Or: Quite Dark, Actually

If I seem a little Jekyll-and-Hyde lately, or more so than usual, it’s because I’m monkeying with my meds. Med monkeying is always a bad idea, but at this point I have the doctor’s blessing and something MUST be done.

In addition to the IC and to a myriad of other obnoxious fucking problems, I have panic disorder. Now, before you sympathize and say “Gee! I had a rough time last week! I had sweaty palms. Man, that was rough. Glad you’re feeling better!”, I want to tell you that that ain’t panic disorder.

In 1996 was having upward of five to seven panic attacks a day, usually with two in the middle of the night. I genuinely expected to die at any time and I was unable to sleep and unable to ever fully relax. I started falling asleep in my college classes and luckily had a friend who I was able to warn. I would tell her very calmly in the middle of makeup class, “I’m having a panic attack. If I fall over I’m having a heart attack, and please call 911 for me.”

She would nod quietly and keep an eye on me until the attack passed.

A panic attack is not dangerous, but it can be terrifying, largely because it feels ‘crazy’ and ‘out of control.’ Panic disorder is frightening because of the panic attacks associated with it, and also because it often leads to other complications such as phobias, depression, substance abuse, medical complications, even suicide. Its effects can range from mild word or social impairment to a total inability to face the outside world.

The suicide bit? That was me. After three months of living on the knife edge of a cliff I was thinking about doing anything, anything at all, to make it stop.

Thus began the Endless Therapist and Med Search of ‘96. I tried medication after medication, and they either had no effect or left me seriously stoned. Eventually I found someone who put me on a meager 10mgs of Paxil and that was the magic bullet. The disorder tapered off and I have not had more than two or three full-blown panic attacks in almost 10 years. God bless the makers of Paxil.

Over time I have become accustomed to the 10mgs and have had to move up and down from 20mgs back to 10 depending on the level of stress in my life. To give you a frame of reference for my drug sensitivity, most people are on 100mgs of Paxil to start and will eventually increase their dosage over time.

Unfortunately, one of the side effects of Paxil is a dampening of libido. I’m sorry, did I say “dampening”? I meant “obliterating”. Which is not good for my marriage.

When I’m not on my meds I’m essentially a nympho. Last month when I mistakenly went went off my meds, I was insane and upset and fucking crazy, but I also was reminded of what a healthy sex life is. I was reminded about how the good stuff feels when it isn’t being dampened by a mental blanket. The great thing about the Paxil is that it shallows the lows, but I’d forgotten how much it lowers the highs.

I’d been on 20mgs for some time, but it became clear to me that I had to try and go down to 10mgs again at some point. I’ve been trying and, Fabulous Reader, it isn’t working. If I could stop the mood swings long enough to get in the mood I’m sure we’d have a lovely time. As it is now it’s difficult to romance someone who’s sobbing under the covers for no discernible reason.

I’m not seeing an answer. Before you recommend Wellbutrin, which we all know pleases so many commercial actors because of it’s “Low risk of sexual side-effects”, I have to tell you that I’ve tried it and the shit makes me mental. Zoloft makes me completely stoned and anything else I’d be on would carry the same risks that Paxil does, and I know that Paxil works.

But I don’t want to live in a sexless marriage. I don’t want my husband to live in a sexless marriage, and by that I mean one that contains no desire on my part to have sex regardless of how often we jog backward. It’s not him; he’s a God. He’s marvelous. I’m not looking for anyone else or wanting anyone else. As it is, I’m not even taking any solo flights, if you catch my drift.

Ad the libido-dampening Paxil to the pain of IC with intercourse and basically I miss sex like an old friend that was once very close, but who has changed as we’ve gotten older and who I no longer really trust. It hurts like hell as often as it feels good.

I don’t know what to do, Fabulous Peeps, all I know is that things can’t continue the way they are. If you have had a similar issue, I’d love to hear about it. I’m running out of ideas and can’t see the computer screen through the mental fog.

