Let the catharsis begin. I am tired of my life. I am tired of answering “studying” when asked what I’m doing, regardless of the month, regardless of the year. I should be studying now, I have 3 huge exams on the 29th and the 31st. Well two really, the other one will be an exercise in futility, I’ll go in just to read the questions and sing “Fee-fi-fo-fum, I smell the blood of an Englishman” quietly to myself as I circle letters randomly. It’s not that we have to study so much, this is what medicine is abt, if you’re unwilling to have to memorise books by the gallon you have no business there. It’s that I work so hard for it and then still not pass the very tests that some of my rather dumb colleagues pass without major trauma. And when I do manage to pass a test, though it’s been a while so my memory may be failing me, I usually get a 10/11 out of 20. I don’t know what I should be doing differently, there's only the tunnel, no light. I know I should simply get up and go read abt antibiotics. But right now, ein li koach. No power left. I vont to be alone. Suspended animation as it were. I don’t want to read or see anyone or think abt anything, I just want to lie down on the couch and watch meaningless drivel on the telly. I had to go out to get cat litter. As I was driving to the gas station, I looked down at myself. My hands jumped up at me. How could they not. I think it’s entirely possible that in abt 6 months I will have turned into a pink psoriatic blob bcs it’s spreading, especially after the The tsunami might have eaten up my Tig, and even more so after the The tsunami has definitely eaten up my Tig - and I cannot even contemplate going to see a Dr. What creams could they prescribe that I haven’t tried before? It takes discipline to apply them to every single fucking lesion, and when there are this many I, pfff, I just can’t be bothered. There’s no guarantee it’ll even work. I’d rather wait for the warm weather and the sun. But I am becoming the Pink Panther and it’s no exaggeration, and my body feels alien to me, and it disgusts me. Then I looked at my clothes, jeans and a fleece jumper. Said jumper w enough cat and dog hair, no matter how much I brush it. That also makes me tired. I adore my animals and cannot imagine not having them. But sometimes I look at my flat, and it’s just been hoovered - and you would barely know it. And I just want to cry bcs it’s so fucking tiring, all this hair everywhere. And I wish I could look - composed. I don’t think I ever looked composed in my life. I don’t think I ever looked composed in my life. There seems to be turmoil everywhere. So I was driving and thinking wouldn’t it be fun if I felt like a grown-up and dressed accordingly without feeling ridiculous? Wouldn’t it be fun if I ever applied lipstick without feeling like a fraud bcs really, who are you trying to fool, make-up is feminine, the proverbial elephant jumping from water lilly to water lilly has no business wearing make-up and some day, some day someone is actually going to remark upon it and then what will you say? And I got to the gas station and there was this woman there. She was not particularly beautiful but she looked it bcs her hair was styled and she was oh-so-not-obviously made-up and her coat was absolutely gorgeous. It was a perfect punchline to my inadequacy feelings. I know I have a distorted self-image, psoriasis can do that. I cannot remember not having it, cannot remember not being at odds w my body and especially in the last few years, cannot remember not having this pink liquen slowly taking possession of me. I can’t remember ever feeling normal. Of course, living at one end of the spectrum, it’s not enough to want to feel normal once, over-compensation raises its ugly head. I’d also like to feel beautiful once [not super-model beautiful, regular life beautiful][NOTE: no need to jump in alright? I'm purging, not fishing]. I’d like to feel striking, to have someone catch their breath once in a while. Bcs they already do that you know, only it’s mostly when they notice my skin, so it’d be refreshing. I just had a houseguest, let’s not go there much bcs it’s been exhausting and parallel-universey, but not once did he mention it even though he did look at it often. And as much as I rant abt the insensitive ones who will ask and say anything, this was - tiring. This unspoken cloud of psoriasis asking to be asked abt. I’m also knackered bcs said houseguest woke me up coming in drunk at 3 am, then proceeded to let cat escape which made me get up, then snored in such a manner that I, in my room, couldn’t go back to sleep, then woke me up at 8.18 to a chorus of “shit, shit, shit” bcs at that time he should be sitting pretty on his aeroplane. And I covered my head w the duvet and pretended there wasn’t the slightest chance he’d be here for another day (I seem to have been lucky bcs he hasn’t rung or returned)(yet). But with all this I slept from abt midnight to 3, then 6 to 8, then 10 to 13 and I feel like I do when I wake up during an insomnia crisis. Drained. The gas station woman left at more or less the time I did. She walked towards a car and picked up a toddler. What, I need this? Hell. I don’t know that it was her son but why shouldn’t it be. And I thought I’ll be officially middle-aged in what, 2 years, and she is younger than me and already has a child. Not that I want a child now, I feel nowhere ready for it. I think I’d be too impatient a mother. I’d surely be a horrible mother right now. Amongst my friends, only 2 have kids. All the others want them and are scared shitless of the idea bcs they also don’t feel so ready. Some can't bcs they don't have a partner or don't know what will happen to their jobs. We’re mostly all in our 30’s so it’s funny bcs especially us women, our eggs are not getting any younger. My ovaries, well, my Gyn. could sing rhyming tunes abt them in her sleep. Whenever I see her she tells me time is running out, I may have to do infertility treatments to get pg anyway so I should seriously consider starting soon. This even though she knows that I’m not in a relationship, or when I was, it was someone I wouldn’t dream of having kids w bcs it wasn’t going well. So I had to ask her what she suggested, should I grab the first man I saw and try to get randomly impregnated. She