall if I've already promised someone else my time on Saturday. He texts me later to insist that I go to Chicago with him next year, and he doesn't want to hear me argue about it. I inquire what the hell is in Chicago, and he replies 'A pipe convention'. I reply that I am less than enthused, but he insists that there will be food and drink. I do not counter protest, knowing that he'll have forgotten this by the time this blog goes up. Katie texts me shortly after, asking if I would like to go eat Mexican with her and Brian. I reply that I had just eaten (I nibbled on some pita and hummus). She counters with an offer to take me to Ice Cream and Pie Kitchen later in the day. I am having lunch with Jaime tomorrow and sushi with Thomas on Friday. It has been a bone of contention between my close friends and I about eating out so much, because none of these fuckers cook. I am very poor, and do not like spending what little new disposable income I have on restaurant food. I am wracked with incredible guilt pains if I let/ask/beg the other person to buy me something to eat. You cannot use food stamps at a restaurant. On the flip side, if I do not agree to eat out, I will not see my friends, because their entire social life revolves around going to lunch. I have two exceptions to the guilt; Jaime, because she is my boss and should be buying me lunch anyway, and Gerard, who insists I am a much cheaper date than his ex-wife.

I am also getting very fat, from not being able to exercise. This also makes me want to avoid restaurant food. I am getting too fat to wear my donated pants. These pants were donated to me by men I previously believed were much larger than I, and is disheartening to see that this is no longer the case. When I looked in the mirror yesterday I grimaced and thought I looked pregnant. My facebook feed is full of folks proudly discussing their biking trails, iron-pumping routines, and physical well being. It's kinda depressing.

I sit at my desk. My desk is really our gaming table with my laptop, scanner, and a mess of papers on it, but I am pretending it is my desk. I miss my desk at the office, and have not seen it or had a chance to complain about other peoples mess on my desk in weeks. I am home on medical leave. I have to make something for myself to do or I will go bugfuck. I look at the stack of medical bills on my desk and begin filling out the backs of them with my new medicare information so that they can collect their money. After the first pill I pop a propranolol. It is my second pill, to take as needed 'for anxiety'. I am going to need it.

I fill out five of the bills, seal them in their envelopes, and begin putting a layer of pants over my sweats so that I can hobble to the mailbox (yep, still fat). At the mailbox after I have made my delivery, I am rewarded with more bills. Some of the these bills are the same things I sent off two weeks ago with my medicare information. I also have a letter from medicare telling me a large number that is unpaid. I cannot read the letter coherently, because it makes me angry and makes no sense. I pop another propranolol. I remember from working at the law office that nobody really knows anything about the user side of any of this. I need to calm down and talk to someone who is actually knowledgable in these bills. I put my blue tooth device on to hook into my cell phone and call the Cancer Center Resource place, hoping the perky young lady there can refer me to a financial counselor or something.

The Cancer Center has a lot more resources than the rest of the hospital. While I'm waiting to get through I look through a last letter, a red invitation to some sort of Cancer Survivors Dinner. I do not have cancer, I have anemia, so I cannot go. Where is the Anemia Survivors Dinner? The people in this letter look like they are on some red carpet galla. They are prolly supported each night by wonderful spouses and did not spend two years sleeping on a couch alone and fighting for a social security disability claim. Is it possible to be jealous of cancer patients? This is how absurd my life has gotten. I finally get through to the perky young lady. She gives me the name and number of a financial counselor whom I will call tomorrow to help me navigate through this mess.

I put my bills aside, I am through with them today. I look over to some artwork I've done that's half finished, hoping I can do something fun on my desk later. I have to cancel or reschedule my first Art Therapy appointment next week because it overlaps with my dermatologist appointment to get the skin cancer off my face. I'm going to the Dermatologist for skin cancer and the Cancer Center for anemia.

I pop another propranolol.