The Dark

Norman is coming back to us. After some serious drama and mess it turns out he hasn’t found his home after all. I’ve discovered, again, that it’s hard as hell saving an animal. I hate putting stuff back on the “to do” list after I think it’s off.

Something is wrong with Joey. He’s going off his food and is making random noises and nipping. I’m trying to get a vet appointment for him, but he may be at the end of the line and I’m trying not to think about having to put him down.

Our drainage system is blocked somewhere. Use the master bathroom at your own peril. Andy bravely snaked the pipes and wherever the blockage is, it isn’t anywhere nearby. Joy.

Someone broke into our garage and stole all of Andy’s tools. Far more obnoxious than the petty thievery is the fact that now the fucking garage door won’t shut. We’re propping it closed with a cardboard box that works so well, half the time I can’t get the fucking door open at all.

Why I, Specifically, Suck:

I’ve been spilling things. A lot of things. I spilled three glasses of wine in three days over the holiday. I fell today. I fell hard on my hands on hard floor and I don’t know why. It would be fucking TYPICAL for me to get MS.

I can’t be happy. It doesn’t matter what happens, I can’t be happy.

I’m jealous of the old friend of mine who used to help with my Panic Disorder because she is becoming famous. I love her and I’m thrilled for her, but I’m jealous. She’s getting famouser and famouser and I’m getting fatter and fatter. I wish I was getting famouser and famouser.

I can’t keep any sort of exercise/food resolution I make. I don’t know what the fuck my damage is, but I can’t seem to do anything right. I have half a mind to just staple my fucking mouth shut.

I have terrible skin and nails.

I can’t be there for anyone because my child is screaming all the time at the moment. But off my Paxil everything feels unreal and I feel like I’m not doing a very good job of taking care of him.

I’m not being as nice or attentive or lovely to my husband as I’d like and I think he needs and on top of that I’m feeling resentful as hell about the fact that I’m working as hard as hell, but still failing as a wife.

I cannot keep the house clean.

I’m miserable that I’m going to be on my own for New Years. My husband is going to be out very sweetly working his butt off to put money in the bank for us, and he’s doing exactly what he should be, but I’m miserable about it. I have no clue why. It’s never been a big deal before.

After reading everything I’ve just written, I’ve come to the conclusion that I have to go back up to 20mgs of Paxil. I have to. I don’t have a choice. This depressive, miserable, self-flagellating wreck of a human being isn’t me. We’ll just have to figure something else out.

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Or: Dear Jesus, Could you at least READ it?

Allow me to preface this post by saying that I think that anybody should be allowed to blog about anything. I’m all for free speech and, even if I find it loathsome, whatever you have to say you should have a right to say. Please understand that I’m complaining about people because of the rude, not because of the religion.

With that caveat out of the way I must say that I’m really royally sick of the God Squad visitor waves that come through. If you look down and to the right FR, you’ll see a visitor counter that I can push to take a look at who has been visiting and how they got to me. Oftentimes I’ll find out that I’ve been linked to elsewhere, like here, or that someone interesting has stopped by.

I love reading new sites or blogs that link in and believe me, Fabulous Reader, if you stop by I will stop by and see you.

Unfortunately every now and then I’m treated to visitor spam. It’s an engine that officially “visits” my site and links in other people’s blogs. The program is entirely random, I get hit with a lot at once, and none of the individuals who “visit” ever read a word that I write.

I get hits from random groups of blogs that are written in different languages. I get hit with groups of blogs selling things. The ones that really get up my back, however, are the Jesus blogs. Not because they shouldn’t be allowed to blog how they’re keen on Jesus, but because it’s so completely obvious that the vast majority of these very religious bloggers would never read or enjoy Speckblog.

FUCK CRAP SUCK DICK WANK FUCK FUCK FUCK!

I mean, I can’t see the devout approving, can you?

