What She Says

Damnit! I just lost my journal entry that I was typing all because my husband has set this thing to update automatically. He suspects, rightly so, that I would never update it. Whenever this happens, I am infuriated. And I am not going to try to rewrite everything.

I am somewhat better. Dale took me to the doctor today. Now we are trying a new thing and if it doesn’t work, I will have another colonoscopy.

I have tongue thrust, which explains some of the reflux. I swallow too much air when I drink things, which makes me burp. They told me to take GAS-EX and it has been helping a lot. And I’ve read that there is a strong link between sleep apnea and reflux disease. Tomorrow I will finally be getting the sleep study done and we will see what we see.

The “Omega” poem is going to be in the summer issue of Georgia Review. And they actually PAY. When I had my story published in New England Review, I got seventy dollars. Now I am getting one hundred for one poem. When the Massachusetts Review comes out in the fall, I will get fifty dollars. And when the Antioch Review comes out, I will get twenty dollars. A long time ago, I won a silly little contest in a very, very small magazine and got twenty-five dollars. In high school I won honorable mention in the Northeast Georgia Writing Contest and I got a ten dollar check. And that is it. You just don’t make a lot of money when you publish poems. That’s why this hundred dollars seems so enormous. This is the largest feather in my cap.

Now that I’ve written five of the love poems, I should get busy on the other twenty. Of course, now that I have a little distance from the poems, they don’t seem so glorious, at least not all of them. I need to give it some time. And once this health stuff is over, I will get back to my old self. I need to prepare for the fall semester. I need to look forward to it, instead of dreading it. I need to WANT to return.

I am losing weight.

I am not depressed and I am on just three psych meds. My new shrink said that I was on too much medication, that I needed a good counselor and that I needed to go on a regular basis. I don’t think he will give me any Xanax when I run out. He just doesn’t want me on a lot of meds which is probably a good thing. Of course, with everything that’s been going on, I have not yet called a counselor.

So that’s an update. I have a lot going on this week, lots of appointments, but it should be okay as I am having much less diarrhea the last few days.

Onward and upward.

~r.

Tuesday and Wednesday of last week I became crazed with poems. They just came flowing out, one after the other. I knew this was coming, because my sleep patterns had completely changed. But it was so glorious while it lasted, creative mania. Thursday I was so exhausted that I couldn’t stay awake. Then on Friday, the cramps came back. And yesterday they were really bad. They are always bad on Saturdays. I don’t know why. And the thing is, I can eat some pretty crappy stuff and not have the cramps, but I can eat bland things like I’m supposed to, and get terrible cramps. I want this shit to end. I am calling another doctor on Monday. Period.

We are going out for Mother’s Day. Taking Dale’s mom. If it were up to Dale and me, we wouldn’t go at all. We just want to bum around. He didn’t get home until late Friday night, and of course I was sick. So, so tired of this shit.

The poems are good, though some of them need a lot of work. I’m using a lot of words, phrases. Everyday language. One of the poems is, perhaps, the best I’ve ever done. Some of the poems are love poems for my translator. Remember, I’m supposed to write twenty-five. So far I have five. Good for me.

The ice has broken. I am always thirsty.

~r.

I will be returning to work in the fall. I actually got a ten percent raise, which is much better. I talked to my department head, almost cried. I talked to Annette, almost cried. My confidence is shot. My bipolar mixed up fucked up getting better head is full of doubt and guilt, but getting better. But my health? That’s a different story.

