Heads up

Heh.  I'm punny.  So, fellow migraine sufferers!  I bring good tidings of my personal favorite instant relief strategies!  Things besides pills (sweet, glorious pills!) that I've tried that have worked.  This is my good deed for the month, so no, I will not help you move!

Massage:  God yes.  Get the blood moving, stat.

• Professional -- AMAZING.  I recently posted about it in detail, so I won't go through it all again.  Basically, this is what I'd do every single time I had a headache if money weren't an object and there were massage establishments open 24/7 that didn't offer a happy ending.
• Partner or Friend -- The next best thing, if they know what they're doing.  I'm lucky, because my husband has a very respectable body of knowledge about the bones, muscles, and tendons due to his martial arts background and general smartness.  When I realize I have any sort of headache coming on, I have him rub the muscle between the thumb and forefinger on both hands, my neck, the back of my head, then my forehead, temples, and under my eyes (especially if it's a sinus-related headache.)  He usually rubs my jaw, too, since I have TMJ.  If I'm hurting, the muscles are probably already starting to tense up, so why not stop it before it starts?
• Self  --  You gotta do what you gotta do.  I do pretty much everything B does, except with a lovely dollop of Badger Headache Soother.  Here's the deal.  Yes, it is going to leave a greasy film on your skin (and hair, if you rub the back of your head), however, it's worth it.  It's got a blend of essential oils that help relieve some of the pain.  It also acts like a massage oil that stays in place so you can rub the areas where it was applied as needed.  So what if you look like a shiny raccoon for a few hours, you have a friggin' migraine and anyone who expects you to prioritize appearance while you have a migraine has clearly never had one.  

 
Other helpful things:  Any port in a storm, right?

• Ice -- I keep at least 4 gel ice packs in my freezer at all times.  3 small, 1 large.  I usually start with the ice pack at the base of my skull, then once it's warmed up, I start alternating it to my forehead, and if I'm feeling extra pitiful, I whine for B to get me a second ice pack and basically ice my entire brain case.  While it doesn't make the headache go away, it sure as hell feels good and makes me hate everything less.
• Heat -- My amazing sister-in-law, Roberta, got B and I two Bed Buddies for Christmas this past year.  While heat isn't my favorite thing for a standard migraine, it's the gold standard for anything sinus related, or for headaches due to muscle tension or misalignment of the upper vertebrae.  They're also amazing on your lower back after a long day of sledding.  :)
• Freezer Pops --  Yep, the ones that are basically Kool-Aid in a plastic tube.  They're a good way to cool off and get/stay hydrated without chugging a bunch of water.  Usually, if I'm thirsty during a headache, I am ultra-mega thirsty, and I will absolutely flood myself with water and/or a caffeinated beverage to the point where my nausea is triggered, which only compounds my misery.
• Peppermint Oil --  My massage therapist put peppermint oil on my face, scalp, and neck before beginning my massage, and I was out of pain in under 5 minutes.  I just bought some on ebay today.  'Nuff said.
• Cat --  Properly applied to the back of the head and neck, a well-placed cat is the perfect level of softness, warmth, and vibration if you scratch his head and make him purr.  Behold!

• Dare I say *gasp!* THE REEFER? -- Take your opinion of marijuana as a deadly, dangerous illegal drug and set it aside for a moment.  It has analgesic and anti-emetic properties.  It also relaxes the mind and body, which helps alleviate pain and reduce stress in its own right.  The only time I'd say smoking to help a migraine is contraindicated is when you have a sinus or vascular migraine.  So yes, I am a firm believer in medical use, aaaand I'm not going to say any more on that topic. 
  
  
  

Headaches, especially migraines, SUCK.  And while I'm all for the pill-popping, having a few tricks up your sleeve for instant relief will not only make you hate everyone and everything less until your pills kick in, it can actually halt the increase in pain or even decrease the pain.  So, here's hoping you don't need any of this information any time soon, just that you'll remember the next time you do.


Ritual Legal Climbdown:  I am not a doctor or any person who has any business whatsoever giving medical advice.  Listen to me at your own risk.  If dissatisfied with the advice contained herein, a full refund will be issued. 

You don't have to go home but you can't stay here

Well, as was made perfectly obvious in my last post, I've indulged myself in a bit of a pity party over the past few days.  Call it reality catching up to me or PMS or whatever the hell you want, it's been rough.  I don't like getting stuck in The Bad Place, but I certainly have no intention of punishing myself for going there and getting it out of my system.  After so many days of pain and exhaustion, it's really pretty normal.