It irks me the same way that preaching on the street corner irks me. I have no problem with you going all goddy in your own corner of the universe, but why must you encroach on mine? The implied assumption is that I’ve never had the opportunity or the intelligence to study religion and come to my own conclusion cheeses me mightily. That if only I listened to YOU say it, I’ll change my heathen ways. You can preach to me, darlings, but it’s nothing I haven’t heard before or taken into consideration.

I don’t spam other blogs in the hopes that random large groups of people will visit Speckblog and be enlightened into cussing their butts off for the rest of their lives; why on earth would someone assume that by visiting places that discuss how Jesus has a plan for them and how they should give it up to God I would somehow hear the voice of the almighty in my heart and be moved to demure servitude to an invisible supreme leader?

Maybe I would, only the swearing is drowning out everything else.

FUCK.

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When you’re writing a Christmas Eve letter to Santa and happen to want to draw on your face as well; and when Mama doesn’t like to see you all marked up with pen and takes the pen away; well, that is SAD and VERY ANGRY for a baby.

VERY VERY ANGRY.

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Or: Think of Spot or Riley and remain unmoved. I dare you.

This is just a quick post to let you know about someone that needs your help this season. (I know I have a few readers from the Chicagoland area).

As you may know, we adopted Joey from the Young At Heart pet rescue. They are a very small organization that is essentially run by my friend Dawn out of her home. She’s has found homes for an astonishing number (over 40!) of older pets in the very short time YAH has been up and running. As you can imagine, the older pets with problems are the first to go to the gas chamber when the shelters get full.

This is her hardest time of year. Due to limited space she’s having to go through the shelters and essentially decide who lives and who dies. Shelters will actually kill their entire animal population this time of year because nobody wants to work on the holiday. Disgustingly, many people turn over their animals at Christmastime. It’s like insult to injury. “Not only will we abandon you to death, but we’ll do it during a holiday of peace and love. Merry Christmas! *CLANG*”

If you have been thinking about getting a pet (or another one), please consider adopting from YAH. If you have the room and would like to see if the right pet fits into your life, please consider fostering. Andy and I have actually found it very rewarding. The more foster homes YAH has, the more animals Dawn can make sure have “RESCUED” on their charts at the pound.

Spot, in particular, is going to be a hard-to-place woof, but apparently he’s just amazing. Read Spot’s story here.

Also there you can read Riley’s story. Riley’s story kills me. In the pictures she’s clinging to a mommy who doesn’t want her anymore. Fucking dumbass fucking mommies.

I can promise you, as someone who has worked extensively with YAH, that Dawn is VERY responsive and VERY proactive at getting the animals homes. If you are fostering a pet you will not fall between the cracks and you will always have someone to contact and talk to. It’s not likely a forever proposition unless, like us, you decide to become a failed foster family and adopt your foster pet.

If you can’t consider fostering or adopting, and have the means (and I know that this is a tough time of year), please consider buying a product from the YAH online store to help fund the feeding and medical care of the animals. When there is enough money YAH will be able to lease a facility and will be able to rescue many more animals.

Sorry for this long, beggy post. I know it’s a pain in the butt to read these, but Dawn is doing such good work and is so descouraged about the pups she has to leave behind at the pound. She’s working her butt off and I thought that maybe you might be thinking “Hey! Rescue a dog!” and it would just be a right time/ right place kind of thing.

Won’t you consider giving spot a home so that Dawn can rescue another pup?

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Or: The post-BoozemasChristmas update

Let me just crawl out from under my Chocolate boulder for a moment, my very special peeps, and wish you a happy hooray-Christmas-is-over day! Don’t get me wrong, I love the jingle bells and the tree, et al, but there comes a point where if you drink one more glass of wine or eat one more cookie you’ll die. Unfortunately, I actually hit that point last Friday.

Let us back up so that I might update you properly;

Some time ago I introduced the idea that we were going to live through Wallace’s stomach bug, which we did by very cleverly contracting it. Thursday night to Friday morning was spent sitting on various toilets, or what we hoped were toilets, and yurking into wastepaper baskets. Luckily Wallace slept through the whole thing so we were relieved of binky-replacement duties as we were relieved of everything else.