My blood sodium is low which Dr. Friesen’s nurse practitioner says is very serious. The normal range is 135-145. Two weeks ago this Thrusday, I went to ER and it was 133.Then, the following Monday, it was 129. If it falls to 125, they may have to put me in the hospital. To begin treating this, they want me to limit my water intake to a liter a day and I just don’t think I can do that. That’s a little over a quart. Hell, I drink water all day long, all day. I drink a couple pints in the morning, and at night. I am always drinking water. I just don’t think I can. I put in a call this morning asking them to call me back. I need to know exactly how much fluid I can have. Exactly. Because if I can’t have water, then I’m going to make it up with diet coke, which is probably not okay. I can drink a whole bottle of wine. I can drink a 44oz diet coke and a big mug of coffee and two liters of water all in the same day. I am a drinker. I always have a drink in my hand. I get terribly thirsty. This is a serious issue. Plus, it seems so stupid. Surely having all this diarrhea explains the sodium loss, or the trileptal. That just makes more sense. And to add to the frustration, the GI doctors want me to start the damn medication that stops the diarrhea, again. And it can give me constipation, which is much worse than the diarrhea. I have explained to the nurse that I cannot take Metamucil with less than a pint of water. She doesn’t get that. Hell that stuff would never dissolve in four ounces of water. Or I can take a mild laxative to keep me regular. This is hell. Everything makes me thirsty. EVERYTHING. I wish all my doctors would get together and discuss this. How can they make all these decisions without conferring with each other. All they do is look at lab reports. Damnit.

No poems. Big, HUGE Skipper dream last night, meta within meta, huge schlong included. How long will these dreams go on? This last year, so many strange, strange changes. I am a rare beast.

~r.

A rustle, a tow, an underarm and ear. There was never a choice. The floor of the ocean is roiling, fruitful and multiplying, one thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand three. There will be time without clocks or cogs or instruction manuals. A string of lilies winds tight from her belly to the little crown of her head. Oh. I forgot. She’s a baby. No. She is all the babies. She drops their gentle heads on the floor. There are whacks. There is concrete, they slip through her hands into the basement. The kitten is screaming, the floor rocks in the wind. Her head is full of static. She thought that after all this, it would be blue. But it isn’t.

~r.

I have been thinking a lot about whether or not I want to go back to work in the fall. I am, perversely, enjoying doing nothing, or at least the nothing that comes with being sick and depressed and doing nothing. But here’s the thing. It has pretty much sunk in that I will never get what I want from UTC. I will never be put on tenure track. I just got promoted to “senior lecturer” which means a lousy thousand dollar raise. I will still be on a one year contract just as I have been for ten years. I have a highly coveted job and at any moment they could hire a more qualified, more widely published MFAer eager to take it. They could get rid of me at any time. I have no real job security. The only thing the job has going for it is that I don’t have to teach composition classes anymore. I do like teaching CNF, but from the way Jackson’s been talking, that’s probably the only creative writing course I’ll be teaching, that and intro. I have always loved teaching, but right now I don’t miss it at all. I don’t miss the pressure to publish, the pressure to grade, the pressure to be “on” and entertain a class, the Rebecca show, the neverending Rebecca show. I am just tired of putting on that show.

The cons: It would be a lot less money for us, but we could do it, especially if I cashed in my lousy 401K and paid off a couple of bills. And I’m going to talk to the department head about teaching two classes a semester. That would be four thousand dollars per semester, not a lot, but if we got some of the little loans and lose ends and ended the gym membership which I haven’t been using anyway (there’s a public gym close to here that costs ten dollars a year), and stopped eating out so, so much, then it could work. The only thing I would lose is the life insurance and I could probably manage a private policy.

If I did leave, I could pursue other things. I have always thought about teaching writing classes of my own. There is continuing education at UTC. I could look into that. I could hang out an editing/style shingle, work in a coffee shop, work on a glasses shop. I always loved the teaching job because the schedule is so easy and the work is so easy, sometimes. But that was when I was holding on to the hope that the tenure thing was just around the corner, if I just got a lucky break, if I just published a book, a damn, damn, damnation book. And yes, though it is hard to imagine, I could write. Back when Alex was a baby and we had no money and I was really nuts, I wrote a lot and I began to publish. And it was fun! I desperately wanted recognition, publication, adulation. But it was always fun. Now there’s a sense of desperation and disappointment to it. So.

Those are my thoughts. I am feeling much better. I think I did have a virus and it is clearing up. My mood is still good.

~r.