And I try not to take my own bad moods and feelings too seriously.  I've been posting statuses on facebook like "Quick, somebody call the wahhhmbulance, I need a trip to the bawwwwspital." and "Oh my god. If these inconsiderate assbutts don't stop playing the bass in their car so low that it's rattling my BRICK house and making my head hurt worse, I will simply lose my shit and go out there with a spatula and an egg beater and whomp them like their mamas should have."  If anything's going to make the rest of my life bearable, it's retaining my sense of humor.  


I didn't make it to my brother and sis-in-law's this weekend.  My Chronic Fatigue decided to show its ass.  Boo.  I went on an 18-out of-24 hours sleeping jag, and I think today might be the first time I've really woken up since.  I really wanted to see everybody, especially my aunt Linda, but between how shitty I felt mentally AND physically, I would have been a total drag anyway.  

I did get to go see my therapist on Friday, which was definitely a good thing.  It was very cathartic, at least.  I think the most important thing I got out of it was that I need to take my friends and family at face value when they say they aren't angry and that they do understand when I have to flake.  I think I'm just so accustomed to thinking of myself as a slacker and a flake that I can't possibly see how folks wouldn't be mad, or at the very least, hella irritated with me when I can't do the things I want to do or say I'm going to do.  I set up some pretty destructive thought patterns during the years that I kept my pain to myself.  I have to break them or I'll be a miserable old coot well before my time.  He also says I'm not allowed to hole up by myself for extended periods of time until the mental ship rights itself.  Hissss.


There's some definite bright spots, though.  I did go get a massage like I threatened to in Tuesday's post.  I found a really amazing therapist.  I got there and filled out all the paperwork, then told Ari I was on day 8 of a come-and-go migraine.  He did some sort of wizardry with peppermint oil and face/scalp/neck massage, and I was out of pain in the first 5 minutes.  I wish I could say I got to just relax for the other 55 minutes, but he gave me the most thorough neck and shoulder massage I've ever had, some serious deep tissue shit.  It hurt like hell, especially when he'd hit trigger points (which he then attacked vigorously), but HOLY CRAP, that man is magic, and I felt well enough afterwards to go to Jeff's birthday dinner.  Two hours late, but I wouldn't have been able to show up at all had I not gotten some substantial relief.  I stuffed my face on Eggplant Parmesan and Lemon Buttercream cupcakes.  Jenny, Jenny, is there nothing you can't do?  It was a really chill gathering with awesome people.  I hissed a bit at the fact that I couldn't try the sexy-looking sangria, but them's the breaks.  I'd rather have the level of pain control I have now than revert to alcohol as self-medication, that's for damn sure.


Today's agenda?  THE SPRINGS.  And Fatkini Alchemy.  Mix two way-too-small triangle tops, some thread and ribbon, and maybe come out of it with a triangle top that will make sure I retain what dignity I have remaining.  XD  Can't wait.


Before I go put on my wizard's hat, I want to thank everyone for all the kind words and encouragement recently.  I do know that I'm loved and that people think I'm awesome, I just tend to lose sight of that when I get my head stuck up my own ass, because it's awfully dark up there.  I also want to say that we have our first reader submission on Fatkini Riot!  Go check out the hotness!!!

Bad poetry--skip at will.

careful, now, love
i'm only going to let you down
we'll dream the grandest dreams
we'll take the first steps
i'll fall and i'll fail and you'll try to hide your disappointment in the recovery room

my shell is solid,
but oh, how it creaks against the waves
of duty and of play
i'll wait here in the sand for you
i'll wait in the softness, in the water, in the place where i feel no pain

and please, if you must, go on without me
i can't expect all to be sacrificed at the alter of my infirmity
nothing would thrill me more than to join you
but my shell, it creaks and splinters
and i won't ask you to carry me

On yelling.

Contrary to popular belief, I hate yelling.  More specifically, I hate being the one that has to do the yelling.  I used to be a big fan of yelling, back when I drank like a fish and couldn't see what a fucking train wreck I was turning into.  But now, thanks to quitting drinking, therapy, and medication, I just...don't yell.

But goddammit if two people haven't pushed me to the point of yelling this month.  And not even a shouted sentence or two, a full-on, lung-bending, blood-boiling, black-out RANT.  I don't even know what the fuck is going on with the universe right now.  This month alone, I've had to cut four people out of my life.  I'm not as into astrology as I used to be.  Are we under the star of douchebaggery or something right now?