Friday was largely spent in a state of shocked recovery until the Housewarming/Christmas party where I managed to drop a large bottle of wine on my foot and send waves of it everywhere. Five minutes later I fell up the stairs and likewise stained the hardwood steps with a half a glass of expensive fermented grape juice.

Lesson: DO NOT INVITE ME TO YOUR HOME. I WILL NOT BE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE RESULTS.

On top of it all, fabulous reader, I was SOBER. I got drunk when we got home figuring that sobriety was the problem, not the solution.

On Saturday all the snow melted and we spent the day looking at the presents under the tree and doing… stuff. To be honest I don’t remember too much of Saturday. I was sober, but not very aware. I think we hung out. We must have. I think.

Sunday was a gorgeous Christmas. Wallace made me crazy by opening three out of eleventymillion presents and becoming so verklempt he got the vapors and had to go and lay down to collect himself. Meanwhile, Andy and I opened our six presents and I stared, drooling, at the other fifty under the tree. I only whined about it constantly and didn’t just tuck in and rip them open, which I think shows that I’m truly maturing.

We went over to dinner at Aunt Lisa’s house, which was fabulous. Some people got engaged, some people brought their babies, there were two sets of newlyweds… it was family-tastic!

Of course, twice this year Andy and I have been caught holding our cheese as the two families we saw brought Charlie gifts and we had none for their children.

Lesson: WE ARE ASSHOLES. WE WILL BUY YOU GIFTS, BUT THEY WILL BE LATE. FEEL FREE TO PREEN ABOUT BEING BETTER PEOPLE ALL RIGHT UP IN OUR FACES.

Yesterday Andy went and watched football (soccer) all morning and Wallace and I tried to recover. We stopped by the library and then the whole family met up and had Todd and Michelle over for dinner. Well, they came over and made us cheese fondu, which was deeeelicious. Plus we got to see the wedding photos. There is precisely one photo of me at their wedding, shoeless and stupidly rocking out. D’OH! Did I look down and to the right? I did not.

We also drank three bottles of wine and got ripped. I got to bed last night at 1:00 am. How early do you think my alarm went off this morning, peeps? Was it really fucking early? Oh yes. Yes it was.

Thus I have come through the holiday; having eaten enough to sustain a small African country for a week, having been drunk more times than in the past two years combined, fatter than I quite need to be, experiencing a good All-American vomit, with cramps and bleeding that felt like I was being cut in half, and having had only one or two unexplained hour-long crying jags.

What a lovely Christmas season!

Thank fucking god that’s over!

It was, truly, The Fartiest Buttmas Ever. Now, heads down everyone, because New Year is a camel-spit away. Lord save me. I’ve decked enough halls already for ‘05 and ‘06 combined.

How was your Buttmas, my dears?

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I’d love to tell you that I’m in my kerchief and papAH is in his cap and we’re settling down for a long winter’s you-know-what, but the truth is we’ve run out of NOG and pretty soon we’re going to be breaking out the Kaluha. Charlie, however, was in his stripey Christmas jimjams tonight replete with a stripey stocking hat and we got many photographs.

If you think you have died of cute before, FRs, I’d go out and write up your last will and testament RIGHT NOW.

Santa has come and gone and there are enough gifts under the tree to choke an elephant. We all opened one each tonight, the way you do on Xmas Eve, and Charlie got a Boynton board book (YAY!), maMAH got new satin red Christmas jims of her own (Oooooooo) and pahPAH is in the livingroom right now playing his new Star Wars Xbox game in mindless, geeky joy.

It’s a damn good life, frankly. Sometimes it may feel like living in Potterville, but at the end of the day at this house bells are always ringing, and there is always an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle sitting under the back of the tree. Well worth the inevitable bunny suit.

Merry Christmas, sweets! I hope Santa is good to you this year!

