I had a whole entry typed up regarding a review I recently received, followed by regular entry-type stuff, but a reply from the reviewer in question makes me glad I didn't post the entry when I planned since I think it was mainly a lapse in communication on my part. So, since I'm so horrible at discarding anything I write, no matter how outdated, I couldn't figure out what to do with the entry since I did make some salient points in all my ranting, regarding my opinions on reviewing and writing and all that jazz, but again, I wrote it in a rather snarky tone which is no longer fitting. Plus it's whiny. So I've decided to omit that whole section and just post the rest of the entry with possible updates since it too is outdated (it says the file was last modified 6/19/10), while keeping my eyes open to cut out other references to the review which I really should not post now.

*sigh*

Firstly follows the "rest" of the original entry sans all the review commentary.


The second procedure was a while back now since I'm slow at updating, blame both my eternal tiredness (all I ever do anymore is read and sleep, often both at the same time) and the shitty Internet connection. (Today (6/16, I'm writing this over a period of several days, of course) it kicked me off after working fine at 48kbps for an hour, then after trouble reconnected me at a TWELVE. I'm not even kidding, a TWELVE. The stupid thing is, the twelve actually worked, though that was surely a fluke, a frigging 28kbps never works at any other time.) It took the nurse three tries just to find my urethra this time; the first time she inserted the catheter, I thought, wow, that wasn't nearly as bad as the first time!, but she couldn't drain any urine, so it obviously wasn't going into the urethra. So rather than pull it out and put it back in and probably give me a UTI she threw it away and tried a new one, and again couldn't find the right opening. So she had to throw it away and use a smaller one and finally got it. I didn't mind that, such stuff happens, but again, I hated the sensation of it going in, and the fact that the urethra is so hard to find is troubling. She was pleased to hear that I'd held the medicine in not only a half hour last time but an hour, so said, "This time the goal is to hold it for two hours!" Ugh, I have trouble holding anything for two hours even WITHOUT medicine in there! So I told myself it was unlikely. I held it in for about two hours anyway; again, could have held it longer, but my urination was elevated due to water loss, so I really had to go, REALLY, not just feeling like I had to. If she says the next time the goal is three hours, I will have to tell her sorry, she was lucky to get two hours out of me on a good day.

An update to that, I've since had the third procedure, and managed to hold it in about 1:45min. And still no improvement. I have only one instill left and there's virtually no chance of it doing me any good. -_- I asked about this again in the IC forum since I'm so terribly disappointed in my lack of ANY progress whatsoever and the people there expressed surprise that I'm having so few procedures done over such a long period of time, meaning I should probably be having this done more frequently; they recommended what I think was the other medication the urologist mentioned, one of them said she has to give herself (give herself) DAILY instills to keep things manageable , and they urged me to seek a second opinion before doing something as drastic as surgery. I just noticed this time in the forum that all the treatments I've been undergoing are recommended for MILD IC. I'm pretty sure mine is beyond mild, but the other procedures listed, for moderate to severe IC, aren't totally approved and I don't believe ANY are done in the northern Michigan area, since I recall Psychologist, in one of our meetings, calling Petoskey to ask what treatments they have for IC and Hunner's ulcers and they mentioned hydrodistension and medication instills--both of which I've already tried--and the people there had never even HEARD of bladder ulcers! So even if I were to get a second opinion from another urologist, so what?--nobody in the northern Michigan area seems to do anything other than the stupid useless procedures I've already tried. Just my luck. (My mother recently mentioned outpatient surgery a relative of hers had, for nothing related to IC but it couldn't have been drastic if it was outpatient, and it cost like $30,000. -_- ) One of the other sufferers said she had to get twelve instills (of that other medication, I forget its name, not Elmiron) before noticing improvement, and they again said the Elmiron can take over a year to work (I've been on it about seven months or more now, not even the slightest improvement yet), especially after the dosage is upped. I thought 300mg was the highest dosage you could take, since that's what it says in the handout, but people on the forum mentioned going up from 400-600mg. So I think the next time I see the stupid useless urologist I should request a tentative upping of the dosage, since I haven't noticed any of the unpleasant side effects Elmiron is known for (digestive issues and hair loss), and perhaps an increase in the frequency of the instills, even though when I suggested this latter to my mother she snorted and said, "No," meaning she doesn't want to have to drive me there weekly. *sigh*

No improvement yet. What's more, I've been losing excessive amounts of fluid for THREE WEEKS STRAIGHT now. At first there would be a day here and there when it would be normal, but for the majority of the past three weeks, I've been overurinating almost every day. What's worse, yesterday and the day before, it was CONSTANT, every hour, not "flares" as I call them (3oz or more in an hour) but urination elevated enough to be bothersome and interfere with sleep, comfort, and functioning. FORTY-EIGHT HOURS STRAIGHT. I lost about 55oz yesterday when I drink only about 30oz a day. It finally let up around bedtime last night so I could sleep, and I thought, thank God, FINALLY it's ending, but then it flared up again this morning for about four hours, then let up for about seven hours, and again I thought, thank God, but then it flared up again and is currently still flaring as of shortly before bedtime, so I can't even say anymore. My body plays such tricks on me, getting my hopes up that MAYBE now it's finally over with and I can get some peace, but that lasts only long enough for me to hope it's over, then it comes right back. It's acting just as bad as it did last summer WHEN I WAS DRINKING NORMALLY. I've been drinking around only 30oz a day SINCE NOVEMBER now, and I have NEVER had a flare this bad. NEVER. At most it would act up perhaps a week, with water weight loss, which this must surely be since I feel thinner (too chicken to weigh myself), but why the f**k would I be losing one lousy month's worth of water weight over a period of NEARLY A MONTH? It has NEVER taken that long to come out before! It's been acting up since around 5/28! My period starts in about a week--I should be RETAINING water now, not LOSING it, but I've been losing it like crazy for three weeks. With no end in sight yet. It makes absolutely no sense. It's not physically possible. But I'm doing it. Just because.

The only thing I can think of is how badly I've bloated and/or put on weight since this really started to act up. I know I've gained at least ten pounds, maybe more, and had no real idea why, I just know I started bloating last year when the urination began to get bad and the bloat never really went away like it used to. So I wondered if this condition is having some effect on my metabolism or something too. I don't know why it would--the only REAL issue is in my bladder, not in my urination, at least, it USED to be!--but it felt like I put on water and put on water and kept it on no matter how much I kept letting out and how little I drank. Is this three weeks of hell all that water coming off at last? Why would it have been put on and not let out, why would it decide to come out now, and what's taking it so f**king long? Why doesn't it just do like it used to and gush out 11oz in one hour, or even 5-8oz over three hours or so, and then let up the rest of the day so I can function and get some peace? What's with this letting out just enough every single damn hour so I can't rest or do anything? For FORTY-EIGHT HOURS straight and at least once, more often twice or even three times a day for THREE WEEKS? I'm so sick and tired. I want my life to return to tolerable, if not good. Just tolerable would do, until they fix this stupid bladder. Now I don't even deserve tolerable. I must be a very lousy person, if I don't even deserve tolerable.

I tell myself to be grateful for every rare night of uninterrupted sleep or every day I can function without problems but you know what?--I shouldn't HAVE to feel grateful for things everyone else can take for granted. These things should be NORMAL for me, like they used to be. It should be NORMAL for me to sleep uninterrupted every night. It should be NORMAL for me to handle a two-hour car ride or go for a walk without problems. It used to be normal, so it should be now. I want to be grateful for things that are out of the norm. I don't want to be grateful for things I used to have and for whatever stupid reason have now had taken away. You know what, I'm starting to seriously suspect it was that f**king Lexapro that caused this problem in the first place. My bladder was just fine before I went on that stupid useless medication. It made me pack on weight, who knows what else it did to me? The timing is about right. I was just starting to take it when I went to visit my brother's family in Georgia in 2006, I believe it was. Imagine me handling a plane flight down there NOW. I wouldn't be surprised if the Lexapro is what ruined my bladder.

And I'm incredibly angry that this stupid Elmiron, which is SUCH a Godsend to all those other people suffering from this, is doing absolutely squat for me. The nurse asked the doctor, after I said the first treatment had resulted in no improvement, how long it could be expected to take, and he'd replied that change shouldn't be expected with just one treatment, for some people it took a month--which, since I'm getting treated every two weeks, would be two treatments. Two treatments later, nada. No improvement whatsoever. And I think I'm going to have to postpone/reschedule the next treatment since I'll likely be on my period and I doubt they'll treat me then. So that delays it even more. (An update, they don't mind doing it during your period if you're comfortable, so it's good that I recently switched to tampons because I really did NOT want to reschedule that. I wasn't going to say this in my journal since it's one of those things you just really shouldn't talk about publicly, so I'll just say, after using them for the first time in my life at the age of 33, tampons are God's gift to women, and I'll leave it at that.) I wish they'd scheduled me to be treated every week since there are no adverse effects to speak of. Step it up. Not that I think it'll work, but I'm so desperate for SOMETHING. Every time I feel a twinge down there I wish, "If only that's what 2-4oz felt like, like it does for normal people," but it's always nothing more than like an ounce, and when my bladder feels irritated beyond measure it's a lousy 2.5oz or some such. God, by now I'd be happy if my bladder functioned at merely twice what it does now, even though on average I think it's only at 1/3 its regular capacity.

An update, this had been acting up for a MONTH STRAIGHT--it let up for two lousy days during my period, then recommenced (sic?) flaring like crazy. I got fed up and started talking instant-release pamabrom (a diuretic) twice daily, when I awake and six hours later as indicated, every damn day just to try to control when this stupid crap comes out of me, just so I could get some SLEEP for a change. EVERY DAMN DAY. The box says to take with a full glass of water and to drink 6-8 glasses a day, BULLSHIT on that, kind of does away with the whole purpose. I noticed my urine output increased after I took it, but then it decreased at night, when I wasn't taking it, and at last I was able to sleep uninterrupted, for the most part (did have a mild flare that woke me up early the other night but at least I got back to sleep), so at last most of the urine came out during the day. Not the ideal solution, but I'm just so desperate for a semblance of normal, to just break even and let out as much as I put in. You're not even supposed to let out 100% of the fluid you take in, some has to be used for other things like sweat and tears and blood! I drink so little, it's been so damn hot, I even have the occasional bout of diarrhea (another thing I should not mention in my journal, apologies), I should be frigging dehydrated by now. I can feel on my waist that I've lost weight there. This must be the weight I put on over the autumn and winter for whatever inexplicable reason. I want it ALL OUT OF ME NOW. I'd rather just be peeing NORMALLY, including during the daytime since I'd like to go places, but by now I want sleep most of all. So, I told myself, I don't give a rat's ass if I frigging dehydrate, if that's what it takes. My desperation was such that during my last meeting with Psychologist she expressed the concern that she really felt she should have me hospitalized psychiatrically. I told her, in a way, I would LIKE to be hospitalized, but I didn't get to elaborate, if it meant they would just FIX MY BLADDER ALREADY. If getting dehydrated is what it would take for them to fix me, then I would do it. But I know that's not the type of hospitalization I would receive. I cried quite a lot but probably not for the reasons she thought. I was just overwhelmed that somebody would find me important enough to have me hospitalized. For the most part, nobody around me cares enough about me to do anything other than tell me, whenever I'm upset, to get over it, or stop complaining, or tell me that other people have worse problems so I should be grateful, or, usually, they just ignore me. Even when I wanted to see a doctor for the first time, the response around me was to just wait and see if it gets worse, then even after I saw doctors and a genuine physical problem was revealed, the response around me was, stop whining, there's nothing we can do, we don't want to hear it, just deal with it. I'm not used to anybody being concerned enough about me to think about my wellbeing to such an extent that they think I should be emergency hospitalized for my own good. I've just never been important enough for that. Nobody's ever cared. So while the thought of being psychiatrically hospitalized is a scary one, in a way it was comforting because it's probably the first time anyone's ever expressed such a concern for me. I'm not used to that. By now, I figured I didn't even deserve it. After all, why save somebody who's not worth saving? I've never exactly contributed anything worthwhile to the world. (Psychologist recently called me to tell me that native lady would still like to hear from me, my thought was, if she really meant it she could just have replied to the other two mails I sent her, but I mailed her again just to be sure, haven't heard back. Another example of my unimportance in the world.)

