naamah_darling: Cartoony picture of a black panther with curved horns and a red ball in his mouth. He wants to play. (Jandar Sad)
Sometimes I don't actually like posting stuff about the lycanthropy publicly but that's what I do, and I believe in it, so . . . apparently I'm going to.

I went to see my case manager last Friday and we talked about the doctor I don't like. I have two other people to choose from, both of which are apparently terse, but also apparently easygoing with the meds. After consultation with my imaginary friends, decided to see the one that's an actual psychiatrist. I don't have to like the person. I just need to trust them to listen to me and do right by me. Two different things, actually.

The visit was simple and easy and the case manager was nothing but sympathetic -- apparently the doctor has done this sort of thing before -- but she can only help to a limited extent.

I also discussed the waiting room issue. I won't be waiting in there again, and will arrange to have the doctors look for me in the other area. Not ideal, but better. Apparently there's nothing to be done about the longass waits, but if I'm in a room that's not A) really crowded and B) got that fucking television in it, I can probably amuse myself with a book. Ordinarily, actually, it wouldn't be a problem, but given how often I've been aggravated by this place already, it's like my system is primed to be on high rage alert every time I go in there for anything but therapy. Thank fuck I like the therapist.

I've been doing okay, but it's like . . . I just get my feet under me, and something else knocks me over, and then it takes me forever to get up again. And, frustratingly, embarrassingly, it doesn't take much to unbalance me.

People say not to let your illness define who you are, and I agree with that, but often there's no letting about it. It does dictate what you are and are not able to do. Even when you are able to do more, that's the illness letting up. So a very large part of my frustration is born of being unable to be the person I desperately wish I was. I went to pieces when Etrigan left to visit the Not-So-Great Outdoors (agree with you on that one, dude). I'm upset about that. My therapist was like "That was a normal response. And then, when he came back, you felt better, and that's good, so overall, that was healthy. It was okay." And I'm just like . . . I can see that, I guess, but . . . I need that to not be me. I need to be able to respond better, to deal with things better, because there's nobody fucking helping me with 75% of this shit, when shit gets bad. Nobody can.

I want to be a different sort of person. I want a different kind of life. And everyone says that, so I probably sound like an asshole, but not everyone who says that has to live with what I have to live with. It's hardly the heaviest burden, but it's way more than most people have to carry.

I've lived my whole fucking life thinking I am weak. I was told that over and over and over by everyone close to me as a child. Weak, spoiled, a baby, naive. And I took the fact that life is hard for me, and mostly always has been, as proof that I am weak. It's not that hard for everyone else. I look at people doing stuff like having a "normal" job, going to college, raising kids, owning a fucking dog, and I think "That would break me." And I feel so weak, because those are things that everyone is supposed to be able to do, and things that mostly everyone can manage at least sort-of. Better than I can. So . . . to do what seems to me to be incredibly difficult if not impossible, they must be so much stronger and better able to cope so much better than me. And they can cope better, but that's not weakness, that's just the luck of the draw. That's me having a handicap on the field that they don't have. That's me not having the same tools or the same resources.

It never occurred to me that other people seem strong to me because they aren't dealing with this shit. That the gap between "normal" and "Naamah" is just that wide.

And I was told I was weak, and a whiner, and a pussy, and a crybaby, and lazy so fucking often that now I find it hard, maybe impossible, to believe that I am just that screwed-up, and not just a failure.

I'm having a bad night. I tried to get work done on two different projects and got nowhere, and I tried to make some headway on sourcing the materials for some of the Indiegogo incentives and realized that I may have to spend more on them than I thought, and . . . I don't want to have that argument. I just don't. I can't. I can't cope.

I'm not tired so much as worn down, because it never seems to get any easier. I'm not in pain or depressed so much as just exasperated, because I'm running out of time so fast, so very fucking fast, and there just isn't enough life left to fit in all of the things I need to do because it takes me so very long to do anything at all. And every time I start to make headway, I get kicked in the balls again.

I really, really, really fucking wish that some trustworthy but impartial outside source could get literally right up inside my mind and take a look around and tell me whether I'm halfassing it, or whether I am so fucked up I'm doing well to be doing as much as I am. I suspect it's the latter, but I wish I knew. Because most of the time, it doesn't feel so fucked up. It's just that I can't do anything. I function really well within my limits, but I cannot go outside them. And that has got to be one of the hardest things to get across to people. I seem functional in my habitat because I've evolved to fit it. Take me out of it and put me somewhere else and I don't do so well.

I hate being like this. I wish things were different. I wish I was a different kind of person. I really, really do. Sometimes I can be, but those parts of me are small in comparison to the hugeness of Life, and they can't always run the show. And those parts, too, want things that we can never, ever have. (I am so sorry, guys. I really am.)

You know, I lied. It's not even a particularly bad night. It's just. I'm just tired of being alone with these stupid thoughts, and I am tired of knowing it will be the same tomorrow, or worse, because the odds of it being better are so awful that I learned to never bet on it, or I will fall into the Gambler's Ruin of spoons, hedging against a day when I'll be able to pay, catch up, when that day is never really going to come.

I'm not hopeless, I'm not suicidal at all, but Jesus, I wish I could get away from my life.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Overall, I am not happy with the place I'm going to get counseling. I had another hour-plus long wait to see a doctor for, like, two minutes, in that waiting room. The doctor said something vague about someone had threatened to burn down the building, which, yeah, I can see how that would throw your schedule off. That's pretty awful, and I am really glad nothing happened. But maybe they could have mentioned it at the front desk? Because I would not be angry about it if I hadn't perceived it at the time as part of a demonstrable pattern of behavior.

I've been treated so shittily by so many of the people who were supposed to help me, going back to my single digits, that being kept waiting under certain circumstances is triggering. It makes me feel neglected, unwanted, like I am dealing with people who don't want to deal with me, no matter how nice I am. It makes me into a worse person, an angry person, and if I let that show they treat me differently. But it's hard to stifle it. Normally I manage just fine and I'm polite about it and it's brownies and handshakes for everyone. But this is not "normally." I'm not doing well. When you aren't doing well, it's hard to crush that down. Especially when you have been proven right so many times. Especially when you are seeking help for an inability to cope with shit, and "shit" suddenly encompasses a newfound ability to freak out in clinical settings, like this one, no matter how benign. I thought I was over that. Apparently not. Congratulations! You've just taken two giant steps back.

I've made a big deal out of documenting my efforts to get mental health care and to get some disability benefits for that. So I'm going to write about this even though I really just want to leave it be, because I cannot change it and cannot get out of it. Even though I am pretty sure it will not seem that bad later, and I will be less angry and upset. Even though I was just triggered by being neglected -- A. GAIN. -- and my reaction is therefore probably excessive given that it was completely unintentional and not malicious on their part at all. Even though I am bipolar and therefore all of my moods are suspect, possibly meaningless. Even though it will probably all work out in the end. *sparklechimes*

They seem like nice people, and most of them seem like they maybe do really want to help. I think. I mean, they're nice, for the most part. But I don't like the prescribing doctor they have me seeing there at all, who seems to think that having a negative response to being kept waiting for an hour is a problem that means I need more meds. First, you have to be prepared for the fact that I am going to ask you to explain why you think that's necessary, and second, you had better believe I'm going to take my time thinking about it. Seriously. Dude, don't fucking spring that shit on me, especially not with your pen in your hand and your prescription pad out and you barely listening to me, and when I tell you that I would not like to raise the dose of the one genuinely scary drug I am on, seriously, don't give me a look like I'm the crazy one. Which I am, okay, I get that, but I am not fucking uncooperative. I jump through hoops like there were beautiful, naked young men holding baskets of blackberries and sex toys on the other side. I do my part, I ask for very, very little, the absolute minimum actually. Given how you treat me, I want to see you people less often. So when shit goes awry in a way that leaves me really, really uncomfortable, pardon me for being honest with you about how I am feeling and poking holes in your bubble of not giving a shit so you have to breathe the same air the crazy people are breathing for five fuckin' minutes. Uncomfortable? Motherfucker, you should be. I am your worst fucking nightmare. I am a patient who cares what happens to her too much to listen to people who are not listening to her.