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Or: Be not afraid of thy camera

I recently posted self-photos of my new haircut and got some compliments on my picture taking skilz. I also got some lovely compliments on how I looked. Of course, like every other person alive I often look at photos of myself and think “uuuuuuglyyyy”. However, thanks to all the time I spent in front of the mirror and training for camera work as an actor, I’ve had the opportunity to take realistic stock of my face and figure out how to work with the good things, and mask the oh-so-many bad. Like Jamie Lee Curtis, I am going to unveil before you in all my ugliness, Fabulous Reader. I’m going to highlight all the weirdness about my face so that you can see what I do in photos to make it so that, occasionally, I don’t hate how I look.

These are tricks that are easy to learn and use. I hope you find them helpful or at least interesting. Let’s Get Ugly!

Symmetry Is Beauty

Some studies have continually suggested that, rather than a certain feature or size, the symmetry of one’s body suggest attractiveness. There are various reasons for this, but the lesson is that basically no matter how fat, thin, tall, short or whatever you are, the key to taking a good photo and liking what you see is to compensate for a natural lack of symmetry (which we all have to one degree or another).

I’m lucky enough that I have a fairly high level of symmetry, but of course there are major exceptions. Let’s look:

Planes of the Face

As you can see here, horizontally I got fairly lucky. The irises of my eyes line up straight and my nostrils aren’t too off-kilter. My mouth parts without any major overhang or weirdness. Horizontally I’m okay.

 

 

 

 

Vertically I’m much more a mess. The right side of my face is larger and lumpier than the left, which generally makes my left more attractive than my right. My nose, as you can see, curves to the left. My mouth is also set on the left side, and my eyes are very close together. On the left side of my face I have a “jowly” look that I have to watch for and that you’ll see more clearly in the profile photos.

 

 

Another area of the face where symmetry clearly shows itself is in the planes of the face. Plane one is the hairline down to the to slightly higher than this picture shows; to about the beginning of the bridge of the nose (about in line with the edge of your eyelid). Plane two is the area starting at the bridge of the nose down to just below the nostrils. Plane three is from just below the nostrils to the bottom of the chin.

This picture doesn’t show it perfectly clearly, however my largest area is the area with my big, long nose. Often the parts in my pictures that upset me the most is that huge area in the middle of my face. As of right now I still have cheekbones to pull the eye upward. I’m hoping to God I hang on to those for some time to come.

If you measure your face and you find that you have an exceptionally long or short area of the face, you’ll want to change that in your photos and trust me you can. It’s all a matter of perspective.

Finding Your Good Side

After you look at each side of the face from a straight-on perspective, take a close look at your profile. When we look in the mirror there are many things that we don’t see that a camera will pick up. Take a quick pic of yourself from the side, accept that you aren’t going to recognize yourself from this angle (and it’s weird the first time you see a close-up profile), then try and find things that might be off.

Here, as you can see in my profile, pictures from the side position are not my best look. Ugh. I’ve circled the bits that upset me the most and things that a profile view highlights that I’d rather hide.

From the side: my mouth turns down at the corners, giving me a stern and older appearance. My lower lip does not pout out farther than my other lip, making me look weak-chinned, while in head-on views my chin looks very strong and my lower lip looks pouty.

Here you can see more clearly that I have a slight bump in my nose that isn’t clear to the naked eye, but which throws a curve into the works. The camera and subconscious pick it up, even if people do not consider it pronounced. It makes me look slightly hook-nosed.

From the profile view my eyes appear to sit back farther and to be buggier. My naturally occurring dark eyebags are suddenly prominent and appear to sit strangely on my cheek (due to how close it is to the bridge of my nose).

Lastly, there’s the good ol’ double chin. Don’t you LOVE the double chin?

On the left side here you can see how the plane of my face is smaller and appears more delicate, which makes me seem more girlie in photos. However, I’ve highlighted the jowly area that doesn’t occur on the right. That jowl area looks terrible if I let the camera catch it.