I opposed hospitalization, and was too scared of the fallout for her to tell my mother of her concerns regarding my current mental and physical state, but we settled on me going to see the psychiatrist again for possible medication--I am going to oppose any SSRIs/SNRIs or their derivatives, I no longer trust those--and on the assigning of a "case manager" to help me get to my appointments since I hate so much how my mother always has to take time off work just to drive me places. I think the case manager is all Psychologist mentioned to my mother since I told her not to tell her anything that would "make waves," like pending hospitalization might--I want the people around me to be concerned about me, but I don't want them freaking out, and in truth, the people around me always think I'm exaggerating everything, it'd probably be the same here; they don't believe that there are times I would honestly feel better off dead. My mother said, "You know, I really don't mind driving you to your appointments," but I know she does. And it's about a lot more than just that. I have to receive a phone call from this case manager to set things up and that has me dreadfully anxious, having to get rides from a total stranger, I hate putting people out so, plus other people's cars make me feel skeevy, but there's nothing else to be done. So that's how things currently stand on that. Strangely, however, I seem to have been underurinating all day today--I haven't let out all the fluid I took in yesterday, despite still taking the diuretics, and that worries me that what I thought was the diuretic actually working might in fact be just my urine "naturally" acting up and it's going to hit me again when I'm trying to sleep. I'm just so tired of all this. I want to break even. If I'm going to have to be so damn thirsty all the time, I could at least have the near-empty bladder to go along with it.

So that's the current state of things--a few decent nights of sleep so far, very few fluids taken in despite the sweltering weather and excessive thirst, and diuretics. I feel like I've become bulimic, just with fluids instead of food. Psychologist worried that my obsession with my bladder--I mentioned to her that by now, I agonize over every swallow of fluid I take, wondering when it's going to interfere with my daily functioning, to the point that I'm afraid of drinking now even though I know I have to--is overwhelming all logic, but my logic is still there, I'm just too fed up to listen to it anymore. If I get sick, I get sick. At least I'll get sleep out of it. I hope. Probably not.

An update to that update since now I'm updating this the day after that, it still hasn't flared up, so I slept, though it's a bit higher today than yesterday. Remains to be seen what will become of it all. It's incredibly hot again.

I get so fed up whenever I say I'm so thirsty and my mother always replies, "Well, why don't you start drinking normally again?" or "I really think you should drink normally"--I always tell her, "Imagine YOU were the one who hasn't gotten a decent night of sleep in weeks, and imagine you couldn't handle the car ride to the casino every week, or even GO to the casino because you'd be running away from the machine to the bathroom every ten minutes, you'd be willing to do just about anything for some peace, too," but I guess she can't empathize with me like that. I don't know why not, my comparisons are sound.

And I hate how unproductive I've become. I told myself once I would get back to work when I was "better." But by now it seems like I never will be better. Not that I can convince myself the world will miss my work, but I hate calling myself a writer when I no longer even write. Everything just seems like too much effort. I hate awakening in the morning feeling like I didn't even sleep, no matter how well or not I did sleep, dragging myself out of bed just wishing I could go back to sleep and not wake up again, struggling to connect to the Internet and do the very minimum of things since doing enjoyable things became impossible long ago and I'm lucky just to get the minimum things done in three hours (update to that, it kicked me offline THREE TIMES this morning), logging off and slumping onto the couch to read and doze for the rest of the day, in between watching the birds and squirrels (I haven't seen a chickadee in ages...I feel like they don't need me anymore (update to that, they seem to be returning, perhaps they were away nesting?)). I just haven't any strength or motivation anymore. Everything feels pointless. I do get scraps of imagination and whatnot drifting through my head, but by the time I work up the effort to get around to them, I've lost all interest so I do nothing. I just return to reading and dozing. Is there ever going to be a point when I'm "better" or at least feel like doing something moderately, or even marginally (since how important is my work, anyway), useful?

I don't even know why I'm so tired. I swear, the nights when my urination doesn't keep me up half the night, I awaken even MORE tired, like I didn't sleep at all. There's just barely anything left to me. It's probably best it's been cold and rainy lately, else I'd feel even worse about not going out; the other day I took the cat out, but shortly after brought him back in, as I just hadn't the energy to chase him every time he went off after a chipmunk. He shouldn't suffer because I am. I wish I had what little bit of a life I used to have before all this. I wish I was just better again. -_-

An update to all that, the tiredness persists. I barely managed to summon the strength to vacuum the other day despite how filthy the rug has become, and even then could do just the living room, never mind the rest. In summer, when it was warm, I used to become so energized I would even cook my own dinners and cook for Ma if she wanted it; now I can barely manage to make a sandwich. Today when I took the cat out it was much more sweltery than I expected but I doubt that mattered much; I had to literally drag myself around after him, picking up my camp chair and setting it back down again and sinking into it whenever he moved around, I was just so dead weary. I then came in and dozed fitfully and then abruptly fell asleep until fifteen minutes past when I wanted to wake up. And immediately felt dead tired again. *sigh*

It seems that with every year that passes, I look back and always think, I didn't realize how lucky I was back then. Which is really pathetic, seeing as I've never been really lucky at all, but what little bits of okayness I used to have just keep eroding and eroding away. I didn't know how lucky I was last summer when it only flared up every other day. I didn't know how lucky I was the year before that when I had just my loneliness and depression to contend with and not a physical problem too. I didn't know how lucky I was when I was in touch with a few people online and somebody who shall remain nameless because he proved himself a total asshole was still my "friend." Etc. etc. etc. At the end of each year, I can't count my blessings or achievements, all I can do is lament the ones I've lost, the ones I didn't even know I had until they were gone.

THIS is why I hate being grateful, because whenever I am, the thing I'm grateful for is gone. I shouldn't have to be grateful for what used to be the norm for me, especially when it feels like Life takes things away just out of spite. I don't even know what I've done to deserve such crap since I've been a lot nicer than many other people who have it a lot better.

My neck/throat hurts like there's something wrong with my glands. (Update on that, it doesn't hurt anymore, but my throat is phlegmy and my voice hoarse like I'm losing it, for some odd reason.) You know there are times I WISH I had a bad thyroid or diabetes?--because at least those are HIGHLY TREATABLE. But no, no such luck. I just have a stupid shitty bladder that refuses to respond to medication and I don't even know how it got this way. Yes, it's sad when you'd consider it lucky to have diabetes. That's how crappy my life has become. I know, lots of people have it a lot worse, but they're better able to deal with it. I can't handle stuff like this, not for long. Another 24 hours straight of this, I would love to just take my entire bottle of pills and sleep. It seems so much easier that way.

Continued yet again on another night. God, this is driving me crazy. I slept okay last night, but had a moderate flare (which I categorize as 5-6oz per hour) late this morning; I assumed that since that happened, I wouldn't have the even more annoying elevated urination all day, and it finally let up and it was so wonderful for approximately two hours. Then it got elevated. Then let up. Then elevated. Then let up. It's been doing that all frigging day. One hour I'll have 1.5oz or under and it's so wonderful and I keep praying and praying it'll stay that way for at least the next couple of weeks since I'm now entering my FOURTH WEEK of this acting up, then the next hour there'll be over 2oz, which doesn't sound like much but drives me crazy. Now even a bout of gushing out fluid for a few hours isn't enough to deter it from still coming out of me the rest of the day! WHERE IS IT ALL COMING FROM?? I drink a lousy 30oz a day and this is the fourth day in a row I've let out significantly more than that; and the ninth day out of ten; I lose track, let me see.

Here are my records since 5/28, when it started to feel like I was losing water weight. Fluid lost? Remember I drink only around 30oz a day, once in a while somewhat more (perhaps around 45oz at most), once in a while a bit less):

5/28--31.5-32oz or more, slight sleep interference
5/29--around 36.5oz, slight sleep interference
5/30--around 34.5-35.5oz, slight sleep interference
5/31--34oz, no acting up
6/1--38oz
6/2--around 29.5oz
6/3--around 48oz, sleep interference
6/4--around or slightly over 30.5oz, no acting up
6/5--around 49oz, sleep interference
6/6--43.5oz
6/7--around 30oz, no acting up
6/8--42oz, slight sleep interference
6/9--over 41.5oz, sleep interference
6/10--around 45.5oz, slight sleep interference
6/11--around 39-39.5oz, sleep interference
6/12--around 49oz, sleep interference
6/13--around 29-29.5oz, no acting up
6/14--around 38.5oz
6/15--54.5oz, sleep interference
6/16--47.5oz, slight sleep interference
6/17--around 52.5oz, slight sleep interference

(Update to the above, I had particularly lousy days 6/26-27 and 6/29-30--ALL FOUR of those days, not just the period between them--that was when I got fed up and started the diuretics.)

Take note I'm only mentioning sleep interference there, on many of those days there were daytime flares in addition which interfered with activity and rest. It's like I'm not allowed to sleep decently at night, nor am I allowed to catch up on rest during the day. Considering how little I drink and how thirsty I get and how much I still let out, and have been letting out for THREE WEEKS now going into the fourth, you see why I'm at the end of my rope?

Picking up later again. It hasn't acted up today (with the exception of a bit last night, I've become resigned to not even going to bed properly, to instead sitting upright and trying to doze for an hour or so until I'm sure it's not acting up and I can properly go to sleep, so I sometimes end up doing this even if it doesn't act up at night), but it's almost midnight and it feels twingey (sic?) a lot, that 48 hours of low-level acting up has made me so sensitive to any little bit that I'm bladder-panicky. I just want it to stay below 2oz, preferably at 1.5oz or less, an hour, for maybe a couple of weeks, just to give me a break from all this. I really do feel thinner. And seriously, isn't three weeks of this enough? How much more can I put out? I'm just so tired of this every damn day. I feel bad just saying that it didn't act up because the moment I do, it's sure to start again. -_- In fact it feels like it now, and it's almost midnight, close to bedtime. *sigh*

We've had a fresh hatch of red squirrels this year again, though I haven't seen any adorable babies like the one which hobbled down the chimney last year (see the 5/13/09 entries); instead there are at least three juveniles, plus various adults. The juveniles are so adorable, I wish they'd stay that small forever. They're also a bit more lenient, less territorial, than the adults. Red squirrels are not social like gray squirrels. You'll see a bunch of gray squirrels hanging about peacefully, but red squirrels can't stand each other; if two approach the same small space, a fight breaks out, with lots of really loud chattering and tussling. Whenever two adults arrive at the side feeder at once, I swear that more seed ends up on the ground than in the feeder. >:/ I've taken to trying to prevent these fights before they start, just to spare the food. The other morning I heard incessant chattering while I was on the computer, and got ready to scare off both squirrels, only to see two juveniles sharing the same dish. Granted, they weren't very happy about it, and kept chattering and feinting and casting each other evil looks the entire time, but they were sharing the food, and that amazed me. Since then they've done it frequently--again, usually borderline unwillingly, but they still share. I'll look out and see them sitting butt-to-butt as if trying to ignore each other, or right side by side like little buddies, and by now they usually don't chew each other out, though there's still tension; one time in between mouthfuls they kept "tackling" each other, one pouncing on the other by splaying its front legs over the other's shoulders and shoving it down into the plate, then backing off, then resuming eating, chattering all the while. But they seem to have grown mostly used to it. I attribute this odd behavior to the fact that they're yet juveniles and haven't grown up into that nasty adult stage. But just this evening, an adult squirrel sat in the feeder chasing off a juvenile which kept trying to poke its head in and ended up sprawled out on the protruding branch, looking like it was sobbing to be let up to eat some food, it looked so sad I chased the adult off and tried to get the juvenile to return. A while later, I returned to see both adult and juvenile seated side by side, eating. Perhaps that adult happens to be the mother, is my theory, so she's(?) willing to put up with the juvenile's presence for a bit, but when everyone is all growed up I expect this companionship to go out the window. Still, it's quite cute to see two little reds seated side by side in the feeder eating peacefully. I'm just so used to them doing nothing but squabble.