replied w a sober “No”. My rabbi does the same, he thought I was much younger and almost fell off his chair when he realised how old I was - and I STILL HADN’T BRED. I had to ask him the same thing, to which he also replied w a sober “No”. No, I didn't think so. [Having a birthday also gives old family friends a chance to ask when I'll grace my parents w a grandchild, much to my parents' dismay. I think I'll have to start asking them back how often they masturbate.] I do want children and I do know it might be difficult and I do know eggs are ageing. As I said, it’s not that I want them now, it’s that I want to be able to have the option of wanting them and my life says NO, and my body may say it even more. Plus the stupid cow was really slim. So that led me to wondering what could possibly happen to my body if I did get pg. Stretch marks, a huge ass, boobs down to my knees - and the boob thing annoys me bcs I like my boobs. They may be the one bit abt me I have no problems w. I know all abt age and gravity but still. I may want a child but only a twat would want all the unflattering changes a child may bring. See how I unnecessarily complicate my life? WHY am I worrying abt something that may never be? I went to see a psychiatrist. This is how far I’ve come, that I’m telling the blogosphere private stuff. I decided long ago I need to see someone abt this self-image thing. Not so long ago actually, bcs I really wasn’t aware that it was this bad. I know I need tools to reconstruct myself with. But being a poor student now, and I will NOT ask my parents bcs that will not do much in the way of assuaging my inadequate-as-an-adult feelings, I was resigned to waiting till I
grew up graduated and started regular work. [Shouldn’t I have more to show for my life at this stage, asks a nagging voice.] I lead the life of a poor student in her very early 20’s. It’s not a grown-up way to live and I knew it’d be so, bcs this is not an easy degree and I couldn’t possibly work full-time, but it’s taking its toll. All my inadequacy feelings have been building up in the past few years. This little Uzi death has turned me upside down and I realised I needed an assessment/inspection what have you. I'm wiped clean of emotional resources. It’s also dawning on me that he might actually be dead, obscene as it is. [Attempting to even celebrate my birthday LIKE ALWAYS - could I have been more stupid? I should have trusted my intuition, have only the core group round and rented a chick film W A VERY HAPPY ENDING. But I didn’t and it was abysmally lifeless. HA! Poor friends.] I know I need to do something abt many things now, I cannot go on not sleeping and spiralling down. So I did go there and I liked her a lot. (She didn't try to prescribe medication, was a bit afraid se would. She believes anti-depressants should be given only to those whole melancoly is such they can no longer function bcs in truth, they simply mask the symptoms. My sentiments exactly - very reassuring.) At the end of 2 hours yakking away abt my life (very very tiresome) she surprised me by asking why my suffering is not as valid as others’. I didn’t think I thought it. I know I’m very hard on myself but that’s not the same is it. I mean, really, isn’t there a difference btwn me, overwhelmed w a degree, and someone who’s beaten by her husband or lost a child, etc? Don’t they have it much much worse? My friend T. told me a few days ago, in the wake of my relating the talk w the shrink who’s a friend of hers, that I have my priorities very defined don’t I. And that I’ve decided who gets to feel MORE bad abt things haven’t I. Truthfully, it hadn’t crossed my mind that someone w fully-blown AIDS, say, could handle it better than I do my psoriasis and that I still have a right to complain, even before them (this arose bcs we were discussing group therapy, the Dr. has an heterogenous group and I was shocked and said I couldn’t possibly complain abt anything in my life in front of someone who’s dying could I). But T.’s a Dr. as well, she's seen a lot and she laughed at me. W wanton abandon, I might add, a right good chuckle. As The Manolo would say, the T., she's got the clinical eye, it might be wise to listen. And so it’s starting already, the soul-searching and re-evaluating. TIRING, this me-me-me. Bcs maybe, just maybe, they’re both right. All 3 of them actually, my shamelessly unsurprised Tweedle told me “You’ve gotten a bit better at being kind to yourself but not nearly enough”. WTF? Am I THAT hard on myself? I still can’t afford to go regularly but we’ll see. I’m tired of hearing abt me now, gah, so here’s a badger of courage (mostly for Jen P and Joe). But don’t say I didn’t warn you, pretty it ain't.
Pass the Streptomycin, here we go.
Savtadotty just emailed me - Blogger acting up - and wrote this: "But even so, I think you have a lovely body(which just has a defective covering) and someday someone will come along who loves to touch the rough spots as much as the smooth just because they're yours. Did you even see The Singing Detective?"
Strangely enough, none of my boyfriends were ever bothered by P. That is to say, them not being total twits (and even the one who was), they weren't happy abt it but it didn't bother them. Mostly, they were saddened I had it bcs it affected me so much. They still thought I looked pretty. HA! [There is a part of me that thinks that any man who feels attracted to me is profoundly disturbed in some way. What saves me from being a mental patient is that I know this is bullocks. But it's there nonetheless.] The Singing Detective, source of a very traumatic episode. It's abt a man who is in hospital bcs of very bad psoriasis. I mean BAD, APPALLING, REPPELLING psoriasis. I was watching it w a friend when I was 15 (she'd known me for years by then) and the man looked simply too hideous for words. I said "That is absolutely disgusting, what the hell is wrong w him!" And she replied "Didn't you know? Psoriasis!". [Years later we were talking abt it and she was mortified she'd said it. But it's karmically alright, as it turned out, she was on the pill to control excessive pilosity and I apparently once remarked she had hair on her chin. GAH!] Anyway, look at his hands (no mine aren't this bad). And this pretty face? Yes.
Labels: Uzi my Tig