Only one of these losses truly makes me sad.  That would be my surrogate mother-in-law, who reacted to my olive branch by alienating me in cliche form.  Yeah, the same one I wrote a love letter about a couple weeks ago.  Chosen family is only family until you're under the influence of a lie, then they're disposable family.  Oh well.  A new alpha fag has been chosen, and a new surrogate mother-in-law will come in time.

I hate that I feel such a strong need to have that sort of a relationship with someone in my life at all times.  At 30, I still don't feel like much of a grown-up.  Adult matters make me feel like Bambi on wobbly legs.  I don't need someone to baby me or to do things for me, I just want someone who's been doing this grown-up thing for awhile to be my friend and well...I guess a mentor, of sorts.

But back to yelling.  It sucks.  It makes my head hurt.  The adrenaline rush usually renders me useless for 5-10 minutes, then once it dies down, thus begins the withdrawal migraine.  I yelled last night and actually woke up with a sore throat today.  WTF?  But physical shit aside, it's just so unseemly.  It shouldn't be necessary, ever, but sadly, it is. 

I guess I should just be grateful that I've ceased being a doormat, and that I'll actually stand up for myself now.  That's major progress.  I suppose this is the inevitable backlash, though--after spending so many years of running from conflict or just trying to smooth things over, I suppose it's only natural that upon waking up, I come out roaring.



p.s.  I have a new fatkini!  Springs trip tomorrow--hopefully I'll have some pics then!

On so-called "biological imperatives"

Tomorrow, I will be 30, and not once have I felt or heard the ticking of the "biological clock". Sure, there was a time when I thought I would have children. When I was a little girl who played with dolls, I thought babies were pretty rad, and that I'd definitely like to have some. After I grew out of the dolls stage, I really didn't think much about having children, just that it was something that I'd do because that's what people do, right?

High school was when I was introduced to the full reality of babies. My brother and sister-in-law had my nephew when I was a junior. Of course, I immediately loved him, redness, wrinkles, flakiness, and all. Around that time, a few acquaintances and friends became pregnant, and after the initial shock, they all seemed to be pretty psyched to be having a kid. My mind recoiled in horror that this is something that people my age, with the whole world in front of them, considered to be a good thing. Sure, it's either make the best of it or get the big A, so I suppose they were putting on the brave face, which is commendable. At that age, I can't say that I would have chosen to keep the pregnancy.

But back to my nephew. I'd occasionally watch him for a few hours so the grown-ups could do their thing, and boy, did that drive home reality fast. Around that time, I also babysat an infant and his five year old brother (who routinely kicked my ass at Mario Brothers), and as much as I enjoyed the time when the infant was calm and curled up in my arms sleeping or just hanging out and drooling on himself, it always scared me silly when he'd start crying or screaming. OMFG. The diaper is dry. I just fed him. I am holding him. CLEARLY THIS CHILD IS IN MORTAL PERIL. I had that experience with both my nephew and my infant charge, and boy, that feeling of panic does not suit my disposition in the least.

Still, I felt that once I was the ripe old age of, 25, I would be this totally different person, ready for the 9-to-5, a nice, clean-cut husband, a house in the suburbs, and a couple kids. Suffice to say, my life didn't turn out like that. At 25, I'd been dating my now-husband for over a year. We were in dire straits financially, just barely making enough for both of us to survive. Money was incredibly tight for us for the first few years we were together, so tight that when his roommate went nuts (literally) and told him he had two weeks to get out, the best option was for him to move in with me. We'd been together for two weeks at the time, and my family wasn't terribly pleased with this, but thankfully they understood that, as someone new in town, I had very few options. My roommates had just moved out on me, too. I couldn't afford my house alone. Brandell didn't have deposit money. So we made an agreement that regardless of what happened with our relationship, we'd always put our friendship first, and if we had to part ways, we'd continue to help each other until he could find another place. Thankfully, that wasn't necessary.

About two years into the relationship, we started talking about eventually (OH GOD, NOT NOW, OF COURSE, BUT EVENTUALLY) having kids. Two seemed like a good number. Eventually, we'd want to do this. Eventually, it would seem like the greatest idea ever, and we'd go for it. We'd grow up. We'd settle down. One day, the urge to have babies would start to percolate in both of us, just like it does for every human...right? A year later, we'd decided on ONE. ONE KID. THAT IS ALL. And for the love of butter, NOT NOW.