Hallowell's Contributions To Ojibwe Studies finally came out in print, something I wasn't expecting until August. I was surprised to see a copy available on my Amazon wishlist and went to investigate. The product page said "Only 1 left in stock--order soon"--there was no parenthetical "more on the way," which they usually have up there when they intend to get more books in stock later, which made me think this would be the only copy available for quite a while--they did the same thing back when I ordered Honoring Elders, got like ONE copy in stock and didn't look like they planned to get more immediately, so I hurried and snatched that up while I could. Anyway, I did the same this time, hurried and snatched it up, and as soon as I did, the description on the page changed to "This title has not yet been released"! How weird! I took that as confirmation that my copy had been the only one they had in stock and intended to have for a while; maybe it was an advance copy or something, I dunno. But the very next day the description had changed yet again to "In stock," which is even weirder, seeing as the release date is still given as August 2010. *shrug* In any event, I only just tonight noticed that much of the contents appear in an older book I got on eBay a while back, Culture & Experience, I had no idea there was such great overlap between the two. But there looks to be a bit of material in the older book which isn't in the newer one, so it isn't a total wash. I had no way of knowing. *shrug* It's like over 600 pages of Ojibwa anthropology! No, I won't get to read it for ages, since I'm going through my Lovecraft phase, but still, it's a nice addition. I love good meaty books.

Continued again the next night. Yesterday's reprieve from all the urinating was just temporary, yet again. -_- It started to act up RIGHT at bedtime, not even an hour or so before, and I couldn't even doze upright waiting for it to pass since my feet kept falling asleep. So I didn't get to sleep until around three. Then another mild flare late in the morning. It's subsided since then, but as of 11PM I've already let out more than I drank yesterday, and there are still two hours to bedtime in which it can choose to act up YET AGAIN, heading well into the fourth week. I'm due to start my period around Monday, I believe. I should be retaining water. I've even started taking Pamprin daily--I used to only take it once or twice AFTER starting, to get rid of back pain--to try to keep myself from putting on water weight just so I won't have to go through a week of letting it out when this time, it's been almost a MONTH so far of me letting it out! (The Pamprin is not the cause of all this peeing. I've only been taking it less than a week. And I never remember it making me feel like I had to pee any more than usual in the past.) I'm getting so desperate I even looked for some heavy-duty diuretics at Wal-Mart because it'd be good to take something and just flush out my entire system all at once, get it the hell over with, but all they had was something with immediate-release pamabrom in it, which is the same thing in Pamprin, just not immediate-release, so I guess I'll stick to the Pamprin. Take note it STILL acted up on the one day in the past week when I DIDN'T take Pamprin...which I guess would be yesterday, Friday.

(You know the updates to all that.)

I'm so tired.

We passed my old high school art teacher in Washington Park today at the crafts show, selling metal stick-figure men with clay flowerpot heads called "Potheads." She didn't remember my name (which is odd, since teachers always seem to remember my name, which is even odder, how can they among all those students?--I never exactly stood out), but did remember who I was. There was the always awkward question "So what have you been doing?" to which I always answer, "Oh, nothing," like I'm doing something, just nothing worth noting, when the truth is, I really AM doing nothing, at least, nothing of any importance. Seriously, people really do not want to ask you, years after they've last seen you, "So what have you been doing?" and hear in return, "Oh, I'm on disability for anxiety, and I have interstitial cystitis, and I still like to write but barely anybody reads it and I'm too chicken to get it published, so I just sit at home alone and sleep and read and cry most days, what are you doing lately?" I'm always so embarrassed when people ask me what I've been doing lately or if I have a job. I'm such a loser. -_- I can sense the disappointment in teachers especially, since for some reason they expected me to become a great artist or writer; I don't know what gave them the idea, since while I could draw pictures decently, I could not make real art, and while I could write, nobody, not even the teachers, was interested in reading it, so why did they expect I would make something great of myself? You have to DO something great to BECOME great. I've always been way too chicken, and face it, not nearly talented enough.

She remembered I'd been interested in Egyptian mythology and asked if I was doing any art. I wonder what had given her an impression I was an artist? I did very well in that class, but again, I was by no means an artist, I was just artistic; there's a difference. I said no, I just write. "Oh," she said, and I sensed that disappointment, then she added, "Well, writing is an art, too!" Which it is, but not nearly the same kind of art I learned in art class. What do I write about? "I'm mainly interested in Ojibwa mythology now, so I write about that a lot," I said, to which she asked if I had any of that in my heritage, to which I replied I might, I might not, who knows, to which my mother said, "She's skeptical"--well, there's no proof, so I won't go claiming ancestry I can't positively say I have. Then came the Other Dreaded Question--"Are you trying to get published?"

I really, really hate that question. (Update, this was the topic of much of the deleted part of the entry. Perhaps another time when I have the energy to rewrite it so it's not a rant aimed at the poor reviewer.) I kept my eyes downcast and shook my head no and there came the expected followup, an incredulous "Why not?"--my college Women's Lit instructor, on meeting me in the market several years back, had exclaimed the same thing, which I found just as odd back then, since she'd never read any of my fiction, only my essays and test answers. Really, just because you can write a journal entry or answer an essay question nicely doesn't mean you can write great, publishable fiction, so why do they expect that I can? Anyway I can't even remember the reason I gave, just hemmed and hawed. The main reasons are so obvious--1. not talented enough; 2. it's all too long; 3. too chicken; 4. hate other people telling me how to fix/redo my work. But that's way too much explanation for somebody really not interested in long explanations, so I just shrugged and shook my head. My mother then said, "She posts it online"--ugh. -_- My teacher wanted to know the URL, which for whatever stupid reason I could not remember! So I had to tell her to Google "manitou island tehuti" and look for the site hosted on Google Sites, which, to somebody not very Net savvy, is a lot to ask, so I have no clue if she'll ever find her way to it. I'm not worried about her not finding it, because chances are almost certain she'll never even go looking; that's why I hate handing out my URL to people IRL, nobody ever wants to look at any of it. Don't say you want to know my site if you're not going to visit it, seriously. I'm more worried that she'll click the wrong link and find this blog or, worse yet, find more info on TAC than is posted on the Google Site! Nobody I know from real life is aware of that side of me, well, except for Psychologist, just a tad. I kept what I posted to the Google Site as tame as possible, but just the words "graphic sexuality" and whatnot make me cringe badly enough. Plus, the other day, out of boredom, I Googled "tehuti_88" and "tehuti88" and came across SO MUCH STUFF I have posted online at various places over the years in various forums that it's just creepy, how easy it is to follow me around the Net. No, I don't regret the stuff I've posted in widely different places, I just regret that Google makes it so easy for somebody to find it ALL in one location. It's really quite creepy.

So I've edited my blog to put in the "Please stop reading if you know me IRL" disclaimer, not that that will stop somebody who's snoopy, but if somebody decides to snoop into something they very well know they might not like, and then gets pissed about it, well, it's nobody's fault but their own. I can say with 100% honesty that if I stumbled upon the detailed personal blog of a relative or somebody I knew from real life, I would have NO interest whatsoever in reading it, and would quickly back out and never return to that page, because I do not WANT to know their innermost thoughts, especially not if they're about me...but that's just me, and I've learned most other people really are that snoopy, and really do get that self-righteously pissed when they read something they don't like. It's like, "Well, what did you expect to find in a personal journal?? Endless praise?" Good Lord, I almost typed "they're own." I must be tired.

My computer tells me this entry is running nigh on 40kb now. I probably had other stuff to say but should really finish this and post it sometime before it becomes even more horribly outdated, so I guess that's enough for now. Tar.


And that is the end of the oudated original entry.

More issues with the annoying raccoons. I think the one that keeps raiding the standing feeder is a nursing mother, for obvious reasons, but maybe not, if she's the same as the one that visits the porch; there's one that's rather small, the size of our cat, and its fur is just so gorgeously groomed that it looks just like a little pet. Like I should put a collar on it and lug it inside to play with it. "Please come snuggles with Mama!" like in the commercial with the nearsighted lady calling her cat. The other night both it and a skunk were on the porch at once; when the skunk attempted climbing up a step, its body was set so low to the ground it actually got hung up on it and had to struggle its way up. It stopped just a few inches behind the eating raccoon. Then the raccoon decided it wanted to turn around, and that of course brought it face-to-face with the skunk. The skunk bared its teeth and raised its tail but fortunately it was just a warning, the raccoon understood and hurried down the steps while the skunk slipped into the bush and vanished. Tense moment there. I know that if the skunk sprayed on our porch, I would be the one blamed for it.

Yesterday after putting food in the standing feeder I passed it and noticed the food seemed oddly low despite there being no squirrels all day, and that perplexed me, was a chipmunk making off with it all? When I looked again shortly after, there was the culprit, a tiny chipmunk shoveling food into its cheeks. "I KNEW IT!!" I yelled, and flung open the window with a shout of "You little--!" but before I could get the words out, the chipmunk had done a startled somersault off the tray and plummeted to the plants below. It was so funny it made it all worth it. Unfortunately none of them were nearly as startled afterwards, annoying little boogers.

And I've noticed the grosbeaks starting to return, frigging gargantuan glorified finches. >:/

I'm trying to collect most of Chaosium's "Call Of Cthulhu Fiction" books, but it's rather difficult, seeing as most are out of print and there are so many. Plus a few have gone through more than one edition so it was complicated telling if I was getting an edition that was fully updated or not. I bought Cthulhu's Dark Cults straight through Chaosium's site as they take PayPal (or Innsmouth gold!--well, they say you can pay with that) and I thought Amazon wasn't going to get it in stock, but ugh, right after I did, they did, and I really do not want to buy straight through Chaosium again if I can help it, they seriously gouge you on shipping. Honestly. Before I signed up, I put the book in my cart and when they thought I was located in California, I think, by default, S&H was like $6. That was pricey, but tolerable. Then I signed up and told them I was in Michigan and S&H went to over $10! WTF?? Why does it cost more to ship to Michigan than to California?? And there's no WAY in hell one little book costs over $10 to ship! That's over half the price of the book itself! I balked, but resigned myself since I thought Amazon wouldn't get it in. Then of course, when the book arrived, I look at the label and see that Chaosium only paid somewhat over $4 for shipping. Talk about a ripoff! I know they're struggling for money, but they could at least just tack that extra $6 onto the price of the book, rather than gouging you on shipping. Anyway, I'll try to get things through Amazon whenever possible, now.

I was really interested in The Xothic Legend Cycle but there were two printings about ten years apart, and the newer edition, the one I'd prefer, has a starting price of around $70. Ugh. (It's OOP, BTW.) So I asked at the Temple Of Dagon forum if there was a difference in the two printings. No response. Then I found the Yog-Sothoth forums and tried there. I wasn't expecting an answer since who would be so anal as to know something like that? But I immediately got replies not only informing me that the two printings were likely the same in content (so the cheaper, earlier printing is probably just as good), but also giving me a complete listing of the books in the series (turns out I had already compiled them all, but hadn't been aware of it since new editions are assigned new item numbers, thus making it look like there are more books than there really are). The people on the Yog-Sothoth forum were so very helpful! I never did get a reply at the Temple Of Dagon. I also learned what became of a book that was supposed to be in the series but was dropped and published by another company, and various other details. So I think I know where I'll ask such questions in the future. Ia! Yog-Sothoth!