So many days, so much time. No walking, no writing. The depression has lifted, but the motivation hasn’t returned. Last week I had some kind of virus which made me tired tired tired and dizzy and too too tired. I thought it would never go away. Sometimes I thought it was a med side effect, but it wasn’t. But it’s gone now, and I feel very much better, so good that I shared a bottle of wine with Annette which turned out to be too much, so didn’t sleep well, woke up tired, slept most of the day and it was rainy and delicious.

Yesterday I went to the new shrink and I like him. He would like to simplify my medications, thinks I’m on too many. But since I’m feeling better, we are just going to let it ride for a while. He thinks that it is VERY important that I have the sleep study done, thinks, like the brain doctor, that that could be a key factor in all this. But he told me that he wears the device himself because he has sleep apnea too, and that he no longer remembers his dreams. That would just kill me. I love my dreams. They are meaningful to me, metaphors. At certain times during my life, I have worked out specific problems in my dreams, like the man in Scotland who ground up girls and made them into sausage. This haunted me until I had an awful black and white dream of a rickety grey tall tall house with many stairs and a man in the attic grinding girls into sausage. There was an eyeball in the sink. And I have never been plagued by that thought again. So many dreams lately. They keep me company. The day before yesterday, I had a marvelous dream. Then I woke up and had breakfast, etc. Then I went back to sleep and continued the marvelous dream. I want to keep that. I can set the alarm for ten minutes, fall right to sleep, and begin to dream. Perhaps all of that is crazy, but maybe I’m supposed to be crazy. A crazy poet who dreamt that we went to Grace and a young priest got up to speak, a woman wearing a white cassock like the pope, very plain. When she began to speak, her nose started to bleed. Then an old, male priest got up to speak and his nose also began to bleed. Then the current, vibrant woman who is the priest of the parish got up, all in white like the others, and when she began to speak, her nose began to bleed. Is Jesus warning me to stay away from church? I have been doing that…the crazy is deep.

Good news. Georgia Review is taking a poem, which is a really, really, really big fucking deal.

Getting my hair did tomorrow. It’s been a long time.

Why oh why did my mother, who collected absolutely everything, use the stamps for the Korean kid’s collection. His was a college friend of my brother’s and he left it at our house during a visit, in a brown paper bag. There were many sheets of stamps some of which may have been worth something today. Yes, we used all those collectible stamps and the Korean boy never asked for them back. I remember his hair was very black and my brother had never, ever had a friend over to spend the night.

The flesh is creeping and creeping around my neck. Soon I will be surrounded. The flesh is heavy and the belly is very satisfying. I can’t explain it. I don’t want people to see me, how fat I’ve gotten, but I am also very happy, drunk on buttermilk and bacon, spreading my arms across the bed, sexy like a cat. Yes. It cannot be explained. I would have been a great hit in the eighteenth century.

I had to really motivate myself to write this. I want to write poems. i hear them at night.

Jesus may come back, another big bang, the universe may collapse in on itself. I will be inside God’s eye, swirling. It could be fun, but maybe not.

Another day unto to heaven, too too gently.

~r.

So it’s one thing or another these days. I am on a new drug, Trileptol, which pretty much has the same side effects as Depakote, but it’s worth a try. What I’ve been having problem with recently are panic attacks, but I haven’t had one in several days, so maybe the medicine is working. But I feel physically sick. Seriously, this morning I woke up with back pain that was awful, awful. Yesterday I couldn’t stop coughing. These could be side effects of the medicine. But I’ve certainly had back pain before when I stay in bed all the time, so who knows? I just called the doctor and left her a message.

I do have a little bit of good news. Massachusetts Review is taking one of my poems. I am very glad, though it’s difficult to connect to my gladness. I went to Walmart with James and Dale yesterday. I drove there and was fine. And I figure if I can go to Walmart and not lose my shit, then I can pretty much do anything. Or so I hope. I am going to drive myself to my therapy appointment tomorrow. I think I’ll be fine. The therapist is very nice and oddly enough, has the same office that my old therapist, Dr. White, had. The building smells the same, feels the same. It’s a very comfortable place for me.

