My therapist raised her eyebrow at me. "I hope you're writing this down," she said. I said I do, sometimes, but I should write it more.
She typed some notes in her summary report before she printed it out for me. There were some supplement names that might help me get, well, keep myself together. As if on the same train car of thought, she added, "You seem to have things organized. You have things together, but your stress levels are really complicating things for you."
Really? "Yeah. I keep saying... I just couldn't make this stuff up if I tried." Nor if I wanted to. I didn't ask for any of these problems. I didn't even get to tell her that I was splitting apart again, and talking to myself and arguing. It's a matter of three, now. I have nothing nice to say, and neither do I nor I. I/We just argue around in circles and worry.

See, usually I catastrophize. I collapse in a pile of self-loathing and, from my low vantage point, all of the molehills look insurmountable. This time, things were really... truly happening to me. In a row. And I didn't cause them for once. It was all stuff that wasn't my fault.

When I got back from Disney, I visited the doctor. Labs were unimpressive. Medications switched around. My kidneys aren't doing so well. And then I found out...

that there were mysterious lumps in uncomfortable places. I waited a week. It did not go away. It was no mosquito bite. It was not a rash. It was not menstrually related. I know what those lumps feel like. I was also not keeping down food again. Hmm. Maybe it was a cyst? Yes, that's it. It has to be that. It would be too stupid for me to find a lump there during Breast Cancer Awareness month. No way. Stupid, hokey, all that.

The doctor felt around. "Is it sore?"
"Nope!" I said, a bit too happily. I figured out from her expression that... this was not the 'right answer'. Fuck. I was so used to pain being a signal for something else going wrong in my body that I suppose I thought if it didn't hurt that it was harmless. She looked concerned.
"Well, it is red, let's put some heat on it for about ten days and let the antibiotics run their course." She must've seen my eyebrows sink in worry, because she added, "Women get lumps that look like this very often, and, most of the time, it's nothing serious to worry about; treat it with heating pad and take all of the medication. If it seems to get worse, or if it's still there after ten days, then we can rule out a skin infection."
I didn't want to rule out a skin infection. It was nothing. It's nothing. It doesn't even hurt.
And then the attack of the pink AWARENESS. Ribbons. Posters. Bracelets.
AllRIGHT I am fucking aware. OKAY?!


Therapist says, "Spend about ten minutes of pre-allocated time thinking about it, and making your list of worries, and then you can be done with it for the day."
Ha. She's funny. I would say I couldn't leave the house, but even if I don't... people are posting pictures and motivational posters and advertisements feature pink ribbon BAGELS.

I. Am. Aware.

Painfully. Make it stop. I can't do anything about it right now except worry, and that agitates everything else that's wrong with me. I think they're wrong about that, too. I feel so broken and worn. I lost so much weight in the hospital. I am tired of the hospital. I am tired of the blood tests. I can tell them EXACTLY where to draw the blood. "No... that's too high... there you go." I am sure that eventually that spot is going to be unusable.

"Are you testing your blood sugar?"
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"Why should I?"

Well whatever. Then there's the Big Fight. He had too much after he had done so well. I was a fool to ask him to choose between me and beer when he was already drunk, but I didn't expect that, even drunk, he'd EVER pick beer over me.

Ouch.

Just ouch. So? So I left. I packed my computer and meds and a change of clothes or two. I surfed couches for what ended up being only a week, but felt like forever. Making it to work was a challenge. I felt utterly ridiculous, but I wanted him to feel his decision. When my Chris came back, he'd ask for me, right? He'd admit he was wrong. He'd be sorry. He'd get help.

We argued over text throughout the weekend. Sunday I went to the RennFest with Kit & Irime. I wore my wedding dress. I hoped I didn't look sullen, but it was one thing that I hadn't kept down much food that week, got bad news at the doctor, and then had Chris choose beer over me. I am sure I smiled a few times. I am lucky to have local friends now. Even so, it was a bit hurtful to have people that were taking pictures of my fursuiting friends motion me out of the pictures. Damn. Didn't belong there either, huh? Sorry to ruin your picture. I bought Kit & Irime some water. They are good friends and didn't like to see me excluded, but it's really not their fault I look and am out of place in most places.

