My Life, Bottled

Do you keep flowers from special occasions? I do: funerals, weddings, Mother's Day, birthdays - if someone gives me  flowers, I keep them! I know flowers are kind of frivolous gifts, but I really like having fresh life and color at my desk or table. 

I counter the fleeting nature of cut flowers by drying them and keeping the flower petals. I kept them in pretty gauze bags. I have used some for sachets for the Minions. 

I started running out of places to keep these dry flower petals.

I collect little glass bottles. The kinds you see in craft stores, or in front of windows at restaurants. I think the are pretty. I have some that are colored cut class, some that are clear. I have skinny and fat ones, tall and short, simple and shaped.

Eventually I started  keeping the petals in my glass jars. recently I realized I was kind of canning or jarring my life. The bottles hold flowers from my grandmother's funeral last month, from get well flowers from hospital stays, from some sultry Valentine's days...

I thought that it was neat, and wanted to share it with you. I have more meaty posts in the works, but once in a while I like to post something light and fun.

I think I will give them to my Minions, Menfolk, and my friends when I die. Maybe mix them with my ashes if I get cremated. Maybe scent them my favorite perfumes or leave it to my family to scent bags/bottles of me with their favorite scent of mine... Oh, I could go to Demeter and get library book or leather or whatever folks associate with me... 

My life, in bottles:

Shelf of bottles filled with flower petals, two empty ones up front shaped like a male and a female torso.

A photo from further back, showing the book shelves filled with latest books, knick knacks, and on top - the life bottles.

Lupus Gimp, How Does Your Garden Grow

With gardening ProTips!

Whether it is in a small pot on a table, or in the section of yard I have claimed for my garden, the smell of freshly turned earth turns me on – not in a horny way, but in a “this is really real life” special kind of way. It helps me feel productive and connected.

I call it my garden because it is my idea, and I am the one that insists on having it. Everyone in the household sees the benefit of it. Everyone in the house contributes effort to it, either because they want to, because I ask them to, or because it increases their allowance. It really is our family garden.

I am not able to do a lot of the physical work of maintaining the garden. My men folk did most of the tilling (I could barely start the damn thing, let alone hold it while running). I did the actual planting, since I knew how to do it – and I would not be mad at anyone else if the planting went bad. The girls prepped the ground for and planted the marigolds around the outside of the garden fence.

Getting out in the garden is trouble to begin with, precautions have to be taken. Bug bites hang out for months on me, so bug spray. The sun is trying to kill me; so long sleeves, pants, gloves, and a hat are mandatory. Sunscreen is just as necessary. I have one of those fatigue-fighting floor mats to use to get down on the ground so I do not waste energy bending or squatting. I can cut this mat to fit rather than trying to squeeze myself onto one of those narrow knee pad panels. I try to do most of the work early in the morning or in the last light of the day to cut down on heat and humidity exposure.

The work has to be broken up into small, 15- 20 minute blocks, or I run myself into the ground far too early. I can only do a few of these before I either need a large break of a few hours, or I may just be done for the day, anyway. I can go for a bit longer if I know that no demands will be made on me later –either physical or mental, because the fatigue shuts down all systems.

Even when I remember to do all of the above – take these precautions and more, there is still a price to pay. For even two to three hours working, I will pay for it by being near useless for up to a week. It is unpredictable. I can influence the odds, but not the roll (I hope that analogy makes sense). I know I will be down a day or two, minimum. Down meaning down to minimum activity: hygiene, dressing, feeding myself, maybe some mindless web browsing. Trashed is also always a possibility: easy clothes if not sleeping clothes, easy food, moving only when I have to do so, asking other people to get things for me, doing nothing I may need to remember later or have any competency during. My right hand will always be near useless for 3-7 days.

Over the years, we have acquired, piece by piece, good tools. Good tools cut down on body wear and tear. Believe it or not, I used to break the garden ground with a shovel – I had the strength and enthusiasm, and we did not have a tiller. Now we have a tiller. Good gloves keep my hands from getting beat up too much too fast. Decent hand tools with soft grips have done wonders.