They cannot schedule effectively and are always running really, really late. They'll schedule appointments for times the doctor isn't even there. If you're lucky, they'll call and let you know about it. If you aren't, they won't, and you'll get there, and they're like, "Oh, he doesn't even get here for another hour. Sry." Do they not have clocks on your planet? Is linear time that confusing? Is the guy just . . . Superman in disguise, constantly racing off to do battle with pissant local crime lords?

The waiting room TV is tuned to some horrible "health" channel that is really nothing more than a bunch of fear-mongering health-shaming bullshit that pisses me off just having to listen to it, let alone listen to it for an hour. I cannot believe they play that shit where people have to hear it. If I did a shot every time they started in with "obesity blah" and "lose weight blah" I'd be dead in a pool of my own vomit in about half an hour. And you get to wait in there for an hour at a time. They treat people in recovery for eating disorders in this place? Christ.

I have to remind them every time that they are not to weigh me, which is essentially the same as just letting them do it, because they are still fucking bothering me about it . . . I'm sorry, that's just disrespectful and inconsiderate. It's in my fucking file. If you need to, write it on front of the fucking file folder. It's not hard; the English language has an alphabet that is designed specifically for that purpose. I have to sit through their automated blood pressure thing, which really hurt this time, and now I'm going to have to argue with them about that shit too because I don't see why I should have to just sit there meekly while I get shooting pain down my arm and my fingers twitch convulsively. They truthfully don't need that information for any reason whatsoever, it's just part of the "woooooo we are medical professionaaaaaaals trust uuuuuuuuus" show. Which is flimflam, and does not work on me.

My case manager said she'd talk to someone about me not having a counselor, then that person left on vacation. I couldn't ask my counselor whether she'd gotten a chance to talk to her, because my counselor left on vacation, too. (When you say "I'll do that tomorrow," and then go on a vacation, I'm assuming that was deliberate assholishness, or forgetfulness due to stupidity, because vacations do not sneak up on you like that. So what else am I to assume? You're stupid, or you're an asshole. Pick one.)

In retrospect, the conversation I had with the prescription assistance program woman about how addicts need to take responsibility for their issues was awfully . . . blame-y (maybe not in the substance of it, which is that only you can change yourself, and I do agree with that since it's a demonstrable fact that nobody can do the work of recovery for you, but there was something really off in how she expressed it that nags at me). One more person there I am not sure I trust. And if you aren't sure you trust someone, really, that's just a polite way of saying . . . you don't.

Sargon still hasn't gotten in to see a counselor despite jumping through their hoops left and right. It's been four months. Getting prescription renewals is a tremendous pain in the ass, involving phone tag and doctors that keep irregular hours and a pharmacy that closes at three different times depending on what day it is. Good luck remembering.

I had to pitch a hissy-fit to get in to see anyone for counseling (largely fielded by Sargon, for which I am still ashamed), and I am still not 100% sure that will work out. I'm not, at this point, even confident. He's nice, but I am not sure he can keep up with me.

I go in there and come out fucking exhausted every time. It is taking more resources to deal with this than it is to keep myself stable otherwise. And those are resources that I now cannot divert to keeping myself stable.

This is just fucking unacceptable. It hurts.

I'm just tired of having to fight for every scrap, tired of having to call and harass people to get anything done, tireder still of having Sargon do it, and feeling worthless and nauseatedly guilty about it afterward. Tired of having to wait for completely unreasonable lengths of time for what is straightforward, very basic care that I actually make very, very easy on my end, tired of having to go here or go there or get this paperwork or do that other thing or talk to this person. I know they're working with lots of ill people, many of them difficult, inpatients or addicts, on a shoestring budget. Admirable. It truly is.

I am too fucked up to care at this point.

I don't have the energy to think lala happysympathy fuzzlewuzzle thoughts about how they're having to work really hard and it's not an ideal situation for anybody and they are doing their best and I should be grateful for what they are able to do. I only have energy to try to survive. If I make room for error they will err, and it will cost me. This has been proven to me at this place four or five times now. Sadly, trying to take care of myself now means fighting the people who are supposed to be helping me. And that means I am not being helped.

And the worst of it is, I have only once found any place that was not at least half this bad. The one place that was better was the best in the state at what it did, well-staffed, and priced accordingly. So I don't expect that if I jump ship and try to find something else, I will actually find anything better. I'll just be starting over on the same ride, delaying whatever eventually happens.

I don't . . . I don't know what to do.

I don't have a whole lot more energy to deal with both of us having these sorts of problems. We can't help each other enough right now and it's tearing both of us to pieces. He's running out of strength, way faster than me, and I just . . . I've done what I can. I don't have the strength to keep bearing him up, and me.

I've done what they asked, what you are supposed to do. "Get help." I can't do any more on my own.

I tried. I tried. They aren't helping. They are, slowly, making it worse by requiring interactions from me, and then making those interactions such a tremendous pain in the ass I wind up inadvertently clawing gouges in the paintwork because my fingers won't stop clenching in rage. I can't do this anymore, but they are the only choice I have, and I can't, I can't let Sargon, just walk away from this chance. Especially him. Especially him. Because he needs this more than I do right now, he needs it desperately, and I am literally terror-stricken whenever I think about him walking out of there. Like, I have had crying jags about it, quietly, alone.

I feel weak. I feel weak and stupid and whiny. And it was pointed out to me today, rather sharply, that I am not weak. That a part of the problem here is that I am, in some ways, very strong. Strong enough to actually expect a certain level of treatment. Strong enough not to knuckle under and accept poor treatment, strong enough not to simply wash away down the drain when they are trying to piss me away. Strong enough to be angry when I feel I've been mistreated or neglected, and not just feel sad and go back to hiding, like I used to. But this strength can become inflexible, it can make me defensive. And perhaps I do defend myself a little aggressively. Maybe I don't need to get so angry. But . . . I don't know any other way to be right now. I am too tired to suck it up, like I have been for 35 goddamn years. I am too full of other ugly shit right now, and I cannot swallow back the anger this stuff provokes long enough to stop the cycle of becoming angrier. And people who think that is an unreasonable or somehow surprising response should volunteer at pet shelters and see firsthand what animals will do when trapped and confined, even with the best intentions. Some cower and cry, some just . . . die, and some become hair-trigger savages. And it's the latter ones that we get angry with, fed up with, give up on, put to sleep. So showing anger doesn't help. Especially if you need help. Especially if you are poor.

This is what it's like when you're poor. You're a good little animal-child, you do what they tell you, you go from room to room, lost every time because you are too tired to remember faces, and faceless because you are too unimportant to be remembered. You take what you can scrape from the bottom of the system's shoe, and you are supposed to be grateful, even when it's not enough. Sometimes it works too slowly. Sometimes . . . sometimes they take too long to get you help. Sometimes it's just bad care. And it's all you get, because it's all you can afford. Financially, temporally, emotionally. It's all you can afford.

And then you get blamed when you don't get better. Because you had access to care, and it didn't work, and that must be your fault. Because it was there. You should have been more patient. You should have tried harder. You should have been stronger.

You shouldn't have been sick.

You put yourself in that cage.

So, yeah, had better days. I just want all this to be over.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
I am back from Planned Parenthood. And back from my nap. I posted briefly about it earlier, but it appears not to have propagated to Livejournal.

It appears that there is nothing terribly wrong, and barring unlikely test results, yeah, we don't have to worry about it being something Scary and Bad. They'll be calling me next week to tell me that they found nothing, I'm sure.

For the TMI-averse. )

I took a clonazepam before I went, and it helped a lot. I still got really nauseated and I was scared, but it was much less and not for nearly as long. So, experiment successful.

The woman doctor actually said that she saw I'd had some bad doctor experiences and that she was very, very sorry about that, even if they didn't happen at that clinic, and that they wanted me to feel comfortable. And I did. They were really great about talking to me, checking in with me, and being considerate of my general "I am on druuuuuuuuugs wooooooooo!!!" state. I thanked them all personally, and told the girl at the front that I had felt safe the whole time, which I did, and that I was really grateful for that. So I will probably write them a note or something so that they have some positive reinforcement there.

And they laughed at my bad jokes.