Unfortunately, the first copy of Xothic Legend I tried to buy "couldn't be found" by the seller (grrrrr), so I had to try again. UGH. With my luck I'll just get the same result. I bought a used Disciples Of Cthulhu II back on 6/9 but it never arrived so, noticing that Amazon had acquired a few copies, I bought one of those and asked the seller for a refund since the book was obviously lost in the mail. Haven't heard back yet. I'll give them the benefit of the doubt of the holiday weekend before trying again. I'd hate to have to file a complaint through Amazon. I wouldn't have these problems if Chaosium would just keep their books in print. I know, it's the economy, but still.

I'm currently reading Tales Of The Lovecraft Mythos, still working my way through the Del Rey editions. I'm enjoying these stories very much. Most of them, anyway. I've read nothing but praise for Zelazny's "24 Views Of Mt. Fuji, By Hokusai," but I thought it was dreadfully dull, vague, and not Mythos at all, myself. (Oh look! He shoehorned in a mention of the Deep Ones! Big whoop. What's this story doing in this collection?? And I know it's in a more formal setting but the dialogue is just atrocious.) And I didn't really care for the Neil Gaiman story I read, either (oh look, a werewolf in Innsmouth, how quaint), though I know people love Neil Gaiman and I thought I would too. Go figure. It always seems like the more famous and beloved a writer is, the more I can't stand their work. I adore the more pastichey-type works, which I know other Lovecraft fans loathe. I can't help it, I find pastiche (the mimicking kind, not the mocking kind) fun. I know for sure the two stories I have posted are nothing but pastiche; I would never write something like "Curse it, Officer!" in my normal stories. Despite that, I just can't bring myself to write a serious story which ends with the narrator writing something like "My God! It's at the door! It's broken in! It has my leg and is dragging me away! Can't--write--more..." because honestly, if some monster is dragging you away, are you going to be hanging on struggling to write the last sentence?

We're receiving a Spam call about credit--"We've tried contacting you numerous times and this WILL be our last attempt." Awwww! How can you say that when you don't mean it? Lying sacks of crap.

I'm consuming so much pudding and applesauce lately just to stave off the thirst, *sigh.* When I came into the room the other day with my third and fourth container of applesauce my mother expressed consternation, then said, "Well, at least you're taking in fluids." With how dreadfully hot it is, I sometimes feel like eating nothing BUT applesauce. I think I would get sick, though. I really wish this stupid bladder would get fixed. I would love drinking those shakes for breakfast rather than eating crackers or chips because I have no energy to make something real to eat. -_-

ZOMG BIG HORNETLIKE THING LANDED ON THE MONITOR.

I think I've run out of things to say, which is probably for the best. Now to see if I can get this to post; as I already mentioned, I was kicked off THREE F**KING TIMES this morning alone.

Tar...

 

Around 1:45PM today as I sat on the couch reading I started to notice a tiny tap-tap-tapping noise coming from near the TV; it sounded like the noise the cat makes when washing himself, so I looked back, but he wasn't there. The noise seemed to emanate from the closed cabinet along the wall. Puzzled, I got up to go listen to it, and tapped it once or twice; it was like a death watch beetle was in there or something. Then I heard a similar noise coming from the dining room and went out to look. A glass ornament with a bluebird on it, hanging from the window, was gently tapping against the glass, and the rod to close the blinds was swaying too, as if some heavy traffic had just gone by, but aside from this all was still. Odd.

I listened carefully but there were no large trucks in the area, which often make the house shake when they pass. No traffic at all. The tiny movements kept up for about a minute or so; I at last pressed my finger to the ornament to stop its movements, and it did so.

"I wonder if we had an earth tremor," I mused aloud, not daring to glorify the tiny movements with the title "earthquake"; I turned on the TV and briefly searched the channels, but had no idea where to look, so gave up and returned to reading since I had a phone call to wait for and an appointment later on. I did take note of the time, as I often do when, say, I hear something that sounds like a gunshot but is likely just a car backfiring, in case police should happen along and ask what time we heard the shots. (Too much Law & Order.)

In the urologist's waiting room, I said to Ma, "I think we had an earth tremor today," and described what had happened. Then when I was in with the nurse for my procedure, she said, "I heard they had an earthquake in Canada." That's all I let her get out, for I clapped a hand to my head and cried, "Oh my God, I think I felt it!"

Or rather our house did, since I can't honestly claim I felt anything, but I sure heard something. Ma arrived home tonight and said her boss claimed she'd felt it and thought she was going crazy. The thought had briefly crossed my mind, too.

I logged on tonight and browsed Yahoo!'s main page for the local news; wonder of wonders, our usually useless and typo-ridden local paper carried a tiny article.

Ontario quake shakes the Straits

By Staff reports
Cheboygan Daily Tribune
Posted Jun 23, 2010 @ 02:33 PM

Cheboygan, Mich. — That rumbling felt around the Straits Area just after lunchtime Wednesday wasn't thunder, or a really large truck.

The Canadian Broadcasting Corporation reported a 5.5-magnitude earthquake hit Ontario at 1:40 p.m. Wednesday. Tribune readers reported gentle tremors in Cheboygan, Black Lake and several other spots around the Tip of the Mitt. Similar reports came from around the state, as far south as Detroit.

"Earthquakes across eastern Canada are definitely rare but we do have them," said Johanna Wagstaffe, a CBC seismologist and meteorologist. "There are small fault lines along Lake Erie and Lake Ontario. There is a relatively active fault line that runs parallel to the St. Lawrence Valley. It's about 1,000 kilometres long." The last major earthquake we saw on that fault line was a 5.4 magnitude earthquake in 1998, she said.

Copyright 2010 Cheboygan Daily Tribune. Some rights reserved

http://www.cheboygannews.com/news/x383301146/Ontario-quake-shakes-the-Straits

So this is my first ever firsthand experience with a real live earthquake. Interesting.

 

Typed up over the past week. I've been disconnected twice so far this morning.


Sorry for the belatedness, but the Internet connection just gets worse and worse so all I ever feel like doing is hurrying up and getting through my eBay searches (which, on a GOOD day, takes a little over an hour) and my Amazon and whatnot and then logging off before I get too hysterical. God, it just makes me so mad. I'll connect without any trouble and then promptly get disconnected, I'll try to reconnect and fail or else get a busy signal (???--it's not the phone line, that's clear, so it must be the ISP, not that they'll own up to it!), I'll connect at an atrocious speed, it'll make horrific noises while trying (and failing) to connect like there's something wrong with the line, I'll successfully connect at even a really fast speed and it will move like molasses, etc. etc. etc. Even on days when I'll connect just fine and go an hour or so just fine, it can just bam, disconnect me for no reason whatsoever, and it's been doing it frequently. So I'm very pissed off by this, because it's the exact same as last summer, only even worse, and I fail to understand why an ISP will act so atrociously during the summer months and they can't even admit they're having problems. And I just got an Amazon order on an OOP book cancelled because it wasn't in stock even though IT WAS LISTED AS IN STOCK ON AT LEAST TWO DIFFERENT SITES. I realize such things happen but UGH would sellers stop being so frigging lazy and update their listings?? Took them two days to tell me they don't have the book. At least be prompt. Jackasses.

And my bladder (or more like the urine) has been flaring so that and that and this all together just UGH UGH UGH!!

Speaking of, I never described how the first Elmiron instill treatment went. It went. That's pretty much all to say. It was a nurse who performed it, not the urologist--big surprise that he doesn't do yet another procedure, but I preferred a nurse since they actually treat you like you have a brain and feelings. I got in there in decent time, but she wanted the doctor to check my urine sample, and go figure he was being chatty with some other people so I had to wait on this table thingie half-covered with a sheet for like fifteen minutes until she could make sure I didn't have an infection or something. We asked and answered a few questions for each other and she even attempted some smalltalk. (I'm not averse to listening to other people's smalltalk, I just rarely have anything of my own to contribute--with smalltalk I'm more of a listener than a contributor--so I often feel people will think I'm not interested or don't want them to talk when in fact I don't mind.) She said that the goal is to hold the medicine in the bladder for at least a half hour, though some people can't handle it that long because of the irritation, so if I couldn't make it a half hour, "It's not the end of the world." The urologist had warned the same thing, so I had this fear that the procedure, the Elmiron being directly in the bladder, might irritate it even worse, so I was quite anxious about this. She explained that she'd chosen the smallest catheter she could find since I've never had this done before, and took my pill (I had to bring my own) and mixed it with saline solution and lidocaine, I believe, to make the pain tolerable; she said the procedure shouldn't even take ten minutes, which was good, so she first used the lidocaine or whatever and then put in the stuff. It was over with fast, at least, and there was no pain because of the lidocaine being put in the bladder, but there was great discomfort when the catheter was inserted, and that makes me unhappy. My mother told me it does NOT feel like you have to pee with a catheter, it's just awkward, but I guess her idea of "discomfort" is different from mine, because it REALLY feels like I have to pee whenever something presses on the urethra and that includes inserting a catheter. I was willing to put up with catheters the rest of my life, if need be, as long as I don't always feel like I have to pee, but after this procedure, and knowing what they feel like at last, that option seems out, I would be in pure misery all the time. So I really hope so much that either this procedure or augmentation surgery works.

Went home. I managed to hold the medication in not just a half hour, but slightly over an hour, and that short a time only because by then the lidocaine had started to wear off at last and it felt like I had to pee a lot more than I really had to, like after the cystoscopy only not nearly as bad. When I went, it again bled and burned like crazy, but again, not so bad as before, presumably because the catheter was much smaller than the scope.

Hold on, must scare off a raccoon.

Okay, back. More on them later. Anyway, the irritation didn't last nearly as long as with the cystoscopy either, which was a relief...and the putting of the Elmiron directly into the bladder didn't irritate it any either. I was rather puzzled since they'd made it seem like it would be very irritating when in fact it felt no different from having anything else in my bladder. Almost two weeks later, I feel no difference at all. No worsening, thank goodness, but also no improvement. I realize one shouldn't expect real improvement with just one treatment, but I'm only scheduled for four of them, and there's just no change whatsoever at all, so I don't see how or why it works. The urine is flaring up at the moment (it seems to prefer flaring just after I get to bed but lately the flares have been moderately mild so I've slept through the bulk of them and/or gotten back to sleep quickly, but last night it acted up badly enough to keep me awake until around three again) so, like doing the 32oz test, I sat and tried to hold it as long as I could and ended up letting out 4.5oz--I could have held a tad more but it was already terribly stressful, I hurried from the room and the Cozbug insisted on getting right in front of me so I picked him up bodily and set him aside, why must cats always do that??--so that just shows there is no improvement yet since that's as much as I've held before. 3-4oz tends to awaken me from sleep; I haven't had another 6oz success recently like I had a couple of times in the past. So I don't know what to say or think. I want to hope for this to work, but nothing else ever has. I have never gotten any significant, lasting benefit from ANY prescription drug in my life. I keep hoping I will, but I never do. Antidepressants just make me apathetic and fat. Not exactly my idea of being better. All my life I've been so hopeful of SOME medication doing something wonderful for me, but nothing ever has, so even when Psychologist urges me to try something like Wellbutrin so I don't stress so much, all I can do is nudge the suggestion aside. I don't want to rule such things out, since I'd love a drug that makes me feel better, but none of them ever have, and in fact they usually just make me worse (I'm seriously wondering if it was the Lexapro that made me get this interstitial cystitis??), so of course by now I'm jaded.

I have the second treatment this upcoming week. *sigh* I wonder why they wait two weeks between treatments when I notice no improvement or even irritation at all? The nurse said some people have the procedure done every week or twice a week, some do it every two weeks like mine, it depends on how much irritation there is, but when there's no irritation at all, what is to stop one from having it done more frequently? The better to more quickly heal the ulcer or whatever? I'm just so impatient to be better. IF that can even happen.