I have work to do and am still finding it hard to do anything. I’ve got some school-related stuff, and I am supposed to write 25 love poems for one of my translator’s projects. It seemed like a good idea when I agreed to do it. I’m probably in too deep.

If all goes well with the driving tomorrow, then I will start going to the gym again, just to walk, on the track, in the water. Just walk and walk and walk. It just might clear up my foggy head.

~r.

It is so hard. The brain doctor thinks that I have sleep apnea, so a sleep study is next. I still have to get into see a psychiatrist for a second opinion which I hope doesn’t mean that I have to change doctors. My doctor says that she’s not a great and totally confident pill mixer. I hope to finally get into see a therapist next week. The brain doctor doesn’t want me to drive until the sleep study is done, or something like that.

It’s very difficult to type this. It’s like I almost can’t remember how to do it. There are such holes in here. And nothing but black light shining in, like Satan’s light, or the green light in The Silver Chair. There is a very slight chance that I have this not so great thing called essential tremor, but most likely not. All the shaking and stumbling is probably the Depakote, so we have gone down on that. I also went back down on the Lamictal and I can actually talk again. Speaking has been extremely difficult the last month. And I have mentioned that my smile is crooked?

I keep hearing bits of poems and prose in my head, but I can’t quite grab onto them, I can’t bring myself to write or read. I haven’t read any blogs in forever. I rarely write in mine. But the problem now is what to do next with my medication. We are running out of options. Perhaps I need to learn a better way to be crazy. I know people who do it without drugs. And you know what’s strange? I have five friends who are bipolar, one who take medicine, some who don’t. And one who shares my name. Perhaps I am an infection. I certainly brought many crusty and unsavory things to my sons. Maybe I conjure madness. Maybe I am an infection, maybe the world is infected, maybe this new pope will be the last, or the first to meet minds with the gods.

Happy Easter and Lilies

~r.

So the surgery went well, the stitches are out, and I’m not so hideous. I also think the depression has lifted. I’ve only had one half of a pain pill today. I am still shaky on my feet, and cannot carry a cup in each hand without spilling and sloshing on the stairs. My hands still shake, but I feel good. It is so great to not be depressed. I feel like spring. I feel like supergirl. I’m still not totally snappy, still not my total self, but I’ll take it. Next week I see the neurologist. I doubt that there’s anything really wrong, but I want to rule everything out. I have been eating candy all day.

You knows what’s really, really good? Wendy’s BACONATOR!! Oh my god. I wish I could come up with a good reason to eat one (or two) of them every every day.

I think I may go to the gym tomorrow. It will be the first time since November. All I want to do is be soft and gentle and easy with myself. That’s what I really need right now. I need to regain my confidence. I need to get used to having this scar, which isn’t so bad. The doctor told me that he and I could talk about plastic surgery in eight months or so. If the insurance pays for it, I would really love to have my neck fixed up, but I don’t know if I would pay for it. He keeps saying that it will settle into a natural crease over time, but then he always says that actually I have no creases, so.

I want to go out with Dale and eat tonight. Today was a big deal for him, people getting fired and shuffled around. I’m sure it was stressful.

So that’s it. Not been doing much at all, just recovering from surgery, eating candy and take-out. La-la.

~r.

So much so much so much. I was feeling somewhat better. Thought I had an ear ache. Went to doctor. Wasn’t infected. Spent a manic day with Kiki and while we were smoking, I realized what it was. The stone, in my salivary gland. It got bad very quickly. Then it got worse. I am having surgery on Tuesday. I may end up with a droopy lip (5% chance), or have damage to my taste buds or tongue. Hell, I may even have cancer. But this pain, this fog of Percocet. Who knows how my depression is doing? The last couple of days I’ve felt my mood falling down, but that could be the pain meds, the antibiotics, the too warm weather. There is just no way to tell.

That is about all there is to tell. See you after the surgery. If I don’t die.

~r.