It didn't hurt hardly at all. Just a scratch. (Not that I was worried about the pain, but I am still pleasantly surprised.) I warned them about the swearing, but didn't have to deploy it.

I did use the line a friend threw at me the other day (I was so flattered) about me swearing "like a Baltic bear trainer with prostate swelling." Which prompted laughter and the older doctor guy who was there asking if I had ever met any Baltic bear trainers, which I have not, which in turn led to an "I was in the army" story that involved encountering actual bear trainers, who were apparently very angry people who swore a lot in some scary-sounding language. So that was probably, ironically, the best part of my day (besides the nap I took). Because that was very funny.

So they were good folks. And next time maybe it will not be so scary.

And I am still a little "wooooooo!" so please excuse me if I go and play with my ponies or something.

Y'all are wonderful.

ETA: Oh yeah, the best part! It cost, like, less than a fourth I thought it would! They had misquoted me wrong both times. Only this time, it was in my favor. So I have $300 more in the bank than I thought I would. Which means I can pay for another upcoming appointment without tears and recriminations. So, win.

Quickly

Aug. 10th, 2012 12:25 pm
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
The appointment went swimmingly and it appears that, barring some really freaky lab test results, I am in no danger of dying from anything girlparts-related for at least another year. More details to follow, but this is just to let the TMI-averse people know that I'm okay, and it wasn't bad and everyone was like super nice and totally understanding and gentle. And it cost a fuckton less than I was expecting.

Now if you will excuse me, I'm going to go sleep off the rest of this clonazepam. Yes.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Mildmay)
Sargon and I were both sick with this crap, and we are both feeling much improved, though still fucking exhausted. (Nooo, I really don't recommend the 12-hours of rib-crushing heaves workout. It hurts to breathe.)

I just wanted to poke my nose out and say that we're alive, it will be a while before we feel up to having anyone over and before the house is safe for company.

I also want to apologize to anyone I may have infected. This shit is burning through my circle of friends like wildfire. I don't think I'm the only plague rat here, but I still feel guilty. It's brief but exhausting, and has fucked gaming up for both groups. It very well might fuck up going to a convention for friends of mine, which I feel just awful about.

Also wanted to record, for posterity, the upsetting fact that my doctor has left his clinic. In sort of a hurry. Nobody knows where he went. We haven't been able to find out anything.

This is bad.

I relied on him heavily. He was willing to work with me over the phone when I had no money to come in, he was willing to adjust my drug dosages based simply on my say-so, he wrote refills without needing to see me in person, and never demanded that I come in for bloodwork before I could have my drugs. He knew I was smart and informed and he listened to me. It is amazing how many extra visits and how much unnecessary testing that saves. And how much money that translates to over even a short period of time.

So now I'm going to have to reestablish that sort of relationship with someone else, and that's not free for the asking. It's time consuming, expensive, and doesn't always work out well -- though at least I have a friend's recommendation for her doctor, a lady who sounds pretty cool.

This wouldn't be that big of a deal except that we don't have insurance right now. That fact makes it a much bigger deal. It's not a catastrophe, but it's far past ideal and into completely uncool territory, especially considering that I am still having memory/brain issues, and worsening hearing loss . . . both of which fucking suck, by the way.

Amusingly, while I am upset about this -- I really, really liked my doctor -- I am still just so happy not to be throwing up anymore that I am in a pretty good mood. Also, I decided that tonight would be a good night to do some silly crafty stuff just for my own amusement, and that helped burn off a lot of my frustration and gave me something to concentrate on that wasn't too physically demanding.

I should probably keep a big tin of mixed up seed beads to sort when shit like this happens and my body and brain are not up to anything challenging, but I'm deathly bored and anxious. I love that kind of sorting. So quiet. But, then, during gym class I used to sit inside, untangling the jump-ropes in the dark. . . .

After being violently ill for all of Sunday -- and rather snappishly keeping the cats away from me as I cannot stand being pestered when I'm nauseated -- I lay around in bed Monday and slept. Tazendra was glued to me, pressed tight, close as a stuffed animal. At one point I was wakened by this dreadful "rrrrrRRRRRRRrrrrrr . . . rrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrr!" noise that sounded like a cross between a distantly-revving Yamaha scooter and a nearby power drill on the slow setting. She was growling in her sleep. As soon as I touched her she woke up with a start and started purring noisily. I think she was dreaming she was protecting me from something unfortunate. That's about as sweet as she gets, really. She is not a sweet cat to anyone else, but she loves me a lot.

So right now I'm going to snuggle my goblin, who has unreasonably hairy toes, and try to get some sleep.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Mildmay)
Sargon and I were both sick with this crap, and we are both feeling much improved, though still fucking exhausted. (Nooo, I really don't recommend the 12-hours of rib-crushing heaves workout. It hurts to breathe.)

I just wanted to poke my nose out and say that we're alive, it will be a while before we feel up to having anyone over and before the house is safe for company.

I also want to apologize to anyone I may have infected. This shit is burning through my circle of friends like wildfire. I don't think I'm the only plague rat here, but I still feel guilty. It's brief but exhausting, and has fucked gaming up for both groups. It very well might fuck up going to a convention for friends of mine, which I feel just awful about.

Also wanted to record, for posterity, the upsetting fact that my doctor has left his clinic. In sort of a hurry. Nobody knows where he went. We haven't been able to find out anything.

This is bad.

I relied on him heavily. He was willing to work with me over the phone when I had no money to come in, he was willing to adjust my drug dosages based simply on my say-so, he wrote refills without needing to see me in person, and never demanded that I come in for bloodwork before I could have my drugs. He knew I was smart and informed and he listened to me. It is amazing how many extra visits and how much unnecessary testing that saves. And how much money that translates to over even a short period of time.

So now I'm going to have to reestablish that sort of relationship with someone else, and that's not free for the asking. It's time consuming, expensive, and doesn't always work out well -- though at least I have a friend's recommendation for her doctor, a lady who sounds pretty cool.

This wouldn't be that big of a deal except that we don't have insurance right now. That fact makes it a much bigger deal. It's not a catastrophe, but it's far past ideal and into completely uncool territory, especially considering that I am still having memory/brain issues, and worsening hearing loss . . . both of which fucking suck, by the way.

Amusingly, while I am upset about this -- I really, really liked my doctor -- I am still just so happy not to be throwing up anymore that I am in a pretty good mood. Also, I decided that tonight would be a good night to do some silly crafty stuff just for my own amusement, and that helped burn off a lot of my frustration and gave me something to concentrate on that wasn't too physically demanding.

I should probably keep a big tin of mixed up seed beads to sort when shit like this happens and my body and brain are not up to anything challenging, but I'm deathly bored and anxious. I love that kind of sorting. So quiet. But, then, during gym class I used to sit inside, untangling the jump-ropes in the dark. . . .

After being violently ill for all of Sunday -- and rather snappishly keeping the cats away from me as I cannot stand being pestered when I'm nauseated -- I lay around in bed Monday and slept. Tazendra was glued to me, pressed tight, close as a stuffed animal. At one point I was wakened by this dreadful "rrrrrRRRRRRRrrrrrr . . . rrrrrrrRRRRRRRRRRRRRrrrrrr!" noise that sounded like a cross between a distantly-revving Yamaha scooter and a nearby power drill on the slow setting. She was growling in her sleep. As soon as I touched her she woke up with a start and started purring noisily. I think she was dreaming she was protecting me from something unfortunate. That's about as sweet as she gets, really. She is not a sweet cat to anyone else, but she loves me a lot.

So right now I'm going to snuggle my goblin, who has unreasonably hairy toes, and try to get some sleep.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (BTiLC Crazy Problem)
I originally intended to stopped by the clinic a few days before my appointment to figure out where it is and to fill out paperwork ahead of time, but I put it off thinking "Hey, it's not that big a deal. I'll be fine. It's too hot to go out there."

Today, coming home from my therapist's, I decide that since it's sort of on my way and in a part of town I don't mind driving through and I'm already out in the blazing heat, I would go ahead and do it anway.

Good thing, too. As soon as I saw the Planned Parenthood sign, I got that sick thud in my stomach as my adrenal glands emptied, and by the time I had the paperwork in front of me I was shaking so badly I had to cross out my phone number twice. My signature was beyond fucked. I hope they don't plan on using it for identification purposes.