The raccoons have become so bothersome, ugh. There are at least two, possibly siblings since they tend to show up together. They hang out below the porch, under the standing feeder in the yard or on the sidewalk near it, eating up stray seed, or else raid the standing feeder near the dining room window. I am constantly shooing them away from the latter at night; I'll shine out the light and see either little flying squirrels darting about, in which case I withdraw as unobtrusively as I can, or else a fat startled raccoon staring back in at me, in which case I angrily get rid of it. But they're losing their fear of me, if they ever even had it. Their hurried climbs back down the feeder made it tilt dangerously so Dad pushed it around so the projecting "branch" under the plate is braced against the chimney; the other night when I flicked on the light, a raccoon was reclining upon this branch with its head in the feeder as if it were Cleopatra eating grapes! Damn things! When I just shooed it away again moments ago, it actually stood there staring at me and reaching again for the seed as if hoping I would just go away--I had to knock on the window repeatedly and at last open it to shoo it away. UGH!

Continued the next day. Some nights ago I kept alternating between shooing one away from this feeder and from the porch (the porch is pretty much a lost cause by now); when I saw one down by the bushes, I opened the door and yelled and swung the broom and it crept out of sight so I waited a moment, as I suspect they do. I thought I saw something in the bush itself and drew back fearfully, then swung at the bush and hit it again a few times, and then this raccoon just came strolling around it and into the yard as if it owned the place!! Totally unafraid! I shooed at it and saw something go scurrying away but that really freaked me out that they're so cavalier. Then, I returned to the standing feeder near the window. I got it in my head to make them nervous since they make me so nervous. Every time I shined the light out I'd startle this raccoon either in the tray or making its way up toward the tray. Kitty watched. At one point I turned on the light to find the raccoon halfway up the pole, and he then crept his way back down and vanished. Ten or fifteen minutes later I tried again and there was this masked face just peering over the feeding tray, and it slowly sank down out of sight. That made me laugh. Several nights later, after logging off, I went out to stand on the front porch and cry and huff a little because of the stupid Internet, and I just stared and listened to the wind gusting in the leaves for a while since it was nice out and I found that soothing. (I really would like a nice CD featuring merely the sound of wind in leaves, with maybe crickets in the background, but mainly just wind in leaves. No goofy New Age music or birds chirping or anything. Just wind in leaves. Any recording companies out there willing?) I shut my eyes and imagined that it was completely dark (since it was still dim out, being not quite ten o'clock), and thought of when I'd done similar on Mackinac Island, imagining the shushing leaves were Lake Algonquin. Then when I lowered my head and opened my eyes I just happened to glimpse a shape sneaking from the direction of the highway and into our yard. Its hind legs were longer than its front ones and it just kind of ambled along in this really furtive, sneaky manner. "I SEE YOU!!" I yelled at it, and it hastened (though quite nonchalantly) down the driveway and out of my sight. I grabbed the broom and went down the steps and after it in my bare feet, which was hard as the driveway is gravel, but I hung back somewhat since I thought it might jump out and bite me. I caught sight of it turning the corner of the house toward Dad's vehicle. "You BETTER not go to the feeder!" I snapped after it. I started in the same direction, but going between the house and Dad's vehicle unnerved me too much, since it was such a narrow space and it could be hiding under the SUV, so I went the other way, between the vehicle and the garage, because even though it could be hiding in the garage, the space was bigger and more open and I could better keep watch of both sides. Jeez, I sound like I have PTSD or something. Anyway I peered under the vehicle, and swung the broom at the garage, but there was nothing there, and when I went into the short driveway to look around the corner toward the standing feeder, I saw nothing there either, so it must have gone off some other way, or else passed back through the yard ahead of me. I threatened it again before turning and hastening back to the front porch since Criminal Intent was about to start and it just scared the bejesus out of me being out in the dark like that. I thought it might have circled back to the front porch and could even now be waiting for me, but the porch was clear (I struck the bush and the bamboo with the broom just to make sure), so I darted back inside and locked the door. Then missed perhaps a good ten minutes toward the end of my show as I grew preoccupied trying to figure out what this moving shape was outside the window below the feeder, when in fact I believe it was just leaves. Ugh, so annoying. They gobble up so much food and what they don't gobble, they tend to spill as they hurry out of the feeder, and it's such a waste. Plus there are the frigging chipmunks to contend with, and they're basically tiny but efficient vacuum cleaners with fur. Plus the red squirrels are getting more voracious and I actually found one on the yard feeder this morning!! That thing is supposed to be squirrel proof, it has a baffle and everything!! I mean, yes, I did find a black squirrel on it once, but just once, and I figured it was a fluke, but today there was a red squirrel and it should be even harder for them to get up it! I hoped again it was a fluke since that feeder has been there for like two years now and this is only the second time a squirrel has been on it, but when I got to the porch to put out more food, I found him on the pole, reaching for the baffle, trying to climb up again!! The little turd! I haven't seen one on it since but they've been squabbling at the other feeder (when they squabble, they spill food, the little...well, turds) and gobbling stuff from the porch which I intended for the sparrows so...again, UGH. Too many frigging hungry mouths around this place! I barely see the chickadees lately, I wish I knew where they've gone, and the sparrows have grown shy too. I have more than enough squirrels.

Oh my goodness, as I type this there's a red squirrel eating in the nearby feeder and he's soaking wet! His fur is sticking out every which way! Poor little bedraggled thing.

Ma and I have gone to eat at the casino in St. Ignace a couple of times lately, as they have an excellent buffet, and yesterday (Thursday) her mother accompanied us. I do not care for casinos as, as I told my grandmother, I'm immune to gambling. I just don't see the point or allure. Not only is it dreadfully boring, but my philosophy is, a bird in the hand is worth two in the bush, or a dollar in the hand is worth two in the slot machine, or, as I say it without metaphors, "I'd rather use the money I already have to buy something, like a book, than spend it on the SLIGHT POSSIBILITY of getting MORE money!" Seriously. If I have $20, I'm going to buy a book with it, not put it in a machine and hope I get back $50 when chances are I'll spend an hour getting back maybe $5, if anything. Stupid.

So while they gambled (just so Ma could get back the fare she'd spent getting across the bridge, seriously, it's just $7 total, is it REALLY worth it?--still, since she goes there so much she gets comped on pretty much everything, including our lunch), I was far more interested in examining the fountain cascading down the wall, or the numerous cameras set in the ceiling, or the security guard wandering about and then opening a machine and giving some people their winnings, or the way wooden poles had been carved and "bound" around a supporting pillar to look like a bunch of reeds. Even the flashing lights and noises get tiresome eventually. There will be like five machines in a row, each with completely different names and themes, but the games on them are basically the same, just that one is Egyptian while one is Wild West and one is an Aztec temple or something, so I decry the lack of originality there. And I fail to see why in the hierarchy of fictional prizes on the Aztec machine, the big ruby is valued as much more than the golden statue, it seriously seems it should be the other way around.

The lobby of the casino, on the other hand, is gorgeous. It has a very, very high vaulted ceiling with wooden crossbars and such which I believe is meant to mimic the interior of a longhouse or some such, while there's a huge window and seating area overlooking the lake, and set in the floor is a giant mosaic of variously colored mica in the design of Michigan and the Great Lakes, and situated over the Straits area is a silhouette of the Great Turtle. Surrounding the whole is a design of Ojibwa-style flowers. I never tire of going to stand on and look at this. The lighter mica making up the Great Lakes glimmers blue in places when the light hits it right. The area where I live is covered up by the Great Turtle's long tail. While my mother and grandmother gambled a bit more as they hadn't quite covered the bridge fare yet, I returned to look down at this and an older man saw me and approached, asking, "Do you know what that is?"

I nodded and pointed at the turtle. "The Great Turtle."

I don't know if he heard me, for he said, "The Great Lakes," and gestured at the mica design. "That's how Mackinac Island got its name, did you know that--?" he started to say, pointing at the turtle himself, but I was already nodding. "You know all this already?" he added, and I said yes, because I found it rather funny that this guy was telling me this as if it were new, which to most people it would be, whereas it's something I'm not only intensely interested in but have been reading about for years. Go figure he'd pick the probably one person in the place who's read as much on it as I have.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said as he turned to walk away, and I said, yes, the colors of the rock were lovely. I hoped I didn't give him the impression of "Good Lord, why are you talking to me??--do I look like I want to chatter about a stupid mosaic?" My vehement nodding might have made it look like such, like I was trying to get rid of him, and that saddens me, that something that indicates an acute interest in chattering about something could be mistaken for a brushoff. I just don't know how to communicate with people properly. I know, he probably wandered off merely because that was the extent of what he had to say, but still, that's the kind of situation I always dream of happening, somebody "in the know" approaching me and opening up a conversation I really COULD participate in. You have to admit, the overwhelming majority of people really don't want to make smalltalk about Great Turtles and whatnot.

Today as I sat huddled on the couch (since it's again cold and wet outside, so much for the nice weather) and got to thinking about how lonely I am, I again got to thinking about the impressions people make on each other. I'm always thinking about people who've made impressions on me, however tiny, and wondering if I've made any on anyone else, though I have little reason to believe I have. I've realized that I don't remember people by their faces or names, as evidenced by the sheer number of people who cross me in public and say, "Hi, Rachel!" and I have no idea who the hell they are, even if I happen to glance at their face or they tell me their name. It's embarrassing. Half the people, surely old classmates, who have friended me on Facebook, including the few who bother to say, "Hi, Rach!", I have no idea who they are, or, if I know them only by name, I wonder why they've even friended me or how they even know me because we never shared even one word in school together. Seriously. They're mostly people I never, ever once talked to so I find myself wondering, how the heck do they know me? Is it just the same and they know me only by name? I'm the kind of person who sees no point in friending somebody if you know them only by name, so that might be the total of it there, I'm just weird that way and am putting way too much thought into something that's a null point. But it still puzzles me. I know Oprah Winfrey by name but I'm not going to go friending her like we're buddies. Ditto with my entire graduating class.

Anyway, though, as I said, I don't remember people by faces or names. I remember people by their actions. If somebody were to come up to me and say, "Hi, Rach, it's Chris, remember me?" I'll probably be like, "Er, no" (though I'll be too embarrassed to say it aloud, my lack of reply gives me away), but if he were to say, "I'm the one who left those weird notes in your textbook in literature class, remember?" I would be like, "Oh, NOW I remember you!" I associate names and faces with people, for the most part, only AFTER they've done something that makes them memorable to me as an individual. This probably comes from me putting so much emphasis on people meaning what they say, why I get so angry when people promise to do things and then don't. Despite being a writer I put a lot more stress on actions over words. Anybody can say, "Hi, remember me?" but few people can actually do something worth remembering. I don't look at faces, and names mean little to me without anything to go along with them, so until somebody does something memorable, they're just a faceless name to me. When you get as little out of life as I do, however, somebody else doesn't have to do something monumental to be remembered. I often remember people because of the tiniest things that they've probably long forgotten by now.

Seeing how almost all the people I really knew in real life have let me down over the years, I find it's easier to place faith in the people I know I have little chance, if any, of ever meeting again. Somebody can't let you down if you'll never see them again, if the total of your interactions with them are limited to just one point in time. I had the idea once, actually, to write imaginary letters to my old, long-lost friend Mya, because I valued our childhood friendship, I was lonely and wanted to chatter with somebody over old times, and I figured I stood little chance of ever meeting her again. Then lo and behold, she contacts me on Facebook and proves she no longer gives a crap about me, so that pretty much ruins those good memories. Most of the people I was once friends with have done this by now so I have few good memories left that aren't tainted by the fear that my friendship never meant much to these people at all. Seriously, if somebody's friendship meant as much to me as these people's did, I would not forget or brush them off so easily as they've done to me, so that rather tells me I didn't make nearly as much of a lasting impression on them as they did on me, and that hurts. It makes me wonder if we were ever really friends at all, since IMO, real friends don't just forget each other that way. They always leave SOME kind of permanent impression.