About a year later, something just...clicked. We were talking about kids, all the money and hassle involved, the patience both of us lack, the sacrifices we'd have to make, the frequent migraines we both have, the fact that both of us get very, very annoyed in the presence of anything loud, and the fact that neither of us felt any particular drive to be a parent. Neither of us craved that opportunity to nurture and teach a small human. We have friends with kids, and while we're totally fine with playing aunt and uncle for a few hours at a time, by the end of it, we're both thinking "DEAR GOD, GET THIS THING AWAY FROM ME!" I can't remember who said it first, but it was probably me. "We just...shouldn't."

That settled it, save one moment of reconsideration at the urging of a friend. She wasn't trying to pressure me, she just wanted to make sure I'd fully weighed my options, and the experiment she suggested, "Spot the Good Kid", absolutely changed my attitude towards other people's children (yes, curmudgeonly 20-something, there ARE good parents in the world), but further cemented my resolve not to have my own, there's been no looking back. We agreed that if, later in life, we felt we'd missed out on something important, we'd get involved as foster parents, or perhaps consider adoption.

Last summer, I was working at a call center when I, for lack of a more fitting term, completely lost my shit. I was constantly anxious, and the depression that I'd gotten a pretty good handle on over the past few years came roaring back with a vengeance. I immediately got involved with my county's Behavioral Health program. Soon, I realized that if I was to have any hope of being a functional person, I was going to need to be on an antidepressant for the rest of my life. Quitting for a year and a half or so (pregnancy plus breast feeding time) would likely result in a nasty downward spiral, culminating in horrible postpartum depression.

My fibromyalgia diagnosis absolutely cements it. I can't imagine the pain I'd endure carrying a child to term with absolutely nothing to mitigate the pain I already have just lugging my carcass about. Once the child was born, even if I opted out of breast-feeding to resume my medications, what would I do on the bad days? Sometimes, a gallon of milk feels like the weight of the world. Lack of sleep makes my symptoms worse, so until the baby started sleeping through the night, I imagine I'd be pretty miserable on a daily basis. And the migraines. Oh god, the migraines. Mine last anywhere from hours to weeks. How the hell could I possibly care for a helpless infant in that state?

I know that my husband would do his best to help, but he's got his own set of issues, physical and mental, and it wouldn't be fair to him to have to constantly pick up my slack.

But you know what? I'm 100% fine with all of this. I simply do not want to have a child. I will be a proud aunt. I will be a good godmother. When I have the spoons, I will give my friends some free babysitting so they can enjoy the luxuries that I have every day, like an uninterrupted shower, a chance to sprawl out with a book, or go to the mall or grocery store, or hell, spend time with other adults.

Brandell and I agree--we love our life as it is. We have my family, for better or for worse. We have an amazing chosen family of friends. We have our cats, who we love and spoil--who ARE our furry, mostly self-sufficient, quiet, cuddly kids. And most importantly, we have our freedom. Not only can we do what we want, when we want, we can do absolutely nothing at all, and I swear to you, that is my most cherished freedom.

So no, I'm not some evil child-hater. I believe that people who truly want and have the ability to care for children are the ones who should have them. We are not those people.

Mania, mania

Won't you lovelies join me for a swim in a sunny sea of serotonin? 

I have no idea if this is a common experience for fibromyalgia patients, but wow, I have been obnoxiously upbeat and energetic since my diagnosis.  I'm currently also being treated for major depression (possible bipolar) and generalized anxiety disorder.  I'm agoraphobic.  I get frequent migraines.  All of these conditions have created the perfect storm of unpleasantness in my life for the past 5-6 years, slowly but surely, culminating in the utter paralysis of the last year.

In 2007, my husband and I were liberated from food service by a sizable insurance settlement.  In the last few months at my job as a manager/cook at a delivery restaurant, I'd noticed my back, shoulders, elbows, and wrists hurting more than ever.  I chalked it up to repetitive motion injuries from the job, that I hadn't had long enough to recover between shifts of flinging around fry baskets and huge quantities of chicken and the incessant cleaning that goes in to keeping such an establishment from becoming utterly disgusting.  But whatever, right?  I was out of there.