It was the strangest thing, because I had no sense of actual emotional fear or dread, just a purely physical reaction over which I had absolutely no control. Even after the drive home I was still shaky.

It's mostly just funny-odd, and interesting on a psychological level. But Jesus Christ, you know, I thought I was fine with this. I thought I was okay knowing that this was not the clinic and not the people who fucked me over. I guess it was bothering me way more than I was aware of on a conscious level. And that is the second time recently that this has happened. While I'm glad that I apparently have the ability to function while fucked up, I am not so glad to be unaware of shit going on in my own head. Shit I should probably know about.

I'm feeling freaked out right now, but I expected that. Tomorrow is not going to be fun. At least I got the paperwork filled out. I won't have to have anyone help me write my own damn name.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (BTiLC Crazy Problem)
I originally intended to stopped by the clinic a few days before my appointment to figure out where it is and to fill out paperwork ahead of time, but I put it off thinking "Hey, it's not that big a deal. I'll be fine. It's too hot to go out there."

Today, coming home from my therapist's, I decide that since it's sort of on my way and in a part of town I don't mind driving through and I'm already out in the blazing heat, I would go ahead and do it anway.

Good thing, too. As soon as I saw the Planned Parenthood sign, I got that sick thud in my stomach as my adrenal glands emptied, and by the time I had the paperwork in front of me I was shaking so badly I had to cross out my phone number twice. My signature was beyond fucked. I hope they don't plan on using it for identification purposes.

It was the strangest thing, because I had no sense of actual emotional fear or dread, just a purely physical reaction over which I had absolutely no control. Even after the drive home I was still shaky.

It's mostly just funny-odd, and interesting on a psychological level. But Jesus Christ, you know, I thought I was fine with this. I thought I was okay knowing that this was not the clinic and not the people who fucked me over. I guess it was bothering me way more than I was aware of on a conscious level. And that is the second time recently that this has happened. While I'm glad that I apparently have the ability to function while fucked up, I am not so glad to be unaware of shit going on in my own head. Shit I should probably know about.

I'm feeling freaked out right now, but I expected that. Tomorrow is not going to be fun. At least I got the paperwork filled out. I won't have to have anyone help me write my own damn name.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Horatio Stupid)
Arrrgh.

I have a doctor's appointment to discuss my bloodwork next Tuesday.

I have not given the blood for the bloodwork yet BECAUSE I FORGOT LIKE A MORON and now it will probably not be ready in time. Maybe I can get them to do the CBC w/diff posthaste, so I will at least be able to tell if I am anemic yet from all of this BLEEDING.

I will go anyway to discuss the Seroquel stuff and get new prescriptions and ask his opinion about the uterus of doom, but I sort of would really like to know if I need to change my prescriptions before I leave, because getting information out of the black hole that is the doctor's office is almost impossible.

Adding to the fun, I have to finish the entryway tomorrow because the writers' meeting is Friday, here, and I can't exactly leave painting stuff scattered around and a wall half-finished. I guess I do half of it tonight, instead. Great.

I fought like hell to get that appointment, and what good is it going to do me, exactly? Christ, I am such a tosky floop. I blame stress, and that is completely understandable, but it doesn't make me feel any better for forgetting something so fucking important. I realize I'm being a drama queen, but . . . fuck. What is wrong with me?

Naamah, you dumb shit. PUT A CALENDAR UP ALREADY.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Horatio Stupid)
Arrrgh.

I have a doctor's appointment to discuss my bloodwork next Tuesday.

I have not given the blood for the bloodwork yet BECAUSE I FORGOT LIKE A MORON and now it will probably not be ready in time. Maybe I can get them to do the CBC w/diff posthaste, so I will at least be able to tell if I am anemic yet from all of this BLEEDING.

I will go anyway to discuss the Seroquel stuff and get new prescriptions and ask his opinion about the uterus of doom, but I sort of would really like to know if I need to change my prescriptions before I leave, because getting information out of the black hole that is the doctor's office is almost impossible.

Adding to the fun, I have to finish the entryway tomorrow because the writers' meeting is Friday, here, and I can't exactly leave painting stuff scattered around and a wall half-finished. I guess I do half of it tonight, instead. Great.

I fought like hell to get that appointment, and what good is it going to do me, exactly? Christ, I am such a tosky floop. I blame stress, and that is completely understandable, but it doesn't make me feel any better for forgetting something so fucking important. I realize I'm being a drama queen, but . . . fuck. What is wrong with me?

Naamah, you dumb shit. PUT A CALENDAR UP ALREADY.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Warning: Scorpion)
We signed up for COBRA coverage. Thrilling, I know. It is not costing as much as we had feared, but it is all in one lump, back-due to the date of termination, so that's not real fun.

I have a doctor's appointment for the 16th at 3:00. Don't you all let me forget.

I don't really expect he will know what to do as -- despite having ten children -- ladybits are not his area of expertise, but it's amazing the amount of comfort that comes with knowing I will be able to dump this into someone else's lap for even ten minutes and say "fix this."*

It would feel better if I knew that he wasn't double-booked on top of double-booked. I have a lingering fear I will get bumped. Yes, it has happened. It's a mess, y'all.

This is not to give the impression that I am okay with what is going on. I am not okay at all. I am really worried – not even about bleeding to death from my snizz. I mean, I'm used to that. It's old meme, uterus. Old meme. I'm worried about Medicine, worried that nobody will agree to help me, or that they will take too long and I will become sicker and/or will go crazy, that they will try to help but it will not work or will make things worse. I'm afraid, in short, of suffering a lot more.

It's really sad when there's unauthorized exsanguination going on in your pants and your main worry is that the people who are supposed to help you fix that little problem are, in fact, the bad guys. I've been fucked over before, so I'm not laboring under the happy illusion that these are helpful or well-meaning people I will be dealing with. Even the best doctor I've ever had is inaccessible nine tenths of the time, and even the best doctor in the world can have staff members who are incompetent. I put up with it because finding someone who will listen to me is rare. Dr. C could be wholly unqualified and I would probably still go to him because he treats me like a human being.

But that is as much as I am going to say about it because people I know are going through far worse, and complaining thus is simply unseemly. I just wanted to say, I'm getting help, but I'm still plenty freaked out.

Went to the old house today to throw shit out. I don't know how long I lasted. Not long. I had to bail, which I feel bad about. The downstairs room has been marinating in rainwater, of course, so the smell was awful, and I kept finding vermin, which kept freaking me out. I don't mean furry vermin, either. Whatever my flaws, I don't fear mice. I mean beetles and slugs and suchlike. (Shut up. It's not fear, it's full-body revulsion.) Then I got a faceful of hair and dust and sort of freaked out because my hands were already so filthy there was no way to get it off get it off get it off. The old place has no running water, and there were no paper towels or anything. Ugh.

I have to go back tomorrow (with water and washcloths for my face) and go through a bunch of stuff to see what I want to keep and what I want to pitch. Not fun. I don't do nostalgia. Finding birthday cards my mom gave me, letters from people I really miss and can't find, my grandmother's jewelry, childhood photos, pictures of me when I was all skinny and belly-dancery, that kind of shit. That's brutal, man. I would throw it all away because it hurts to look at it, but that would be so dumb, because in ten years I'll be glad I have it. So it goes back into a box and gets hidden away. A much better solution.

Just so things are not epic in their suck, I will say that I wrapped up two gaming characters this week. Okay, that's not actually happy. But the gaming was fun: vampire Don Juans and teenage pseudo-supervillainesses. What is happy is moving on to the next character. If a "paladin" in RPG parlance is a badass fighter who derives special powers from divine favor, what would it be like if you had a blood-drinking lioness for a patron goddess?

I think it would be like that fight between Hector and Achilles in Troy, only at the end Achilles would turn into a butched-up Smilodon, tear his way into the city, and make the streets run red with blood. And they would be bad guys, of course. Not Trojans, who didn't really do anything but have gates that opened the wrong fucking way. But you get the idea. Epic carnage and bloodshed, and prehistoric mammals!