It seems the only people I can rely on never to let me down as all my friends have are those I met only once, briefly, and of course, I have no way of knowing if the impression they made on me went both ways. I often find myself wondering about these people who probably don't even remember me. The turtle girl is the one I think about the most. I wonder, what became of that little girl I befriended and played with for one afternoon out at the Black Lake campground, who I helped catch a snapping turtle in a net, which we then proudly paraded around? Does she remember me or ever think of me? What became of the man who, as I stood crying outside Wal-Mart following an argument with my mother, stopped long enough to murmur to me, "God loves you"? What became of the EMT-in-training from Dearborn who took my vital signs in Big Boy? What of the man talking to his friend about Glacial Lake Algonquin on my trip to Mackinac Island? What of the man who asked me about the Great Turtle in the casino lobby? Do any of these people remember me the way I remember them, do they ever wonder what became of that girl who helped them catch the turtle, who was crying outside Wal-Mart, who passed out in the restaurant, who knew about the glacial lake, who was standing looking down at the mosaic? Did I make a lasting impression on them as they made on me, or was I barely a temporary blip they've already forgotten? Do they sometimes wonder if I'm still out there and how I'm doing, or even who I am or what I'm like, what led up to the situations they met me in? Do they ever wonder if there's a way we could get in touch somehow, or would they even want to?

Once a long while back, I stupidly tried Googling such phrases as "black lake," "campground," and "snapping turtle" all at once in the dim hopes of finding, say, a blog entry posted by the girl who caught the snapping turtle while childhood camping with her family at Black Lake, to see if maybe she remembers me and wonders what became of that other girl. Of course, I found nothing. I wondered if the EMT-in-training had, perhaps, Twittered or Facebooked something about the girl whose vital signs he took in Big Boy, though I honestly have no way of knowing. And why would any of these people find these incidents to be worth remembering or commenting on? They all probably have much fuller lives than I do, so such incidents should be quite small and unimportant in the bigger scheme of things, but my life is quite small and unimportant, so I notice such small things, and have a lot of time in which to think about them. When you have very little in your life, of course you notice small things, and they seem much bigger than they seem to other people with bigger lives. (Hence why a failure to connect to the Internet will make most people grumble in irritation, whereas it'll make me scream and cry and will ruin the rest of my night and will lead to me dwelling on every other letdown in my entire life.) When your life is small, everything is magnified. Great importance is attached to things that most people would dismiss as trivial. Thus you're seen as histrionic, overly dramatic, making mountains out of molehills, but when your existence and importance is the size of a mole, can you really be faulted for seeing a molehill as anything lesser than a mountain?

Hence why my wondering over the impression I've made on people I've known for all of a few minutes, or an hour or so at most, strikes me as silly, a bunch of futile fantasizing about my (lack of) importance in others' lives. Why SHOULD any of these people think of or remember me by my actions? People who've known me for far longer forget about me pretty fast. I, however, remember them. And do keep hoping that somewhere out there there's somebody who, even though (especially though) they're no longer in touch with me, thinks about me and wonders who and how I am. I want somebody to remember me for what I've done. If it's somebody I'm in no way in touch with, then their interest in me is all the more sincere, since I'm not there to nag and nag and nag at them to think about me, the way I feel like I do with the people I am occasionally in touch with. I want people to think about me because they want to, not because I guilt them into it. Unfortunately, all I have to do is send a note saying, "Hi, I hope you're doing okay" and I feel like I've overdone it since of course I do that when I haven't heard from somebody in ages and I'm worrying that they've forgotten about me and that's the politest way to ask if that's so. I'm terribly manipulative, and I hate that I'm that way, but I know no other way to keep in touch with people. Probably why I never manage to stay in touch with people. People really don't like staying in touch if they get the feeling you're trying to guilt them into doing so. It just seems easier, even if lonelier, to simply keep to myself rather than try to be friends with people when all I ever feel is that I'm annoying them. That's it, what I'm trying to say in all these words. Just being friends with people feels like I'm being manipulative, since I feel that my presence and need for friendship is burdensome (and has been proven so by countless people in the past, if their silence and/or angry outbursts are any indication). I don't know how to be friends without being annoying, since every single thing about me is annoying, so I never have any clue what to do. Like nodding vehemently at the man in the casino lobby, hoping he'll take it as a sign of interest, fearing he's just taken it as a sign of irritation. I can't read people because I fear they can't read me.

Continued several days later. I can't even remember what I've already typed up. I have to confess, I set Hodgson aside because I want to read Lovecraftian fiction so much, so now I'm reading Tales Of The Cthulhu Mythos and skipping any stories written by Lovecraft himself because I've read them before and intend to read them at some point in the future, it's time to see the stuff I haven't read yet. I think I now have all the Del Rey trade paperback editions of these works. Chaosium has an awful lot of books out though, many of them out of print and rather pricey, so that will take me quite a while. Right now I'm reading "The Shadow From The Steeple" by Robert Bloch, which was written as a followup to Lovecraft's "The Haunter Of The Dark," which was written as a followup to Bloch's "The Shambler From The Stars." Recall how I mentioned before how these writers formed a sort of "circle" (called the Lovecraft Circle, in this case) of people who corresponded regularly and swapped and used each other's characters and even wrote fictional versions of each other in their stories (both Lovecraft and Bloch in effect killed each other off in their respective stories). I never knew before recently just how much Lovecraft borrowed from these people he was in touch with. I haven't read much about Lovecraft's personal life, and feel I should refrain from doing so, for learning a lot about him as a person might spoil some of the enjoyment (I know he was incredibly racist, for one thing), so what I do know about him could be flawed; from what I've read here and there, though, he wasn't terribly social, but had this incredible network of friends he kept in touch with through the mail--he wrote thousands of letters--and I envy that so much. I read that only four people attended his funeral--I'm guessing relatives--but I believe this was because his friends didn't know about his illness so didn't have time to gather for something so sudden. One member of the circle, Bloch perhaps, maybe someone else, said something like, "After he died it kind of took the fun out of the whole thing," and went on to writing other types of stories. Bloch later became famous for Psycho, I believe.

So even though he obviously had a lot of friends and influence while alive, it looks like most of Lovecraft's popularity was achieved after he died. Witness Chaosium alone, for one thing.

That would be a dream come true, to be part of a "circle" devoted not to PUBLISH PUBLISH PUBLISH but just corresponding, sharing characters and stories and having fun. Most of the Lovecraft fiction I've read isn't high art but I get the sense the writers had lots of fun writing it and being part of that circle. It hasn't happened for me though, and not for a lack of trying. I guess my work just isn't captivating enough. By now I'm surprised when I can interest one person in reading more than one story of mine, much less in keeping anyone interested long term, at which I always fail. At least, if anyone does show more interest, they aren't that interested in keeping in touch--face it, how many people want to really correspond with somebody just because they enjoy their work? People would rather read and say nothing nowadays, if that. Even I've become this way, but not out of unwillingness to communicate--just out of being bitten too many times. I adored the early Egyptian work of that one girl online, but we lost touch, and by the time I tried to get back in touch, she was so busy she and her girlfriend both chewed me out (I kid you not, her GF butted in where she was totally ignorant of the situation, tore me a new one, and the girl I'd been writing to did nothing to clear things up or tell her it was none of her business, really mature to sic your significant other on somebody who was just trying to be friends!) for presuming to think I was so important as to be kept in touch with, so that really put a damper on me trying again. And that was one of the few times people bothered to reply, usually they don't. By now whenever I come across somebody's work and I really like it, I don't even bother contacting them, I just remind myself of the times I tried and tell myself to move on. So no circle is formed. A circle implies they'd have to be interested in my work in return anyway, which they usually aren't.

By now I've become almost too leery of talking about my work with anyone anyway, no matter how willing they seem, because it always seems to be the people who appear most interested in my work who lose interest the fastest. I can't count how many times somebody has contacted me and they were so effusive in their praise and interest, I could tell from their comments that they'd really read indepth, and it felt so good and I loved replying to them, but now I feel I have to make a point not to talk about my writing to anyone for fear of boring them off, even if they bring it up first. None of those effusive people stayed in touch more than a few e-mails. In fact almost every one of them, the last thing I heard was, "I'll write back soon, I can't wait to hear from you again!"...and that was it. I guess they could wait. Enough times of that happening and you kind of take the hint. Lovecraft must have gotten that now and again but he sure didn't get it EVERY time. It looks like he cultivated lots of literary friendships. Don't people do that anymore? Or is everyone too busy with themselves? All somebody on WDC has to do is become a moderator to forget I exist so I know I would never be in touch with anyone published. Not that I care about that--people not seeking publication are easier for me to chatter with--but just to be in a circle of likeminded people who are interested in me and I'm interested in them, and we play with each other's work, would be such fun. I wonder if anyone does that anymore or if you have to be famous for it to happen. Anyway, chattering about my work seems to be the common denominator in losing touch with people, so it's better not to do it, though that too puts a damper on communication since that's what I like to chatter about most.

All I can do is think that maybe when I'm dead, somebody will discover my work, and people will enjoy it then and make their own circle, maybe. All the easier since I'm not getting published so copyright wouldn't be as big a problem. The thing is, even Lovecraft was noticed in his time. I haven't really been noticed yet; who is there to notice me once I'm gone? I'm not exactly trumpeting my work anymore; gave that up long ago. Nobody seems to stumble upon things by chance anymore so I can't imagine anyone finding my work and making enough of a to-do about it that people finally notice. I've been posting it online for a decade now without luck, why should my death help matters? So...it was nice to hope that maybe once I'm gone, I'll at last be noticed, but that puts a damper on that hope. A decade without finding a lasting audience. I know my grammar and I know how to string a plot together but it can't be that wonderful after all. That's understandable, but I don't understand why people who write so much lousier, and who are so much more ungrateful to their readers, DO get all the attention they could hope for.

I've become so used to keeping my mouth shut that even if I did get the audience I've longed for, by now I have no idea what to say to them. Every time I got my hopes up in the past they were shattered, so what's the difference now? All those other people who said they loved my work and they hoped to hear from me sounded sincere, but apparently weren't, or at least my work wasn't as captivating as they said it was.

*Two people who were in semi-regular correspondence with me and even started fanfics of my work, both disappeared and ignored me when they did briefly show up again.

*Two people who read and enjoyed my work and even drew art for it, one vanished without a trace, the other is the girl mentioned above who pretty much told me she was too busy and I am of no importance to her anymore and was stupid for thinking I was (that after she clearly promised to reply to me, then publicly posted to her journal that she was so lonely and bored, wouldn't people please mail her?).

*One guy who said my work "changed his life," even linking to it on his MySpace, and who wrote out a detailed "dream" he'd had about it (in reality probably a disguised fanfic), last I heard gave me a vague promise to reply and then never did. I believe he long ago removed the link, so much for changing his life.

*Another guy who did artwork inspired by my stories and really wanted to correspond about the subject matter, lost interest and disappeared. Friended me on Facebook but showed no interest in getting back in touch.

*At least one, probably more, people who replied to the sad note I'd appended to Part 100 of RTMI, claiming the story was great, and promised to get back to me with more, never did.

*Various people who were regularly or semi-regularly commenting on various stories of mine here at WDC, all of whom vanished (some are still onsite, just not interested anymore); once in a blue moon I'll get a comment from one along the lines of "I sure miss reading your work," and I think, "Well, it's STILL THERE, what's keeping you from reading it??" But I never bother replying anymore. One of them, too, friended me on Facebook, but seeing as she could never be bothered to actually correspond, I gave up. I'm tired of all the effort.

That's just the tip of it. There are many more I'm not mentioning, for that very reason, there are just so many I can't keep track of them anymore. And of course it gets so discouraging running down the sheer numbers of people I've bored off, not that much is ENcouraging nowadays, for every compliment I get promising to return to read more of my work all I can ever think anymore is, "Yeah, whatever, that's what everyone else has been saying the past decade, too." I really hate it when people promise to come read more of my work. Because I keep hoping they mean it, but they never do.