D has laid ground cloth this year, which is awesome. It removes about 80 % of the weeding I would otherwise need to figure out. Anyone can weed around the larger plants, but until they get big and obvious, I will need to weed around the romaine and spinach. I will also have to do the thinning. Both my guys are happy to water the garden for me.

We are growing tomatoes, squash (straight, crook-neck, and one spaghetti squash) and zucchini (same type of plant), one green pepper plant, spinach, a romaine lettuce blend, cucumbers, and some small onions. Marigolds are planted around the garden fence in order to improve the view and discourage pests. In pots we have strawberry plants, chives, mint (may have drown in the last rain), and oregano. I planted rhubarb and asparagus in the garden but I do not think they will make it (I should have researched first, instead of going on the package!). If they sprout I will need to transplant them to large pots until I find a good, permanent home.

In short:

• I love gardening.
• Fair division of labor according to knowledge and ability is essential.
• Taking care of myself means I get more done.
• Trust that once you delegate, problems will come to you – do not hover!
• Working smarter is so much better than working harder.
• Good tools mean less work, less wear and tear on the people doing the work.
• Yum!

Do you have any gardening tips? Leave them below!

Not a Junkie

Thank you to Blurbette and #TeamAfterParty for bringing this simmering topic back to a brain boil.

Days like today find me feeling like a junkie. At least, I think that other people may see it that way. See, the doctor that signs my pain prescription took a long vacation around the holiday, a vaction which happened to include the day my Rx needed to be filled. So, I was, of course, left waiting. I have only rarely experienced any sense of urgency from medical professionals regarding pain treatment.

After years of fighting and enduring, I did finally get my health pros to take my pain seriously. My GP/gateway provider was particularly hesitant. He did decide (eventually!) that my pain is indeed real, and I am not seeking to sell my pills on the street. Even so, my ability to live my day to day life with at least some freedom of pain is not, and has never been, a priority for anyone with a sheepskin.

The difference between opiate dependence and opiate addiction is not obvious to the casual observer. One of the reasons I hate being called an addict is that addiction is a whole different experience, and I do not want to appropriate that experience set as my own when my addictions are mild: caffeine and nicotine.

I am dependent. This means that I require opiates to modulate my pain (it is long past being negated through most anything) and get through even a vaguely normal day. I acquire them through completely legal means, and there has never been any solid inquiry regarding my integrity. By “no solid inquiry” I, of course, mean other than the default suspicion that accompanies using opiates in the first place!

I take a very strong opiate, and still I do not have pain free days.

People dependant on opiates go through withdraw just like addicts do. The difference between dependent and addicted is not a physical one, in my experience, but a moral one. Unless you are willing to break the law and either buy off the street, or doctor shop, or whatever – there is nothing you can do but wait for the duly appointed authority figure in the matter to get off their DAMN ASS and take care of business.

It is not as if I am the one that insists that I need opiates to control my pain. I tried, both through my own suggestion, the suggestions of friends and strangers, and my DEA worried docs’ suggestions just about every non-opiate pain killer out there. I have also, a very few times, drunk myself into a stupor as a last resort escape from consciousness, if not pain. My liver is still not happy about any of that. To be honest, if killing a chicken in the light of the full moon could relieve my pain, I would probably do it. Nothing works but opiates, and I had a truckload of Nancy Reagan to get out of my damn head before I could even begin to be okay with that.

Extreme, unrelenting pain is insane making. No, I am not taking a poke at folks that qualify as insane – I mean that extreme pain can cause symptoms similar to several diagnosable mental illnesses. Pain can lead to shortness of temper, irritability, paranoia, loss of cognitive function, loss of memory, compulsive behavior, self-harm (in my opinion, this is an attempt to set off the CNS’s pain gate function), loss of physical ability, and unpredictable bouts of extreme anger, frustration, guilt, morose, ennui, and pissed-off-ness. Yeah, ahh, those would be, you know, industry terms…

As I write this, I am coming up on missing my first dose. Within a day after that, if it goes that far, I will have extra super flu-like symptoms (lupus is kind of like having the flu all the time anyway), I will hate the whole damn world, and my vocabulary with mainly consist of the kind of language people use when they tell the Aristocrats joke. It is all I can do right now to try to accomplish all the things that will need to be done for a little while in case I need to retreat to my bed, curl up under a blanket I will then play Too Hot Too Cold with, and spit random curses at the world.