I will miss Sam and Meg, though. Fun characters. I always say "Yeah, we'll get back to them," but this doesn't usually happen. (That is not a criticism, just an observation.)

There. That's a completely boring and mundane me-type update. I am going to go fool around with stuff in my studio and hope that inspiration strikes me on the two commissions I have been stuck on for over a year. Yeah. It's that bad. If this continues much longer, I'm going to have to give the money back and then some and declare myself closed for the forseeable future, because this shit is unacceptable, and if I can't be reliable I need to find something else to do.

* That's what doctors are for. Belay the medical advice unless I ask for it, like I did here. Thank you all for helping with that.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Warning: Scorpion)
We signed up for COBRA coverage. Thrilling, I know. It is not costing as much as we had feared, but it is all in one lump, back-due to the date of termination, so that's not real fun.

I have a doctor's appointment for the 16th at 3:00. Don't you all let me forget.

I don't really expect he will know what to do as -- despite having ten children -- ladybits are not his area of expertise, but it's amazing the amount of comfort that comes with knowing I will be able to dump this into someone else's lap for even ten minutes and say "fix this."*

It would feel better if I knew that he wasn't double-booked on top of double-booked. I have a lingering fear I will get bumped. Yes, it has happened. It's a mess, y'all.

This is not to give the impression that I am okay with what is going on. I am not okay at all. I am really worried – not even about bleeding to death from my snizz. I mean, I'm used to that. It's old meme, uterus. Old meme. I'm worried about Medicine, worried that nobody will agree to help me, or that they will take too long and I will become sicker and/or will go crazy, that they will try to help but it will not work or will make things worse. I'm afraid, in short, of suffering a lot more.

It's really sad when there's unauthorized exsanguination going on in your pants and your main worry is that the people who are supposed to help you fix that little problem are, in fact, the bad guys. I've been fucked over before, so I'm not laboring under the happy illusion that these are helpful or well-meaning people I will be dealing with. Even the best doctor I've ever had is inaccessible nine tenths of the time, and even the best doctor in the world can have staff members who are incompetent. I put up with it because finding someone who will listen to me is rare. Dr. C could be wholly unqualified and I would probably still go to him because he treats me like a human being.

But that is as much as I am going to say about it because people I know are going through far worse, and complaining thus is simply unseemly. I just wanted to say, I'm getting help, but I'm still plenty freaked out.

Went to the old house today to throw shit out. I don't know how long I lasted. Not long. I had to bail, which I feel bad about. The downstairs room has been marinating in rainwater, of course, so the smell was awful, and I kept finding vermin, which kept freaking me out. I don't mean furry vermin, either. Whatever my flaws, I don't fear mice. I mean beetles and slugs and suchlike. (Shut up. It's not fear, it's full-body revulsion.) Then I got a faceful of hair and dust and sort of freaked out because my hands were already so filthy there was no way to get it off get it off get it off. The old place has no running water, and there were no paper towels or anything. Ugh.

I have to go back tomorrow (with water and washcloths for my face) and go through a bunch of stuff to see what I want to keep and what I want to pitch. Not fun. I don't do nostalgia. Finding birthday cards my mom gave me, letters from people I really miss and can't find, my grandmother's jewelry, childhood photos, pictures of me when I was all skinny and belly-dancery, that kind of shit. That's brutal, man. I would throw it all away because it hurts to look at it, but that would be so dumb, because in ten years I'll be glad I have it. So it goes back into a box and gets hidden away. A much better solution.

Just so things are not epic in their suck, I will say that I wrapped up two gaming characters this week. Okay, that's not actually happy. But the gaming was fun: vampire Don Juans and teenage pseudo-supervillainesses. What is happy is moving on to the next character. If a "paladin" in RPG parlance is a badass fighter who derives special powers from divine favor, what would it be like if you had a blood-drinking lioness for a patron goddess?

I think it would be like that fight between Hector and Achilles in Troy, only at the end Achilles would turn into a butched-up Smilodon, tear his way into the city, and make the streets run red with blood. And they would be bad guys, of course. Not Trojans, who didn't really do anything but have gates that opened the wrong fucking way. But you get the idea. Epic carnage and bloodshed, and prehistoric mammals!

I will miss Sam and Meg, though. Fun characters. I always say "Yeah, we'll get back to them," but this doesn't usually happen. (That is not a criticism, just an observation.)

There. That's a completely boring and mundane me-type update. I am going to go fool around with stuff in my studio and hope that inspiration strikes me on the two commissions I have been stuck on for over a year. Yeah. It's that bad. If this continues much longer, I'm going to have to give the money back and then some and declare myself closed for the forseeable future, because this shit is unacceptable, and if I can't be reliable I need to find something else to do.

* That's what doctors are for. Belay the medical advice unless I ask for it, like I did here. Thank you all for helping with that.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Over the course of reading your comments, I realized that a lot of you aren't aware of the particulars of my bad run-ins with the medical profession, and so I thought I'd delineate them for future reference.

A lot of you recommended I go to Planned Parenthood, and while I would like to say that I am very much behind Planned Parenthood in theory, and while I support their mission of bringing affordable health care to women who really need it, I am very much against going to my local clinics personally.

First of all, Planned Parenthood is divided into regions, and not all regions offer the same services. The one local to me, for example, does not offer vasectomies or abortions (or did not, last I enquired).

Also, the local clinic is staffed by total bastards. More on that in a moment.

First, the beginning of the story.

Cut for those of you who would rather not know, those of you who have heard it already, and those of you who were there. )

So that's my tale of woe. I know it's not as bad as some of yours, for which I feel profoundly grateful, no offense. I nevertheless hope that nobody reading this ever has as much trouble as I have had. If you carry one thing away from this story, learn this: you are the responsible party for your health care. If the professionals you hire do not treat you with respect, go elsewhere (provided you can) and when you leave, make your displeasure known, preferably in print. You don't have to take their shit. You are entitled to be treated like a human being, no matter how fat and multiply pierced and slutty -- or virginal -- you may be.

There's a happy ending to my tale, at least. Sargon stepped up to the plate after the last dose of fuckery and decided to get snipped.

And the doctor? Dr. Clark Tingleaf of Claremore, Oklahoma? Gave us no shit whatsoever. The experience was so different from what I have had to endure when it is my body and my decision about what you get to do with it, or what I want to do with it, that it wasn't even funny.

It's enough to wonder what it is about the sight of my pussy that drives people insane.

Anyway, I won't openly publish the bad doctors' names because that might be a stupid thing to do, legally. It would also be stupid because, well, I don't want them getting hate mail or dog shit or death threats that might ever be traced back to me. I'm over the "actively seeking retaliation" phase. But if you are a woman living in Oklahoma, and you want to know who to avoid, I will point out that someone has given negative reviews to Drs. Bitch, Douchebag, and Fucking-Cunt at RateMDs.com.

I will issue a blanket warning against Tulsa-area Planned Parenthoods. I cannot recommend them for anything more complicated than prescribing birth control and administering STD and pregnancy testing. Anything more complicated than that, and you are probably better off seeking a second opinion with a wino in a gutter. The wino will at least let you share his MD 20/20 before he punches holes in your cervix with a rusty icepick.

And with that image I leave you, my beautiful dreamers, and bring an end to this subject for now. I wish each and every one of you better luck in the trenches than I have had.

* My favorite limerick goes like this:

There once was a woman from Tours
whose cunt was all covered with sores.
The dogs in the street
wouldn't eat the green meat
that hung in festoons from her drawers.


No dinner that incorporates cooked spinach is complete without it.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
Over the course of reading your comments, I realized that a lot of you aren't aware of the particulars of my bad run-ins with the medical profession, and so I thought I'd delineate them for future reference.

A lot of you recommended I go to Planned Parenthood, and while I would like to say that I am very much behind Planned Parenthood in theory, and while I support their mission of bringing affordable health care to women who really need it, I am very much against going to my local clinics personally.

First of all, Planned Parenthood is divided into regions, and not all regions offer the same services. The one local to me, for example, does not offer vasectomies or abortions (or did not, last I enquired).

Also, the local clinic is staffed by total bastards. More on that in a moment.

First, the beginning of the story.