That winter, I started having frequent bouts of bursitis in my hip, so severe they'd wake me up from a dead sleep.  And a few months later, when we were moving from our shitty rental house to our current Frankenstein house of fabulousness, I'd get nauseous with such frequency that my husband wound up telling me to go to the new house and stay there, to put stuff where it belongs as they bring it, and just...hang out in the place that has the clean toilets and plenty of places to stretch out.  I felt so miserably guilty about that.  I knew I was sick.  I knew something was wrong.  I've never been the type of girl who stands back and lets the men do the heavy lifting, so it wasn't just guilt about failing to help my husband, I felt like I'd failed the very essence of who I am.  I went to the doctor several times, but they couldn't find any reason for my nausea.  I tried everything they threw at me, but nothing helped.  When the nausea reappeared with severe lower abdominal cramping, I was sent for a CT scan, which showed everything in fine working order.  I sucked it up.  I learned to live with it.

That's when the decline started to become painfully apparent.  I almost entirely quit drinking.  Fifty percent of the time, alcohol, even one beer, would cause severe back and stomach cramps, and a headache about 80% of the time.  Shooting for that magical 20% of good party times ceased to be worth it.

Well, in this town, there's nothing to do but go out and drink and/or eat.  Really.  We have a movie theater and a pool hall, and that's about it for entertainment for adults after 9pm.  So I became pretty reclusive, and still am. 

As a lifelong slob, I'd vowed to myself not to let my new house get as dirty, cluttered, or otherwise befouled as my previous residences.  I did really well for awhile.  But that's fallen off, too.  Doing the dishes, cooking dinner, sweeping, vacuuming, all the normal household chores mean severe pain within the space of minutes.  I go through periods when things aren't as bad and I actually have some damn energy, and I give the kitchen a huge once-over and reorganization, become really aware of what's in the fridge and pantry and cook like a wild woman.  These are my favorite times.  My husband, my friends, and I are all huge foodies, and it makes me really happy to be able to feed people well, to see the simple joy that the perfect bowl of chili or fried chicken or coconut rice pudding can bring to the people I love.  I've been cooking since I was old enough to see over the counter by standing on a chair, and it's the only household task I've ever truly loved.  But I couldn't do it anymore.  Sure, I'd cook a big meal or bake a cake when it was a special occasion or someone's birthday, but these efforts always felt herculean and leave me drained for at least a day afterwards.  This, my friends, is when I should have known that something was seriously wrong.

Throughout all of this, every time I went to the doctor, all my vitals were exactly where they needed to be.  I've seen no less than 7 different doctors/PAs in the past three years, and not one of them has said an unkind word about my weight.  All my blood work has come back beautifully.  When I asked one of my doctors to test my blood sugar so my mom would stop harping about YOU'RE FAT.  YOU GET LOTS OF URINARY TRACT INFECTIONS.  YOU HAVE DIABETES., the doctor laughed and said he would have already done so if he thought there was the remotest possibility that I do, but humored me anyway out of pity.  

So, I had this notion that, as the doctor who was trying to figure out why my stomach was stuck on "reject" mode had stated, I was healthy as a horse.  So, I'm not proud of this in the least, but I started blaming my fat for all of my aches and issues.  And I shut up about them.  I took on more than I could handle, and did ok at first, but in no time, I was letting my friends down left and right.  More guilt.  Clearly, I'm too fat to maintain a social life.  As a proud fat activist, I am so ashamed of myself for letting myself buy this bullshit for as long as I did.  But fuckin' ey, I'm going to own my shit, good, bad, or ugly.

Because of the frequent migraines and back aches, I'd been looking for a new doctor.  The practice I'd been going to for two years refused to treat me for migraines any longer unless I booked an appointment with a neurologist and had an MRI.  I'm self/unemployed (more on that some other time).  I don't have money for that shit.  I understand that they wanted to make sure we weren't missing a brain tumor or anything, but they didn't bother trying to understand my side of the situation.  Better to have someone out there in debilitating pain than have to possibly deal with a lawyer, right?  

On my second doctor-finding attempt, I wound up in the right place.  Dr. Wonderful has been practicing medicine for 30 years, both as an MD and in the psychiatric field.  He's the only physician in his practice.  The office doesn't accept or bill insurance, at all, period, so office visits are only $60, and the urinalysis I had to have last visit was $25 (compared to the $130 I've been charged elsewhere).  This amazing man has chosen to operate this practice for the people who can't afford or don't have insurance, people who likely don't have annual check-ups, and are likely to come in with acute symptoms as well as chronic conditions for which they're currently undiagnosed/untreated.  I wound up there on Day 7 of a migraine.  He spent, literally, 45 minutes with my husband and I, discussing my migraines, my general health, everything under the sun.  He proposed that I simply have so many headache triggers that the bastards never leave, and gave me prescriptions for each of my symptoms and scheduled a follow-up appointment for a month later.