There are a lot of side effects I experience that I am not, and will probably not go into here or with much of anyone that does not need to know. And my experience with this may not the same as anyone else’s, let alone everyone else’s.

Oh, and every six months I have to go though a “Do you still really need these pills?” appointment. Look, if I was all better one of the first things I would do is call all the docs that have been humane, recognized my humanity and sing their praises; then call the other docs and describe, in loud detail, what anatomically impossible feats I would like them to perform for me.

***

As of today, the day I post this, everything is fine. If you were kind enough to have a thought about my well being… well, first, bless you heart! Caring about people on the internet! You are an exemplary human being, Gentle Reader. Second, I am okay. This article was written early, in order to make sure I had something to post even if my doc did not get back to me in time to take away my short term ticket to hell. My doc was still gone, but my old doc is in the same office, was in attendance, and she did come through. So I am okay, and no more likely to explode at anyone than I am on any other regular.

Avoidant

For all the writing I have completed about labels, you (Future You that has read them once I finally posted them) might think that I enjoy labels in general and enjoying collecting them to myself specifically. That would be entirely wrong. Labels are simply shortcuts to explaining aspects of a situation, place, or person. I do not like them at all, but I cannot avoid acknowledging their usefulness.

I want to write to you about another label.

I am avoidant.

What does this mean? It means a lot – it means I do not like you, Gentle Reader, not at first anyway. People (more specifically strangers) wig me in the way some people are wigged by spiders or airplanes or elevators or ladders. I do not trust you. Not yet. I might learn to trust, eventually. I do not trust you not to judge too quickly, too harshly, and without adequate data. I do not think you will be fair.

How did I get this way? Well, my therapist said that it was the way I was raised. Frankly, I was amazed that a steady diet of inequity could lead a child to expect inequity through the rest of her life. I also developed a more-than-healthy level of sarcasm, as you can see. I was also aware of my own actions and my own feelings – but even then, giving them a name made things somewhat easier.

Why was I talking to a therapist? Well, it was early in the lupus mystery. I knew something was wrong, but we had not reached a point where my doctors agreed with me. We had "ruled out" a number of possibilities, and had yet to find the right course to peruse. So I was subjected to a battery of tests along with interrogations every time I saw a lab coat. My therapist’s job was to find out if I was malingering, a hypochondriac, suffering from Munchausen’s or anything other than genuinely physically ill.

She, the therapist, bless her, found out that not only was I not lying about my symptoms, but that I have a condition that meant there were few things I could do that would be more painful to my own psyche than to seek out strangers which I would then have to share personal details of my life and body. That each time I went to see a stranger such as a doctor or lab technician, I was causing myself great distress.

I owe her a lot – my doctors took me a lot more seriously after they were informed of her determination. Parts of my own life made more sense to me. I finished my course of therapy with her, and am not currently treated for my avoidance. I get by, though – through one other personality trait (flaw?): there is nothing that I hate more than fear. So I push myself into situations that I fear in order to conquer that fear

This is part of why I share details of my life with you, Dear Reader. I do not know you therefore I am scared of you and expect you will treat me badly. More importantly, I have things to say and cannot abide my own fear… So here I am. 

Interaction with others is often a trial by fire event. Each interaction, each post, each place I visit, each person I meet is a triumph of sorts. One that often cost me peace of mind, sleep, and peace.

Note: being sick and/or in a lupus flare kind of kills (sedates? Mollifies? Subdues?) the “Fuck Fear” philosophy and I am far less likely to be social or post while in such a state.