Cut for those of you who would rather not know, those of you who have heard it already, and those of you who were there. )

So that's my tale of woe. I know it's not as bad as some of yours, for which I feel profoundly grateful, no offense. I nevertheless hope that nobody reading this ever has as much trouble as I have had. If you carry one thing away from this story, learn this: you are the responsible party for your health care. If the professionals you hire do not treat you with respect, go elsewhere (provided you can) and when you leave, make your displeasure known, preferably in print. You don't have to take their shit. You are entitled to be treated like a human being, no matter how fat and multiply pierced and slutty -- or virginal -- you may be.

There's a happy ending to my tale, at least. Sargon stepped up to the plate after the last dose of fuckery and decided to get snipped.

And the doctor? Dr. Clark Tingleaf of Claremore, Oklahoma? Gave us no shit whatsoever. The experience was so different from what I have had to endure when it is my body and my decision about what you get to do with it, or what I want to do with it, that it wasn't even funny.

It's enough to wonder what it is about the sight of my pussy that drives people insane.

Anyway, I won't openly publish the bad doctors' names because that might be a stupid thing to do, legally. It would also be stupid because, well, I don't want them getting hate mail or dog shit or death threats that might ever be traced back to me. I'm over the "actively seeking retaliation" phase. But if you are a woman living in Oklahoma, and you want to know who to avoid, I will point out that someone has given negative reviews to Drs. Bitch, Douchebag, and Fucking-Cunt at RateMDs.com.

I will issue a blanket warning against Tulsa-area Planned Parenthoods. I cannot recommend them for anything more complicated than prescribing birth control and administering STD and pregnancy testing. Anything more complicated than that, and you are probably better off seeking a second opinion with a wino in a gutter. The wino will at least let you share his MD 20/20 before he punches holes in your cervix with a rusty icepick.

And with that image I leave you, my beautiful dreamers, and bring an end to this subject for now. I wish each and every one of you better luck in the trenches than I have had.

* My favorite limerick goes like this:

There once was a woman from Tours
whose cunt was all covered with sores.
The dogs in the street
wouldn't eat the green meat
that hung in festoons from her drawers.


No dinner that incorporates cooked spinach is complete without it.

Whoa.

Apr. 28th, 2006 03:40 am
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Travis Tame)
The past few days have been annoying as fuck for so many reasons that I honestly do not know where to begin.

How about on Monday, when I called the doctor's office for refills on my prescription? How about the next three days, during which I called them multiple times asking for refills again and again? How about today when the pharmacy still had not received any such order for refills?

Yeah.

I spent way, way too long on the phone today sorting out that clusterfuck and giving someone a very polite but secretly weevil-filled piece of my mind.

I don't understand why the doctor's office does not just issue an interdepartmental memo to the effect of "DO NOT fuck with Naamah. She has Issues Enough without you crapheads contributing to them. Ignore at your peril."

This all comes at a time when my tolerance for, well, anything comes at a historically low ebb. Those of you who know me will know that Sargon and I hardly ever scrap. I started (not just participated in, but actively started) three separate tiffs today. He was good enough to understand what it was all about and forgive me -- he didn't even fight back -- but I'm simply disgusted with my own behavior. I'm saying this by way of demonstrating that I have well and truly Just About Had It, and that if I don't find what is annoying the shit out of me soon and fucking kill it I am likely to blow a gasket publicly.

This will most likely involve a geyser of blood erupting from my nose and mouth as my brain explodes the next time some toadsucking moron inadvertently triggers my Fist Of Death response.

On the bright and shiny side, I've seen friends in the past couple of days and had enjoyment, philosophy, weird smells, and neon frogs aplenty. And lots of bitching. My god. I didn't know I could bitch that much and not go mute. My apologies, guys.

I have also discovered that apparently I am capable of developing a lifethreatening crush on an 18-year-old boy in roughly 2.5 seconds from a cold start and with no warning.

Sargon and I made the mistake of watching Sky High, which is an enjoyable, silly little movie with much to recommend it. Including Steven Strait as the unfortunately-named Warren Peace, resident brooding bad-boy and sole redeeming feature of the male half of this cast. (Well, aside from Kurt Russel, who could still spank my ass like a bad daddy any time he wanted. And I mean that.)

At first, I admit, I thought Steve was way, way too pretty in a way that just isn't my type. So I was okay, honestly, until he showed up in the busboy outfit, complete with rag over shoulder. Don't ask me why that got to me so bad. Ask [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva. She agrees with me, and has probably had a full night's sleep. At that point, all of the accumulated hotness hit me at once, and all I could think was "Must . . . not . . . pleasure . . . self!" And I know that I am not alone in my drooling.

He has a great voice, about twice as deep as you'd think, which is probably all that saves him from "disposable pretty brat" territory. Dear GOD, the throaty growling he is welcome to do in my ear anytime. . . . And he snarls so beautifully.

It does not hurt that in the only 2.5 seconds in the whole movie he isn't brooding for all he's worth, he proves he has a million-dollar smile. Also doesn't hurt that he looks good in a tux. Actually, I take that back. I think that scene broke something in my girly-bits. I was literally whimpering at the screen and pawing at my clothing.

And let's discuss that profile.

Yeeeah.

The hawt is so powerful I'll have to desensitize myself to it by exposing myself to it a lot.

They ("they" being the Internets) inform me that he's done modeling and I've ferreted out a few pictures, but honestly, I apparently only like him with long, straight hair. Fluffy hair does nothing for me. But with the long hair, he does things for me that I normally have to pay for in cash. In foreign countries.

In the past few days I have done more perverted thinking than I have done in the three months previous to this. And just between you and me, that is not necessarily a good thing, folks. The world's porn production may just take another spike. And I may just have cast a very tricky part in my bondage porn epic, which I haven't been able to start for lack of a decent male lead. I wonder how he feels about body piercing?

I pray this malaise passes before I make icons or something. Or, god forbid, write another fan letter, which I would only regret. He doesn't need to know what I do to snotty would-be bad boys who cross my path. No, no he does not.

Aaaand on that note, I think I'm going to bed before this retarded fucking mockingbird drives me out of my mind.

Goodnight, folks. I'll write again tomorrow unless the perverted dreams I'm likely to have tonight fuse the lobes of my brain into a single blob of unresponsive jelly.

Goddamn teenage boys. Fuck.

Whoa.

Apr. 28th, 2006 03:40 am
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Travis Tame)
The past few days have been annoying as fuck for so many reasons that I honestly do not know where to begin.

How about on Monday, when I called the doctor's office for refills on my prescription? How about the next three days, during which I called them multiple times asking for refills again and again? How about today when the pharmacy still had not received any such order for refills?

Yeah.

I spent way, way too long on the phone today sorting out that clusterfuck and giving someone a very polite but secretly weevil-filled piece of my mind.

I don't understand why the doctor's office does not just issue an interdepartmental memo to the effect of "DO NOT fuck with Naamah. She has Issues Enough without you crapheads contributing to them. Ignore at your peril."

This all comes at a time when my tolerance for, well, anything comes at a historically low ebb. Those of you who know me will know that Sargon and I hardly ever scrap. I started (not just participated in, but actively started) three separate tiffs today. He was good enough to understand what it was all about and forgive me -- he didn't even fight back -- but I'm simply disgusted with my own behavior. I'm saying this by way of demonstrating that I have well and truly Just About Had It, and that if I don't find what is annoying the shit out of me soon and fucking kill it I am likely to blow a gasket publicly.

This will most likely involve a geyser of blood erupting from my nose and mouth as my brain explodes the next time some toadsucking moron inadvertently triggers my Fist Of Death response.

On the bright and shiny side, I've seen friends in the past couple of days and had enjoyment, philosophy, weird smells, and neon frogs aplenty. And lots of bitching. My god. I didn't know I could bitch that much and not go mute. My apologies, guys.

I have also discovered that apparently I am capable of developing a lifethreatening crush on an 18-year-old boy in roughly 2.5 seconds from a cold start and with no warning.

Sargon and I made the mistake of watching Sky High, which is an enjoyable, silly little movie with much to recommend it. Including Steven Strait as the unfortunately-named Warren Peace, resident brooding bad-boy and sole redeeming feature of the male half of this cast. (Well, aside from Kurt Russel, who could still spank my ass like a bad daddy any time he wanted. And I mean that.)