How to Correct

Let’s take a look at how to correct for most of the problems mentioned above.

Correcting for horizontal symmetry problems

Is one eye set higher on your face than the other? Is one side of your mouth higher up? Your nose tilted? One of the best ways to correct for these problems is to tilt the head slightly until you find the angle at which things appear relatively symmetrical.

. Obviously this is bad. The goal is not freakperson. What you really want is the suggestion of a head-tilt; the merest implication that your features are even.

This is a crap picture of me, but tilt-wise I’m talking about something a little more like this.

Another option is to slightly smile with the side of the mouth that is lower than the other. Correct a feature individually by slightly widening or closing an eye.

Correcting for vertical symmetry problems

This is where I always need to correct. Remember my long nose? We, if I tilt my head slightly downward, due to the change in perspective I effectively lengthen my forehead distance. So this: (buggy eyes, long nose, droopy cheeks) becomes this: The eyes pop much more and are the first thing you look at. The nose is shunted into the background behind them and the jowls are minimized. It’s a much better look. Looking down slightly is the way to go for me. Not only is that a good way to correct for vertical symmetry problems, but it can also be used to

Correct for jowls or double-chins

If you are like most adults and suffer from either saggy cheeks or a double chin, one of the worst things you can do is let someone get a photo of you from underneath. Even head-on is not great if you’re someone who pulls their chin back when they smile.

Yum. Right?

See a camera? Tilt your head down slightly. That’s the best thing you can do unless you are someone who possesses virtually NO double-chin or wattle.

Your best side

If you are someone who has weak features, or wide-set eyes, sometimes a straight-on look is what’s best, however that is rarely true. Most people do not look their very best with a square-on look. Likewise, if you’ve got a gorgeous profile, use it by all means.

Most of us, however, will look best in a three-quarter shot. It corrects for slightly differing eyes and nose issues (take a look at Julia Roberts’ nose in a head-on shot if you can. Her nostrils are glaringly different sizes. That is why you will pretty much never see it.). The key is to find the side you look best on and look at the camera very slightly from that angle.

My best side is my left side and so I always turn my head very slightly to the right when taking pictures. My personal correction is down and to the right, which in photos is usually what you’ll see:

Seriously different than the fatty under-the-chin photo, no?

Lastly: Ya Gotta Have Soul

Cameras are the windows into your soul, and you want to let them steal it. Generally a good, sincere smile can beat the heck out of a crappy angle any day. The secret is to smile at the person behind the camera, even if it’s just yourself. The trick with all this is to become automatic at correcting so that you can focus on personality.

In the photo above I’m fairly obviously thinking about how I look technically. I’m not thinking about my sexay husband, or how much fun I’m having. Fun is always better than technical perfection. Always.

Compare the photo above to this:

In this photo I look ridiculous, I’m not looking to the right, my tongue is sticking out, but I’m having a great time at my birthday and it shows. I look much thinner and prettier here than if I set out trying to look thin and pretty; and in actuality I was heavier then than I am now.

The best thing you can do for yourself is to be aware of what works, be aware of what areas to avoid. Practice how you’re best photographed and in this day of digital cameras, take a TON. The more pictures you take the more you’re likely to get some good ones.

Then forget everything I’ve said here and be yourself.

For more photo fun go visit:

A Profile Pic gallery at Cottontimer’s House.

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CHRISTMAS IS COMING CHRISTMAS IS COMING CHRISTMAS IS COMING CHRISTMAS IS COMING!

SO MANY PRESENTS UNDER THE TREE FOR CHARLIE! SO MANY PRESENTS!

CHRISTMAS IS COMING CHRISTMAS IS COMING!

CHRISTMAS CRACKERS!

MINCE PIES!

CATS IN WRAPPING PAPER!

KIDS IN BOXES!

DOGS IN STUPID HATS!

HUGE FAMILY DINNERS!

Sorry. Had a totally Christmas moment there. Hooray!!