In the meantime, I was getting to know my dear friend Wendy, also a fibromyalgia patient.  It impacts so much of her life that I decided I'd be a bad friend if I didn't just google that shit and learn a bit about what she's dealing with.  And that's when the bomb dropped.  I kept reading, page after page, about the symptoms and diagnostic criteria for fibromyalgia.  My pulse was racing.  This new information--all of it--was describing me.  After some discussion with Wendy, I decided to print up a 6-page symptom checklist I'd found, fill it out, and bring it to my follow-up appointment with Dr. Wonderful. 

The morning of the follow-up appointment, I had an appointment with Dr. Curmudgeon, my psychiatrist.  I explained that I had wide-spread pain, as well as frequent headaches and migraines, and asked if I could change antidepressants from Pristiq to Cymbalta, since they're both SNRIs and Cymbalta works wonders for pain in some patients.  Much to my surprise, he immediately agreed and wrote the prescription.  I had to have my annual blood work done immediately after my appointment with Dr. Curmudgeon, and when the nurse was verifying my meds, I had to tell her that as of one week from that day, I'd be on Cymbalta and to maybe put that in my info instead.  She asked why, and I told her about my issues, and she said "Oh honey, that sounds like fibromyalgia.  I have it, too."  

That afternoon, when Dr. Wonderful walked into the exam room and asked how I was doing, I told him that I was pretty sure I'd solved The Mystery of the Never-Ending Headache and handed him my questionnaire.  He read it and said "Yep, I think you're on to something."  He, my husband, and I talked for 30 minutes or so about my symptoms.  He wants to do some blood work at my next visit to test for Epstein-Barr's Syndrome just to be sure, but when we checked out, I saw it there on the diagnosis line on the paperwork, in black and white, Fibromyalgia.

Prior to my appointment, I'd already had my big freak-out about all the things a fibromyalgia diagnosis might mean for me.  My husband offered to drive.  I was completely numb.  It was real.  Oh dear god.  I actually do have fibromyalgia.  I didn't freak out or cry.  I completely surprised myself.  The farther we got from the office, I realized what a positive thing this actually is for me.  The prescriptions in my hand meant that I now had tools to systematically obliterate my symptoms.  Never mind the impending narcotic haze, I thought about the weekend I had planned (going to the Azalea Festival with my girls), and how I knew now that even if I was short on energy, not being in pain would mean that I would have the bodily fortitude to drink an energy drink, then get out there and have fun.  The plans I have for my birthday (8 days left of my 20's, y'all!), the trips I have planned, all the projects I want to work on, just...everything opened up to me in that moment.  

Then I started thinking about all the guilt I've been carrying.  Guilt for preferring sitting at my computer to most everything else because of the comfortable chair that fully supports my back.  Guilt for not doing more with my friends.  Guilt for all the times my husband has needed a back rub and I simply haven't had the strength or energy.  Guilt for flaking on plans because I was sick or in pain.  Guilt for not visiting far-flung friends and family more.  Guilt for letting my house stay far messier than I'd like.  A huge weight lifted.  I hadn't been a bad wife or a bad friend or a bad daughter or a bad sister or a bad aunt, I'd been fucking SICK.  

So, I've taken the long way around to telling you all why I have been one manic motherfucker since my diagnosis.  I feel better.  I feel healthier, ironically enough.  I've spent time with my friends.  I've spent time with my husband.  I've been out in the sunshine.  I've been crafting like a madwoman.  The house is still a wreck, but I'll get to that soon enough, likely tomorrow.  Now that I feel better, I feel hopeful about my future for the first time in a long time.  I've also developed a new gratitude for all the friends I still have, the ones who have stuck by me through the pain and my lack of desire to leave my house and the days that I'm just not worth a damn for anything but a sarcastic remark or two.  There's good-times friends and there's all-the-time friends, and I feel like my life is truly enriched by being surrounded by only all-the-time friends.  I have so much more gratitude for everything in my life right now.  Aside from having to keep my spending habits in check (one of the things I have major issues with when I'm manic), I haven't felt this good in years, physically or mentally.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not leaving therapy any time soon, but I feel like I'm on my way to genuinely healing the things that are wrong with me that can be healed.

And it feels fucking fantastic.

On a completely unrelated note, I went to the gas station to buy cigarettes tonight, and the cashier carded me.  When he handed my license back, he took a long look at me and said "I never would have guessed '81."  I thanked him kindly for making an old lady smile.  <3