I'm nowhere near Lovecraft, but I know I'm capable of writing at least decently, better than many people who have legions of followers. I'm not keeping my work entirely to myself or where nobody can find it whatsoever. I finish a few things I start. I'm no literary giant but a lot of people have told me my work at least interests or entertains them. So I don't understand why it can't KEEP interesting them, or at least why I can't interest them, too. I get people who say they're interested in me, just not my work; and I'm betting there are some people who are interested in my work, just not in me; I wish I could find the ones who are interested in both. They seem to be mutually exclusive. OR...my work really is that boring, and people just think it looks good until they really get into it, so that's why I never hear from them again. I really can't think my writing is that good if nobody else thinks so. I'm tired of people telling me it's really good when they just lose interest a moment later. That's not good writing; good writing doesn't make you lose interest. I certainly wouldn't call somebody a really great writer if they kept me entertained for all of ten minutes. Why do other people do that?

I hate all this whining which always leads to the same spot--nowhere, with me feeling horrible that I've been so whiny--and I can't think of a decent way to segue out of it so I guess that's it. I've just gotten so sad and envious reading about this "Lovecraft Circle" that sounds like it would have been fabulous to take part in, and wish my own work could inspire people that way, even if only after my death. But it's bigheaded to think it would.

I have seen chickadees at last three times today, so that was nice.

My second procedure is scheduled for tomorrow (Wednesday), I believe; I wish I could hope it would help, but there has been absolutely no improvement since the last one. I don't see what good this medication is, how come it seems to help so many other people? All I feel is dreadfully tired all the time. I have no energy anymore. It's getting late and I should go and do some actual reading (because I see little point in actual writing lately), so I guess that's all, my apologies for the whining. Tar.

 

Typed up last night and the previous nights.

I haven't had the heart lately to describe how my last visit with the urologist went. I've decided he's useless as a doctor; I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, and think that maybe he just had bad bedside manner, but after the last meeting, I find him a lousy doctor as well, and unable to help me whatsoever. He started out by asking me if the hydrodistension had worked. ! He'd only put like seven frigging ounces in there! My mother had apparently misunderstood most of what he'd told her, which is one big reason why I wish he'd waited for me to wake up and had then told ME how things had gone--he never even showed me the pictures of the ulcer during the meeting. I said well, it hadn't helped any, I hadn't even thought that was considered a hydrodistension. I thought the whole frigging point of hydrodistension was to STRETCH THE BLADDER BEYOND ITS CURRENT CAPACITY AND BACK TO ITS NORMAL CAPACITY, not to just fill it up as much as it can currently hold and then give up! I could have told him it could only hold at maximum around six ounces! And now he's asking me if it helped? I tried to ask him if he hadn't filled it further because of the ulcer but he kept interrupting me and brushing me off so that was never answered, to this moment I don't know why he didn't stretch it out more, he just said my bladder has gotten very small over the years and probably the only thing that could fix it is bladder augmentation surgery...which he doesn't do. Apparently, places where they do this are rare, and the nearest one...is in Ann Arbor. Way downstate. In short, the place he tried to shuttle me off to months ago when I insisted on his help.

What is the f**king use of this so-called doctor if he doesn't even do bladder surgery? Doesn't even do a real hydrodistension?

I started crying at this point, right in front of him, I was so angry and frustrated. He didn't even notice or care. He mentioned (only because my mother brought it up) the option of bladder instills--putting medication directly into the bladder, because only like 2% of Elmiron gets metabolized by the body into the bladder, no wonder the f**king stuff isn't working. I've been on it only FIVE OR SIX FRIGGING MONTHS now. No change. He said this is a procedure he can do (oh, you mean he actually does some procedures?--amazing)--then he said, "We'll just keep you on the medication and schedule you to see me again in another three months to see if it's changed any."

No F**KING way!

I spoke up--or at least, tried to. Told him I really wanted my bladder to hold more fluid. I even said, "I read that Elmiron doesn't get rid of ulcers, it just helps prevent them," which I had read at Wikipedia, but he brushed that off with "Well, that's not really true," but didn't bother elaborating, yet when my mother asked where we could find more info on interstitial cystitis (because apparently, it's too much effort for HIM to explain it to us), he said we could look online! Can you believe it? But that was exactly what Wikipedia said about Hunner's ulcers, that bladder instills were just for pain management, and Elmiron coats the bladder wall to help PREVENT them, but to get rid of them, you need to cut or burn them out (and since that would involve effort, I doubt he does that, despite being a UROLOGIST). Remember I was still assuming the ulcer was the reason he refused to distend my bladder because he wasn't exactly giving me the reason. In any case, I tearfully said I want my bladder to hold more fluid.

I kept trying to speak up and say I wanted to take the next step, the bladder instills or whatever--cripes, I would go straight to the surgery, because I tried to ask him, "Is there any chance the medication will help my bladder hold more fluid?"--recall in my earlier entries that he himself had claimed it WOULD, but here he was saying that apparently, no, it won't, only surgery would help! But he never answered this question, just kept brushing it off and interrupting me. Seriously, I tried like two or three times to tell him I wanted to try something else, and he kept interrupting me obliviously with, "I'll see you in another three months to see if there's any improvement, and you can think about what you want to do in the meantime."

I was ready to scream, "I DON'T NEED TO F**KING THINK ABOUT IT!! I can barely sleep, barely go places, barely drink, barely function, I'm f**king ready to get my f**king BLADDER TAKEN OUT if need be, just to FIX THIS!!" Seriously, if HE were the one who can't sleep half the time without bathroom trips every ten minutes, who can't go on a long drive (and he does lots of procedures out of town from what I hear, I wonder if THEY'RE any use to their patients) or a trip or even go to see a movie, who can't drink more than 30oz of fluid a day no matter how thirsty he is and even that is too much half of the time, who can't even sit comfortably for over a half hour, and oh yeah, who LOSES LOTS OF FLUID ONCE A MONTH, would he be so blase (accent over the e, look it up) about "waiting another three months and thinking about it"?

He even had the gall--get this--to pretty much tell me I'm well off compared to others. He had asked me how my symptoms had been doing lately and, since I hadn't been losing much water, I said I was able to go a half hour to an hour without using the bathroom. Remember, that's how I had been doing lately--and it was a deterioration over how I was when this started, when I could easily go an hour. My bladder has been very sensitive lately. Toward the end of the meeting, he said that I was actually pretty well off compared to other people with this disorder because I could hold my urine in for an hour! Never mind that when I lose water weight, or drink more than a tiny bit, or heck, even for no real reason whatsoever most of the time, pee a "normal" amount, I CAN BARELY EVEN MAKE IT TEN MINUTES! Stupid jackass HAS my records of the past HALF YEAR of me telling him all this, he has my urine output log, he knows I can only hold 4-6oz, so yeah, when I'm letting out more than 2oz an hour it drives me crazy, and he's telling me I'm pretty well off? I'd like to see if YOU were pretty well off if you had to stop someplace and pee every 7-10 minutes on one of your 2-hour drives out of town for your procedures elsewhere.

I at last got him to shut up long enough in his interruptions and brush-offs to say I would do the stupid bladder instills, though they will do me no good based on his own comment that only surgery will help, so I don't even know why he suggested them. But I guess I have to cover every base. Apparently they instill Elmiron (you have to provide your own pill) and some other things into the bladder and you try to hold it in for a half hour, though it could be too painful or irritating to do so, and you return to have it done two weeks later, for four treatments, which I guess means an eight-week course of therapy. Two months. Taking me well through the summer. I can only guess that I'll have to put up with having yet another summer ruined, an entire sweltering summer of drinking next to nothing and probably ending up going next to nowhere, before likely ending up needing surgery in autumn, IF I'm lucky. My mother said my first trip to Ann Arbor (no clue how I'm going to get there yet, of course), they won't do the procedure, it'll just be info gathering. I want to demand of the urologist or whoever when this gets scheduled that I am only going down to Ann Arbor FOR THE ACTUAL PROCEDURE and if they need my frigging blood pressure and pulse and all that junk they can do it here or someplace closer to home, I CANNOT AFFORD TO GO ALL THE WAY DOWN THERE JUST TO BE TOLD THEY'LL SCHEDULE MY SURGERY ANOTHER DAY. Seriously, all I have is my parents, who both work fulltime--my dad would probably have to stay home to care for the cat, that's a thought that concerns me the most, I can't leave him on his own for who knows how long--so that leaves my mother and her trashy little car which is on its last legs. They would have us drive like six or eight hours or so just to take my pulse and blood pressure and say, "Well, we'll fit you in next month"? Hell no. If they themselves really must get that info in person they can just do it the same day as the procedure. That's not too damn much to ask of them, considering how much is being asked of ME. But I know my luck, and of COURSE we'll probably have to make two or more trips down there for stupid shit they could just as easily get done up here. That's just the way my life goes, isn't it?

My first procedure is scheduled for Monday and I dread it so much--no general anesthesia this time, just a local, and based on my last experience with something being stuck up my urethra, it's going to be horrible for at least a day or so. I have no idea if this will worsen it or not. I'm not counting on it helping at all. Just on worsening or doing nothing. With my luck it will worsen things. I keep trying to boost myself, saying, maybe I will luck out enough to go to the island or someplace else on a rare day when my urination is low, and walking around will keep it at bay even longer, and if it really gets bad I can try to find a private spot in the woods since there are many such spots on the island (though nowhere else, I'm afraid), but then reality hits again, I've just been disappointed so many times, by now I just want my bladder out and a catheter put in, just to be able to go through a day without feeling like I have to pee every few minutes. I bet you feel like you have to pee even WITH a catheter. That will be my luck, ending up with a cystectomy and a catheter and still feeling this misery. If that's so, I really think I want that to be the end of it all. I'm tired of suffering. I would far rather have pain than this. I can handle some pain.

So that's why I've determined my urologist is absolutely useless as a doctor. Even if he couldn't do anything to help me, he could at least act like he cares that I'm suffering so much, but he can barely even give me the time of day, can barely even answer a question, just keeps brushing me off as if he can't get rid of me fast enough. You know, even that's an overstatement. Wanting to get rid of me fast would imply that he cares on some level, to get rid of me. All I sense is utter indifference. Like I'm barely even there. Like he thinks he's talking to an imbecile so nothing he says will be processed so why even bother. I might be ignorant, but I'm not an imbecile. I've actually tried to learn a bit about this, to help in my own treatment. I believe in doing that. Apparently he doesn't think I'm capable of such thought. So not only is he bad with bedside manner, but he's utterly useless as a doctor. Probably the very best and most useful thing I could ever get out of him is a referral elsewhere.

I've started walking around all the nearby blocks of the area to see how long it takes me and how I tolerated it. Most walks seem to take slightly over an hour, oddly. The walk down the highway, then up G. Road and then the side road back to home takes only fifteen minutes, since it's just a little sliver of land between roads, the corner of which at which we live (that's very bad phrasing, apologies), but the other routes are longer. I finally walked down the side road and northward along G. Road, which I haven't taken in years, not since I used to ride my bicycle (I would pretend I was Gold Rat, zooming down the hill on his motorcycle), and it was strange to see what was the same and what had changed. It's very peaceful back there, flat and open for the most part, farmland with houses along the road and some trees here and there, and easier to walk than the dirt road to the tracks since it's paved. The walk to the junction with SR Road and back home takes about 45 minutes. I then walked all the way to the end of G. Road, past the junction, to the dead end (most roads around here seem to be dead ends, symbolically enough), since I used to bicycle down there past a cow pasture and I recalled a distant grove of trees that was so charming looking to me, but the cows were no longer about--it looked like perhaps the field had been converted to crops though I'm not sure--and the distant grove wasn't the same, and the land was so very flat and wide and lonely that I didn't like this part of the route. The wind was blowing--it was warm but all I could think of was what it must be like way out here in winter. It's not too far from my own home but it seemed like I was on the Plains or something, it must be absolutely dismal in winter. Plus, as I passed one house set far back from the road, a man standing in the yard started walking quickly toward the road in my direction, and that made me terribly anxious, especially seeing as there seemed to be nobody out here for miles around. I walked faster to the end, trying to look unconcerned, and spotted a house under construction with a couple of guys hammering on the boards, so I told myself that if I had to scream, perhaps those two would hear me, but still, I didn't feel at ease until I had turned around, passed that guy (who was out of sight by the time I passed again), and had made it back past the junction and to civilization. I kept peering surreptitiously over my shoulder, fearing he would be right behind me, but no such thing occurred. I decided to omit the far end of G. Road from future travels. That walk took about 1:20 minutes or so.

