I'm feeling raw. . .I don't feel great. . .

May 12, 2011


I feel like crap.

Hauling myself out of bed yesterday afternoon for my film class took all of my energy, including what little I had left in reserve.

Meaning not much.

At 43 years old, I cannot understand how something I have been experiencing for 31 years can still cause me so much trouble.

Almost feels like child rearing and marriage some days.

I've done everything I can to make my monthly visitor comfortable.

Including surgery.

But every once in a while, I am reminded of how little control I have over my body and what it does.

Since Saturday, I have been living with pain so intense I've resorted to heating pads on high, curling into the fetal position and crying.

Menopause can, in no way, be worse than this.

Bring it on.

Today, please.






Meaning most of yesterday, outside of the time it took to show 12 Angry Men and talk about the decline of the courtroom drama, I was in bed.

My only companions were Tikka and Frankie, and my Kobo EReader.

Lots of love was received from my canine compadres, who nestled as close to me as they could, keeping me warm and safe.

At least that's what I can recall through the drug induced haze that was keeping me sane.

Reilley came in a couple of time, meowing his dismay at my prone position, and canine bodyguards as both prevented cuddle time with "grammie."

Yes.

I am "grammie" to Em's cat.

And that is as much of a grammie as I am willing to be right now.






While lying in bed, contemplating the value of stronger narcotics and pondering about how I could obtain them. . .

. . .oh, I wonder if my mother would share her morphine. . .probably not. . .

I did do some reading.

I'd have to feel even worse than I do right now in order to not read.

Our house is nothing if not a satelite site for the public library.

Literally, books are piled in all the places Stephen will allow them to be piled.

And if he doesn't like where books may be stacked, say behind the microwave, he has no problems informing me that perhaps I should consider moving them.

And I do.

Because if I don't, the possibility of finding them at the used book store increases significantly.






I finished the new Charlaine Harris Sookie Stackhouse book, Dead Reckoning.

Disappointing, to say the least.

Normally, I like reading these books.

I know, I know, not exactly on par with War and Peace or Anna Karenina, but sometimes all you want is an enjoyable story that doesn't hurt your brain when you read it.

I've enjoyed the other books in the series, hence I thought I would enjoy this one.

But alas, this was not the case.

The story was missing something. . .I can't quite figure it out.

But when and if I do, I'll share.






This afternoon I'm showing In the Name of the Father, which is enough incentive for me to fight the urge to throw myself under a bus.

But just barely. . . .

Feel free to send any unused narcotics to my house, drop them off in my mailbox. . .
anything.

Please.



Title Lyric: Physical Pain by Joan Armatrading