At first, I admit, I thought Steve was way, way too pretty in a way that just isn't my type. So I was okay, honestly, until he showed up in the busboy outfit, complete with rag over shoulder. Don't ask me why that got to me so bad. Ask [livejournal.com profile] bat_cheva. She agrees with me, and has probably had a full night's sleep. At that point, all of the accumulated hotness hit me at once, and all I could think was "Must . . . not . . . pleasure . . . self!" And I know that I am not alone in my drooling.

He has a great voice, about twice as deep as you'd think, which is probably all that saves him from "disposable pretty brat" territory. Dear GOD, the throaty growling he is welcome to do in my ear anytime. . . . And he snarls so beautifully.

It does not hurt that in the only 2.5 seconds in the whole movie he isn't brooding for all he's worth, he proves he has a million-dollar smile. Also doesn't hurt that he looks good in a tux. Actually, I take that back. I think that scene broke something in my girly-bits. I was literally whimpering at the screen and pawing at my clothing.

And let's discuss that profile.

Yeeeah.

The hawt is so powerful I'll have to desensitize myself to it by exposing myself to it a lot.

They ("they" being the Internets) inform me that he's done modeling and I've ferreted out a few pictures, but honestly, I apparently only like him with long, straight hair. Fluffy hair does nothing for me. But with the long hair, he does things for me that I normally have to pay for in cash. In foreign countries.

In the past few days I have done more perverted thinking than I have done in the three months previous to this. And just between you and me, that is not necessarily a good thing, folks. The world's porn production may just take another spike. And I may just have cast a very tricky part in my bondage porn epic, which I haven't been able to start for lack of a decent male lead. I wonder how he feels about body piercing?

I pray this malaise passes before I make icons or something. Or, god forbid, write another fan letter, which I would only regret. He doesn't need to know what I do to snotty would-be bad boys who cross my path. No, no he does not.

Aaaand on that note, I think I'm going to bed before this retarded fucking mockingbird drives me out of my mind.

Goodnight, folks. I'll write again tomorrow unless the perverted dreams I'm likely to have tonight fuse the lobes of my brain into a single blob of unresponsive jelly.

Goddamn teenage boys. Fuck.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Maniacal Laughter)
For those who missed the memo, on the fifth of next month, Fates willing, Sargon will join the ranks of the snipped. We've got him scheduled for a no-scalpel vasectomy, the lowest-impact kind available.

I'm filled with an appalling sense of dread, largely stemming from the fact that thus far all of our attempts to ensure that we will remain blissfully childfree have met with resoundingly negative results. And so it is out of a sense of obligation that I write this entry, which is less about the event itself and more about me deliberately forcing myself to step on mental cracks and walk under psychological ladders in an effort to train myself to really believe that talking about a thing will not fuck it up.

Fate can fuck things up all on her own, and does not need to read my livejournal to know when I am looking forward to something.

The doctor was totally cool about it when we went in to speak with him. We politely emphasized that my life would be in danger if I did get pregnant, and he agreed that this was by far the best thing we could do for ourselves. I was expecting much more of a fight, but he wasn't an asshole about it at all. It was refreshing in the extreme. I mean, wow. Imagine that. A medical professional actually allowing two adult human beings to make the choice they feel is best for them. Incredible.

Really, it's only sensible to pitch the ball into Sargon's court, given that I've exhausted the non-invasive procedures available to me.* It's so much simpler for men.** Two tiny punctures, and it's done. There's none of that squelching around in the depths of my plumbing. No pre- and post-op checkups. No "please piss in this cup to prove you aren't pregnant, you vapid whore" tests. No pain and bleeding for a week, a month if you count sex. No hormone pills beforehand to make sure I'm absolutely shitting out my forebrain with terror because of estrogen poisoning.

Just one consult. Then the operation. And that's all.

Did you know that men get a Valium to take before they go in, as well as a local anaesthetic? I had whole chunks ripped out of my cervix with no painkillers whatsoever, and I did not get so much as a fucking lime lollipop to calm me down beforehand.

What the fuck is that about?

Is it because we're women, and thus will someday have to go through labor, so it's only seen as right and proper that we learn to suffer because it somehow builds character?

In the words of the Foulmouthed Broad, FUCK THAT SHIT.

Oh, I realize that the pedantic assholes among you are probably tempted to pizzle on about how it genuinely is necessary for a guy to be relaxed in order to perform the procedure, and that it's not at all necessary to be sure a woman is relaxed before you go perforating her unmentionables, but that just goes to show how little regard medical professionals have for the psychological state of their patients. They've brainwashed you into believing that how you feel about what they do to you is unimportant. Oh, and there's still the part where women are expected to endure any amount of pain the physician deems necessary simply because we're female. It's "unavoidable." Yeah. That's what we in the snarky bitch industry like to call "bullshit."

Fucking barbarians.

Really, I should have gotten him to do this years ago. Would have saved me much bitterness, spite, and drama. I swear . . . I still can't believe the shit I have to deal with because I fucked up in some egregious way in a former life and was born a female with no desire for children. Yes, I'm still hoping my uterus just shrivels up and falls out like an old lava rock one of these days. Spiteful fucking thing.

Anyway, having this done will be like closing the book on a very painful and very unpleasant phase of my life, and I'll be free to just put it out of my mind thereafter. Provided it all goes as planned, I'll feel a great deal safer and more comfortable.

That's all I've ever fucking asked: the right to be allowed to follow through on a choice I made when I was six years old. After twenty-two years, I doubt I'm going to change my mind.

I'm really lucky to have a husband who is with me a hundred percent.

* I ask that you all politely refrain from offering birth control advice or asking me if I've tried this method or that method. I've tried everything short of abdominal surgery and crocodile dung. I have done everything I am willing to do to rid myself of my fertility. Nothing has worked to my satisfaction, and a great deal of it has been destructive to my life. It's his turn.

** I didn't say it was a cakewalk. I said it was easier for men than for women. I have sympathy for the precious nuts, okay? But you guys are just way, way easier to sterilize.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Maniacal Laughter)
For those who missed the memo, on the fifth of next month, Fates willing, Sargon will join the ranks of the snipped. We've got him scheduled for a no-scalpel vasectomy, the lowest-impact kind available.

I'm filled with an appalling sense of dread, largely stemming from the fact that thus far all of our attempts to ensure that we will remain blissfully childfree have met with resoundingly negative results. And so it is out of a sense of obligation that I write this entry, which is less about the event itself and more about me deliberately forcing myself to step on mental cracks and walk under psychological ladders in an effort to train myself to really believe that talking about a thing will not fuck it up.

Fate can fuck things up all on her own, and does not need to read my livejournal to know when I am looking forward to something.

The doctor was totally cool about it when we went in to speak with him. We politely emphasized that my life would be in danger if I did get pregnant, and he agreed that this was by far the best thing we could do for ourselves. I was expecting much more of a fight, but he wasn't an asshole about it at all. It was refreshing in the extreme. I mean, wow. Imagine that. A medical professional actually allowing two adult human beings to make the choice they feel is best for them. Incredible.

Really, it's only sensible to pitch the ball into Sargon's court, given that I've exhausted the non-invasive procedures available to me.* It's so much simpler for men.** Two tiny punctures, and it's done. There's none of that squelching around in the depths of my plumbing. No pre- and post-op checkups. No "please piss in this cup to prove you aren't pregnant, you vapid whore" tests. No pain and bleeding for a week, a month if you count sex. No hormone pills beforehand to make sure I'm absolutely shitting out my forebrain with terror because of estrogen poisoning.

Just one consult. Then the operation. And that's all.

Did you know that men get a Valium to take before they go in, as well as a local anaesthetic? I had whole chunks ripped out of my cervix with no painkillers whatsoever, and I did not get so much as a fucking lime lollipop to calm me down beforehand.

What the fuck is that about?

Is it because we're women, and thus will someday have to go through labor, so it's only seen as right and proper that we learn to suffer because it somehow builds character?

In the words of the Foulmouthed Broad, FUCK THAT SHIT.

