July 19th, 2012


What Kind Of Work Can An Adrenally Screwed Person Do If An Adrenally Screwed Person Would Do Work

Lolita has her paws wrapped around my shoulders and neck, Femme Pois is stretched out from my waist to my knee, and Ein is stretched out from Femme Pois to my feet. Petal's on the office chair tonight, though she's been coming to check on me every couple of hours.

Lolita keeps stretching a paw out to touch my cheek or the side of my brow.

When I'm as devastated by my physical health as currently they generally all seem very aware of it. And tonight's been a doozy.

The desire to have income, real income, not the 1/3 of the alimony/medical care I should be getting by law (how wonderful to take advantage of a person in desperate need of an advocate, and abuse the trust and faith of over a decade) - to be in charge of a business of my own making!?! Oh gods, what Faustian deal would I have to make? If only I could use my weakness and illness to not only help others, but to also create a thriving business whilst doing so.

But how?

From what ashes can a Phoenix arrive? Perhaps a medical weekly podcast? One based from the ill person's perspective starring myself and Shana? The faith believer and the atheist? Finish my book? Turn it into a script? It's more script than novel currently anyhow.

Shana says she thinks I have the successful business already in me; an egg waiting to be warmed and hatched. That's not as far fetched as it perhaps seems. I've all the equipment necessary to do a video podcast already. I've the lights and cameras and skills necessary to edit even.

Of course I'm trapped in bed close to 24-7-365 currently. This adrenal crisis flareup is pretty damned hardcore and has me weaker than I'm used to. Seeing Dr. Julie tomorrow to get her opinion on what I should do next. If she doesn't know than need to give Dr. Linfoot a call to get his input. It's bad enough I don't feel very melodramatic saying I feel ready to die. I'm begging the universe to let me go in my sleep it's so awful.

Yes. I'm ready to go but my babies, my sweetlings, they have me surrounded and as usual they're the only reason I feel guilty about wanting this all to end.

Oh fuck! I just realized (this continues to show how much I need an advocate) due to Shawn's pushing the divorce through without giving me any warning or time to get help that I need a TEXAS family law attorney to help me pro bono. I've really been screwed royally by this "man" who used my illness, my weakness, and my fears of ending up on the streets in this condition against me. He's a man in age, but any abuser is no real man. An abuser is a weak person who uses their position of power to manipulate those weaker than themselves.

Carl, Erica, and various others who need not be named warned me over and over again...but without any financial help what could I have done differently?

I need to rest. But I also need to remember these truths when I wake up tomorrow so I can try to figure where to go from here. Any advocate offers welcomed. Any advice on where I can find help financially in an entropanureal way (including spelling the damned word correctly) also welcomed. And as always, cuddles and care not only welcomed but returned wholeheartedly.


Fatty Fatty Two By Four...Etc.


This is effectively an open letter to not only my family and friends and my ex-husband and so forth, but also to the world around me who dares approach me at an event and ask why in the world do I need a wheelchair? At the Skeptic Meetup at Ohlone College which the wonderful and benevolent Sheldon put together, a woman approached me with that same question and a very aggressive, almost accusatory, mien about her.

I know I'm fat and don't look like myself and it's horrible because I wonder if it would be better if I was still a mere 105 pounds because for some reason looking like you can't eat is more acceptable and attractive than looking as if you eat too much! Why is that? What's wrong with the world that people who found me attractive before the steroids blew me up no longer find me worthy of dating or sex or even love? Without sex?

And why is it alright to assume I'm healthy and merely, oh I don't know, playing at having a disability? To walk up to somebody in a wheelchair and ask in such a manner I think would be much less likely if I was 105 pounds and still looking, as I used to joke, as if I'm a crack whore. Why is that? Seriously? What's wrong with the world that looking sick one way is more acceptable than looking sick another way?

Definitely feeling the stress of my situation and my condition after seeing my dear GP today (Shana loved her, incidentally). I'm looking at pictures James took of me at the event Sheldon put on and I'm so obese that I don't see how I can get much more full of hate toward my condition and the body I've ended up trapped in. Seeing Shana going through the exact same thing should help, but I'm not certain that it does.

Knowing how sick I am and that I have to take more of the hateful steroids in order to heal so I can get up without turning completely into a caricature, like somebody has poured white paint on my skin as sweat breaks across my brow, does more than kill me. It makes me want to die even more. If I stop the steroids I could die within a week or two but oh so very painfully. And I'm not ready to die painfully. Not yet.

Though, if this doesn't cease and desist why continue to suffer at half mast for years when Dr. Julie said I could end up in a coma if I don't have my steroids properly balanced.

And yet I'm fat and unattractive from taking the medications I need to keep me alive. Shawn doesn't think I'm worth it. Sure, he's a bastard as our GP (mine only now, but she was both of ours so she's seen what he's done and therefore has the right to consider him such) has said multiple times.

An older man I have a crush on just posted a picture of a gorgeous woman he's at an event with and it eats me up to see her. To know I'm so much less now in people's eyes than I was before the Addison's Disease and the hydrocortisone that is blowing me up like a balloon to be popped.

Full of self hatred and disgust and yet also full of confusion because I never see myself as I am. I still have the image of myself for 25 years (15 years to 40 years) of me being skinny. 2009 saw me balloon. And I am crying because isn't it enough I lost my house, my husband, my health, and my life as I knew it? Why this too? Why spit on me when you've already steamrolled over me? Why?!?

Well, enough of this. I need to de-stress since I'm spending tonight happily eating french fries for my dinner. No more, no less. Paying some bills. Watching Survivor Man. And trying not to beat myself up anymore than I already have.

But yeah...I'm not a happy camper right now. Even my transgender love doesn't take me seriously now. She doesn't and neither does my older gentleman. Luckily a guy who I'm just hanging out with sans anything other than platonic that I met on OKCupid wants to hang out with me tomorrow. He's a bit of a Billy Zane looker, but he's like a version of Carl but he actually texts and asks if I have time to hang out.

Self portrait taken tonight sans makeup or lights with my iPad. Getting used to photographing myself as I am now in a decently flattering way. Now to learn to pose for others in the same way. Any local (or non) want to come over and help me relearn my modeling craft? Because I do have to relearn from the beginning again. When your whole face and body double in size (literally) you do need to relearn how to present yourself to cameras.