The weekend came and went and Chris didn't say another word to me. He posted with sarcastic pride on his status, I'd learned from someone else, that his wife had left him, does anyone feel like going on a nice, long trip? One of his co-workers 'liked' it.

I knew it would be a while. I kept sneaking back for clothes and toiletry refills and to feed the rabbit.

Then Monday I went into an art chat for the new Baltimore con coming up in April. I just knew that this was the distraction I needed. Friends I could make jokes with and be silly and pretend nothing is wrong, right? Wrong.

In fact, I was kicked out of that chat room. Booted from it. For the first time ever. Wow. I hadn't even said anything vulgar or even rude.

I think that's when I started to crumple. My spirit was very worn at that point. I was tired. I was tired of being ... anywhere. I didn't belong at home, with my friends, or even online. If only I were a genie, I would think, then I could be around when people wanted me, and not around when no one cared.

But I am a very lucky dragon, and I forgot that people cared about me very much. It is easy for me to forget these very important things.

I got a text from someone special. It reminded me how lucky I was. I'd had two beautiful nights to treasure. If I gave up, even if I lived longer than that one loose-lipped nurse said I would, I'd never see him again. As it was, I knew it'd be years, but I can't deteriorate now. I have to last.

So I kept going to work.

Then Thursday. The thief made off with my phone.

I was at the metro about to go into the gate. I was texting someone that I loved them. No signal. I'll just put it away until later and...

They never got the text. No. No. No! Give it back! and then a stream of obscenities so wretched... in that moment, I don't think any English or intelligible words came from my body. It wasn't that they stole a thing from me. I was tricked. They were laughing at me like it was a game. It was funny to them. They didn't need that phone. All I heard was their laughter. Laughing at that poor stupid white bitch that doesn't have her phone now. I chased the bastard up the escalator and around the bend for a block and a half, screaming like some kind of monster. People parted out of my way. I don't know what I was going to do if he'd not outrun me, but I think it had a lot to do with my hands-made-into-claws around his throat and feeling his skull hit the pavement until he no longer moved.

That's why guns shouldn't be allowed to people. If I'd had one, there'd be three dead black juveniles in the metro. And it'd have been called a hate crime, because that's the way people think in Baltimore.

In retrospect, their clothes were probably worth more than that phone. They probably have more money than I do. I seethed. The rest of the police helping me was a blur, but I remember they'd spoken with a witness who had thought they heard someone trading an iPhone for two bags of weed. GPS tracked them until they turned the phone off.

Seeeeeeeethe. That phone was like an extension of my brain. I was angry. I am still angry. I am quite sure I would have killed him for daring to humiliate and steal from me.

Given my set of conditions, there's about a 50-50 chance that if you attack me in the city, that I will curl up into a ball and cry or come after you like a wild thing and murder you with my bare hands. That day it was the last thing.

And I am very very lucky. Lucky that I did not catch up with them. Lucky that the MTA police had already been called because those boys had looked suspicious to the gatekeeper. Lucky that Chris had a replacement phone that only needed a screen repaired. Lucky that I password protect everything on my phone and shut it down and blacklisted it immediately after I knew the police could no longer track the rat bastards. Lucky that I have supportive friends.

I didn't get to tell my therapist about the theft, yet, but I think she'll disagree that I am lucky. She'll tell me I am holding it together.

I think, though, that for every terrible thing that has happened to me this month, a wonderful thing has happened. My medications were changed and I don't burn inside as much any more. I might get this other medical thing taken care of and find out I don't even have Lupus, after all. My friends supported me and let me camp out on their couches. Chris is going to get the help he needs. People love me.

I am the luckiest dragon.

(crossposted from LJ)