Oh, I realize that the pedantic assholes among you are probably tempted to pizzle on about how it genuinely is necessary for a guy to be relaxed in order to perform the procedure, and that it's not at all necessary to be sure a woman is relaxed before you go perforating her unmentionables, but that just goes to show how little regard medical professionals have for the psychological state of their patients. They've brainwashed you into believing that how you feel about what they do to you is unimportant. Oh, and there's still the part where women are expected to endure any amount of pain the physician deems necessary simply because we're female. It's "unavoidable." Yeah. That's what we in the snarky bitch industry like to call "bullshit."

Fucking barbarians.

Really, I should have gotten him to do this years ago. Would have saved me much bitterness, spite, and drama. I swear . . . I still can't believe the shit I have to deal with because I fucked up in some egregious way in a former life and was born a female with no desire for children. Yes, I'm still hoping my uterus just shrivels up and falls out like an old lava rock one of these days. Spiteful fucking thing.

Anyway, having this done will be like closing the book on a very painful and very unpleasant phase of my life, and I'll be free to just put it out of my mind thereafter. Provided it all goes as planned, I'll feel a great deal safer and more comfortable.

That's all I've ever fucking asked: the right to be allowed to follow through on a choice I made when I was six years old. After twenty-two years, I doubt I'm going to change my mind.

I'm really lucky to have a husband who is with me a hundred percent.

* I ask that you all politely refrain from offering birth control advice or asking me if I've tried this method or that method. I've tried everything short of abdominal surgery and crocodile dung. I have done everything I am willing to do to rid myself of my fertility. Nothing has worked to my satisfaction, and a great deal of it has been destructive to my life. It's his turn.

** I didn't say it was a cakewalk. I said it was easier for men than for women. I have sympathy for the precious nuts, okay? But you guys are just way, way easier to sterilize.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (The Mocus)
Sargon's new job is treating him well. The hours are weird and inconvenient, but it's worth it if he's himself when he comes home. And I have had the car all day today, which means I have used it to finish up all kinds of business. Most of it vaguely unpleasant.

I got my drivers' license renewed. One of those little rituals that really suck, so thank goodness it doesn't have to be done more often. So now I have one of the new ugly-ass Okie licenses. And, hey, not a total loss. The chick at the tag agency was at least cute and personable.

With the new license, I drove myself around town today, putting the finishing touches on the iron railspike that is my letter of complaint to the Oklahoma State Board of Medical Licensure and Supervision. We'll hope they heed my assertion that something is very wrong when a doctor denies a patient birth control and medical care over dropping an f-bomb.

In fact, in Section 509 of the Oklahoma Allopathic Medical and Surgical Licensure and Supervision act, Unprofessional Conduct is partly defined as follows:

Failure to provide necessary on-going medical treatment when a doctor-patient relationship has been established, which relationship can be severed by either party providing a reasonable period of time is granted.

She gave me no notice whatsoever. So I think I have her. I don't know what they can do to her, but I hope it involves cockroaches and a funnel.

I feel very proud of myself. Writing out that three-page complaint was not easy. Neither was trekking through the Oklahoma heat in a car with no AC in order to copy the pertinent letters and records.

I hope it's not illegal for me to copy and mail my own medical records. That only just occurred to me. I don't think so, but stupider things are outlawed.

Mathurin is doing better. He's still so thin I feel like I should bleach his fur and call him Spike. He's come out of hiding, and he's eating a little, and using the litterbox, and terrorizing the other cats. More on that whole situation later. It's amusing.

Other than that, I'm feeling blue.

My confidence is low, my faith in myself and in the eventual benevolence of fate. An ill-timed yet not entirely unjustified remark that I'm trying to ignore has me doubting my work, which means now it even hurts to paint. This is bad, especially when the project I'm working on is so different from my usual approach. It's beautiful, but I still feel doubtful. Not of the piece, but of my ability to keep up with its demands. It's a toughie, and it keeps not coming out how I thought.

And I need to keep working, because I need to get paid.

Meh.

Anyway, before I get all depressed. A link, because I, uh, haven't laughed this hard in ages. Seriously.

Naked pussy. Ironically, work-safe.

They are beautiful, beautiful cats. No, I mean it. They truly are. But I can't not laugh at them. So I give you the link, in the hopes that you will laugh, too.

In other random notes: Hey, you kinky bastards, I need a word.

A word for blades made for blood-play; a set of dedicated instruments, decorative, functional, and high-quality. An artist's instruments, as distinct from something used by doctors or torturers.

"Razors" and "knives" are not right – too specific. These blades have a variety of shapes and functions. "Blades" is all right, but it's a bit more dull than I like. The word needs to be euphonious, and not too medical or too specific ("scalpel," for instance, is both too specific and too medical).

What was the word that Carey used in the Kushiel books? Flechettes? I can't remember, and my books are currently avalanched under one another.

I like "flechette," but the actual meaning of that word isn't quite right as it has strong connotations of something projectile and/or dart-like.

Ah. I'm going to be late. I'll leave you to ponder while I go fetch the husband. Later.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (The Mocus)
Sargon's new job is treating him well. The hours are weird and inconvenient, but it's worth it if he's himself when he comes home. And I have had the car all day today, which means I have used it to finish up all kinds of business. Most of it vaguely unpleasant.

I got my drivers' license renewed. One of those little rituals that really suck, so thank goodness it doesn't have to be done more often. So now I have one of the new ugly-ass Okie licenses. And, hey, not a total loss. The chick at the tag agency was at least cute and personable.

With the new license, I drove myself around town today, putting the finishing touches on the iron railspike that is my letter of complaint to the Oklahoma State Board of Medical Licensure and Supervision. We'll hope they heed my assertion that something is very wrong when a doctor denies a patient birth control and medical care over dropping an f-bomb.

In fact, in Section 509 of the Oklahoma Allopathic Medical and Surgical Licensure and Supervision act, Unprofessional Conduct is partly defined as follows:

Failure to provide necessary on-going medical treatment when a doctor-patient relationship has been established, which relationship can be severed by either party providing a reasonable period of time is granted.

She gave me no notice whatsoever. So I think I have her. I don't know what they can do to her, but I hope it involves cockroaches and a funnel.

I feel very proud of myself. Writing out that three-page complaint was not easy. Neither was trekking through the Oklahoma heat in a car with no AC in order to copy the pertinent letters and records.

I hope it's not illegal for me to copy and mail my own medical records. That only just occurred to me. I don't think so, but stupider things are outlawed.

Mathurin is doing better. He's still so thin I feel like I should bleach his fur and call him Spike. He's come out of hiding, and he's eating a little, and using the litterbox, and terrorizing the other cats. More on that whole situation later. It's amusing.

Other than that, I'm feeling blue.

My confidence is low, my faith in myself and in the eventual benevolence of fate. An ill-timed yet not entirely unjustified remark that I'm trying to ignore has me doubting my work, which means now it even hurts to paint. This is bad, especially when the project I'm working on is so different from my usual approach. It's beautiful, but I still feel doubtful. Not of the piece, but of my ability to keep up with its demands. It's a toughie, and it keeps not coming out how I thought.

And I need to keep working, because I need to get paid.

Meh.

Anyway, before I get all depressed. A link, because I, uh, haven't laughed this hard in ages. Seriously.

Naked pussy. Ironically, work-safe.

They are beautiful, beautiful cats. No, I mean it. They truly are. But I can't not laugh at them. So I give you the link, in the hopes that you will laugh, too.

In other random notes: Hey, you kinky bastards, I need a word.

A word for blades made for blood-play; a set of dedicated instruments, decorative, functional, and high-quality. An artist's instruments, as distinct from something used by doctors or torturers.

"Razors" and "knives" are not right – too specific. These blades have a variety of shapes and functions. "Blades" is all right, but it's a bit more dull than I like. The word needs to be euphonious, and not too medical or too specific ("scalpel," for instance, is both too specific and too medical).

What was the word that Carey used in the Kushiel books? Flechettes? I can't remember, and my books are currently avalanched under one another.

I like "flechette," but the actual meaning of that word isn't quite right as it has strong connotations of something projectile and/or dart-like.

Ah. I'm going to be late. I'll leave you to ponder while I go fetch the husband. Later.

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