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And decent shoes

Andy and I went to the gym today. My plan was to do the best I could and if I couldn’t run, I’d walk for an hour. Doing what you can do is better than doing nothing. It’s got to be.

Today’s run also involved new running shoes that were a Christmas present from my dad. They are the ultimate in uber-running shoes and are meant to basically let my delicate tootsies feel as if I’m running effortlessly on a cushion of cotton-candy clouds surrounded by angels singing hosahnas.

They didn’t make running quite that easy, but what they did to was give my poor knees and bladder a break.

Today, darlings, I ran three minutes and walked two minutes ten times. I ran over half of three and a half miles. And I didn’t have to stop.

I can’t tell you how it felt to finish and know that I’d done it. I was so worried I’d get sidelined and it didn’t happen. Thank god.

Thank god also for my husband who ran next to me the whole time. We always accomplish more together.

Today was a triumph. Tomorrow may be hard but today was a great and glorious success.

Hooray!

Now all I have to do is live through Wallace’s stomach bug and it’ll be a merry and fit Christmas for everyone this year.

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Or: Dearest corporeal presence,
Fuck you.

Fabulous Reader, I don’t usually go on at length about my Interstitial Cystitis because frankly it’s a bit of a downer. Besides, other than the occasional twinge, I haven’t had a crippling flare since the Death Flare of 2002. I was worried how a pregnancy might affect my IC, but I actually went into remission because of the baby and have been lucky enough not to have a terrible flare since. Thank whatever God was in charge while I was carrying Wallace.

However, I am not immune to minor flares and have been having them pretty regularly over the past month. At least one point every day I’m aware of pain in my bladder. Once a day might not seem like much, but I want you to think about the last time you were sitting there and thought, “Man, my bladder hurts!”. Now imagine that breaking through your thoughts and activities once every day: “Man, my bladder hurts”.

Yesterday I was at the gym jogging and trying to get in shape because I still harbor an insane desire to run a marathon. I’ve been going to the gym for a few weeks and have started feeling really good about myself. I have been jogging and lifting weights.

The jogging training program I use employs increment increases to get distance and stamina up. I have reached the point where I walk two minutes and run two minutes ten times. That’s running half and walking half of just over three miles. My goal is to be running six miles on the treadmill by the spring, and I’ve essentially reached a quarter of my goal. Yesterday I was doing great, feeling powerful and fab; until run number seven.

Then my bladder started screaming.

Fabulous and Constant Reader, it was like trying to run while getting punched in the crotch at every step.

The pain curled up in tight fist in my bladder and then radiated upward into my stomach, making me nauseous; then it radiated outward through my hip joints in sickening, grinding hurt. The pain also radiated down through my upper leg muscles as though I’d just had a large vaccination shot in each thigh.

I can’t… this whole post is a mess because I can’t put what that felt like in to words. The worst part wasn’t even the pain. The worst part was knowing that it wasn’t my muscles making me stop, it wasn’t my willpower, it was the illness that never leaves me. The illness that never gives me a break and takes no prisoners. The disease that makes me hate my body.

I don’t know, FR, if I will ever make the marathon. I may have a naturally-occurring limit to how far and how fast I can go. I don’t know if I will ever be in shape again. I don’t know if I will ever be anything but a sad, old wreck of a human being. My fabulous doctor can put me in remission, but he can’t cut it out of my body. It’s here to stay and I will be managing it for the rest of my life.

There is not one single aspect of my life that IC cannot touch. It can make me too tired to play with my son. It can make me physically unavailable to my husband. It can make me too logey to do a good job at work, and it can ruin my relationship with friends. It often makes me feel as if I am a drain on everyone I know. It affects what I eat, what I drink, what I do.

I hate it. I hate it. And it’s a part of me, so mostly I just hate me.

I ran shifts number seven and number eight and number nine and number ten. I ran half of three miles, because I wanted to. Because until I’m reminded otherwise, until I have to fold into a ball and try and forget the world, my brain is in charge of my body; not the other way around.

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