On one of my walks along G. Road, a truck slowed down to accost me and an old couple within asked if I could give them directions; in dismay I told them I'm awful with directions, but that didn't convince them and they asked if I could point them out to some nearby restaurant or inn whose name I didn't recognize. I said sorry, I had no idea, and they drove off to the end of G. Road. I would have explained to them that I only lived just around the block and don't drive or travel anywhere and this was the furthest I'd walked from home for quite a while, etc. etc., but of course people don't wish to hear such drivel. When I told Dad this story later on he said the location in question had changed names and was nowhere nearby so these people were way out of their range. I don't know if they ever found it. I wish people would not ask me for directions.

The walk down G. Road, to the junction, then turning west up SR Road and taking that to the highway and back home took about 1:10 minutes. I could have sworn I'd taken this route perhaps once by bike years ago since I recalled going on the highway once that way (never did again, the cars speeding by my bike made me too nervous), but the landscape along SR Road was totally unfamiliar to me. More open farmland and distant houses, then trees such as those that grow near water--willows and such, since the river wasn't too distant--then I arrived at the highway and that was the only familiar part, since we always pass SR Road on the way into town. SR Road was moderately peaceful to look at, but had more traffic than I'd expected.

A long while back I walked down the dead-end dirt road past the tracks, to where it ends and meets some other, paved, road, then walked back; this walk took about 45 minutes. On a second attempt, around noon, I passed an old woman going out to her mailbox wearing only a robe. She laughed and said, "Nobody ever comes down here, so I'm not even dressed!" at which I hurriedly apologized. That's just the sort of luck I have, to embarrass this poor lady when I was just out for a walk. I guess that just shows how isolated it is down there.

I walked down the dirt road to the tracks and headed on my old route north, then, instead of continuing to the railroad bridge of my D Is For Damien stories, turned onto SR Road (which intersects the tracks as well as G. Road); just as I was reaching it, I was surprised by an elderly man walking toward me, also out enjoying the nice weather, though I was highly anxious that, like the man out on G. Road, he would pounce on me once we passed. He smiled and said hello and continued on his way. I've never met anyone else on that trail so that's why it shocked me so much. I kept peering back at him over my shoulder till I reached SR Road and turned toward the highway; as soon as I reached it, a female walker approaching along that road nodded and greeted me as well and we both passed on our way. This was before the trees were in bloom; it hadn't rained in ages and was very dry, yet the soil along the tracks was damp enough for my feet to sink, and the swampland surrounding the trail was full of odd sights and sounds I'd never noticed before, so strange. That walk took about an hour and a half.

Most recently I took the dirt road to the tracks then headed south rather than north, where I recalled the land falls away so the tracks form a sort of bluff through the landscape, and it's so very isolated it's almost like being on the island aside from hearing the dull distant roar of traffic on the highway. It was so peaceful and sunny, and the mosquitoes weren't out yet to torment me like they did the last time I attempted to head this way. The land was level at first and the woods were full of birdsong of all kinds; then I reached the "bluffs" leading down into swampland on the left and pine woods on the right, then the land leveled out more and I was surprised to hear gurgling water, like a spring, so stopped to peer into the pine woods and saw a stream coming out from under the path. That hadn't been there, or else I hadn't noticed it, my last time this way. It was just runoff from the opposite side, but still, it was peaceful, and I did wish I could get a better look at it. But everything beyond the trail is trespassing, unfortunately. Then I at last passed a few houses and reached OB Road and took it back to the highway--the tracks in fact continued on the other side, but I sadly eschewed them as I always have, especially now that my bladder is so small, and headed back to familiar ground and took the highway back home. That tiny glimpse of the wooded track on the other side was so enticing. *sigh* That walk took about 1:10 minutes, yet again.

So I've been around all the blocks lately out of sheer boredom and loneliness and whatnot. On my walk along G. Road and up SR Road to the highway I passed two people, a woman checking her mail (actually she was mowing her lawn, and just HAD to cross the road and stand waiting for me to hurry past before opening the box, the moment I arrived), and a man trimming his lawn (he, too, stopped trimming and waited for me to hurry past), and neither said hello, which I found odd. I long to take SR Road east where it intersects with G. Road, as I've never gone that way; or to explore SA Road, a dirt track along G. Road which I know from a bike ride years ago goes way out into the country to a corner store I once knew; or to explore the tracks beyond OB Road; but I just don't have it in me. My legs could tolerate it just fine; but not my bladder. I'm confined to this small parcel of land.

Continued the next night. Complained to Psychologist (after the usual near-hour spent talking about the bladder, as always, I'm so sick of this bladder taking up all my waking thoughts) about the lack of response from the person she thought might get in touch with me; she said this person has been having extreme difficulties with life lately, which made me feel very bad yet still frustrated--I try to be the good person and sympathize, and I really do, but still, it frustrates me. I'm so used to people insisting to me that they'd LOVE to keep in touch but OH they're just so busy with other things, then I see them frittering away time doing trivial things when they could just as easily be writing to me. (And that's when they even bother to let me know they can't keep writing to me, most people just start ignoring me.) I've spent my life giving other people the benefit of the doubt, and I always end up being made the fool because of it, because I've learned that the majority of people don't deserve the benefit of the doubt; at least, I've had the luck to deal with the ones who don't. Deal with nine people who say they'd LOVE to keep in touch with you but they're SO dreadfully busy, and then see them chattering away and gaming cheerfully online for weeks on end, then of course you're hardly going to believe the tenth person who says they'd love to keep in touch but they're so busy, and it turns out they honestly are. It's not that tenth person's fault, but it's not the first person's fault either for coming to believe as they do. It's those other nine people who don't know how to just be honest and say, no, they really don't want to keep in touch, they're sorry they got in touch in the first place. It's easier to just lie, and then avoid dealing with the person you've lied to. You'd think they'd at least have the decency to PRETEND they're busy, and not play and chatter around with other people right in front of me like I'm an idiot, but that would involve effort, and I'm not worth that effort. Like with the urologist. See now why I believe I'm so insignificant.

Sorry about that, I'm just so incredibly sore about it all. I hate coming across as so selfish and uncaring and bitter. I hate that people like that helped make me this way. I want to be the nice caring person who gives others the benefit of the doubt, and doesn't come across as clingy and demanding and ungrateful, I want to be the caring person that others really DO want to turn to, but I just no longer know how. Or rather, I've grown too used to being hurt, so it's easier to just be selfish and ungrateful, because maybe then these people won't get in touch with me unless they really mean it. I think of snapping turtles. They have their hard shell and they can draw partly into it and bite off the fingers of anyone who pokes too close, but they have very soft bellies underneath all that. The only disadvantage is, when you've learned to put up an unwelcoming shell around yourself as much as I've done, and to snap at anyone who approaches, eventually even the people who do care will stop trying.

The young raccoon who poked about our porch returned, again in the light of evening, and I chased him into the tree in the front yard, standing helplessly below as he crawled his way up and wedged himself in a fork high above me. He stayed there for quite a while, just a round furry ball with a striped tail visible way up in the tree; when he at last started to crawl back down, I was watching him through the living room window and went to fetch the camera since he looked so funny coming back down, all furtive like, and Dad watched while I took pictures. Halfway down he spotted me and grew very still, staring back; I waved, and he furtively crawled his way partly back up. Then climbed all the way down a while later while I took more pictures, and started creeping across the yard. I waved at him again to warn him away from the porch and he did this weird...little thief dance-type thing, sneaking sideways and keeping his face toward me as he crept out of sight. It was so weird. He tried to approach the porch again and I had to go out and shoo him away into the woods. He returned repeatedly the next evening; I ran out to yell at him, and waved the broom, but he merely retreated to the sidewalk several yards away and then turned and stared at me blankly. It was so infuriating! I'm used to animals running when you yell and wave things at them, but he didn't budge an inch! I advanced on him and he retreated, but again just a bit, and again turned back to stare at me. I wondered if he were sick, so was careful shooing him off into the woods, but Dad told me that's how raccoons are, they will just stop and stare at you as if hoping you'll leave them alone, or as if to reproach you for daring to scare them away. When he approached the porch once more that evening I hurled myself outside with a bellowing "YAAAGGHHAAAA!!" which made my mother laugh and he hurried away and I saw no more of him until after dark, when I again shooed him away and that was that. He hasn't been back since, which I find strange. Today (Friday) my mother and I passed a dead raccoon, belly up, along the highway, but Dad says it was too far away to be "our raccoon." I wonder if he was an orphan since he was only smallish and on his own and seemed quite reproachful and self-righteous about being chased away. Dad did toss out an old bagel (which I moved across the driveway, not wanting to tempt the raccoon into coming back to the porch), which went missing the next day, so somebody made off with it.

From what I've only recently learned (apparently it was quite abrupt) my beloved Law & Order, after this Monday's episode, will be no more. Stupid Dick Wolf, that's the last time I defend you. The only non-reason I saw for the "cancellation" (I'd more likely call it retirement, can you really call it cancellation when it's been on like twenty years?) was that the New York setting has gotten too overdone and old hat, so they're going to restart it in LA. What a stupid-ass reason. The show isn't totally about the location, it's about the CRIMES taking place in that location--a murder is a murder whether it's in NY or LA so why does a change of venue (and a complete change of cast, I'm going to miss Sam Waterston and Linus Roache and Alana De La Garza and Jeremy Sisto, mostly Jeremy Sisto (I had a nice dream about him once), I've long grown tired of S. Epatha Merkerson and her melodramatic offtopic cancer subplot) make them think this will boost ratings any? Need I mention L&O: Crime & Punishment or Trial By Jury? Even I hated those bombs. Plus I'm sick and tired of all the shows that have to set themselves either in Miami or someplace out west where it NEVER FRIGGING SNOWS OR EVEN RAINS, seriously, they MUST get snow or even merely lousy weather (and I do NOT mean hurricanes, or tsunamis, or wildfires, or all those other stupid things CSI: Miami keeps pulling out) there ONCE in a blue moon, but you'd never know it from watching TV. At least NY is more realistic and relatable to Midwesterners like me. PLUS, I see the tendency of lots of such crime shows lately to make location TOO MUCH a part of the plot, like the CSI programs (which I gave up on long ago, they got way too stupid, see the above re: hurricanes/tsunamis/wildfires), so actual plot is sacrificed while they focus on OH LOOK PRETTY WATER! and look somebody died in a totally outlandish way, only in Miami/LA/wherever! Gag. I saw the first advertisement for L&O:LA yesterday, I think, but was still hoping for the original to stick around since they kept referring to it as the season finale and not the series finale, but today they showed an ad proclaiming it merely "the finale," so I guess that's it. Stupid Dick Wolf and his non-reasons. Yeah I'll tune in to L&O:LA but only to fill in the void. Meanwhile, USA has yet to renew L&O: Criminal Intent from what I've heard (is it just me or is Jeff Goldblum capable of playing only one character and the same character in everything he acts in??) and TNT has yet to renew to keep showing the L&O reruns. And Universal or whatever is too stupid to release all the existing seasons of the original series to DVD just yet. Seriously, I went looking for them hopefully at Amazon and they have released only Seasons 1-7 and 14 or some such. Stupid asses all around. Me going through all this crap already and now no more L&O to top it off.

Continued the next night. Ugh, just chased off that damn raccoon again so I guess he isn't out of the picture yet. Annoying thing.

I know I had a lot more things to at least touch on but can't recall them now that I've taken the time to actually write an entry. I'm still jonesing heavily for Lovecraftian fiction and am trying to collect a few books, mainly Chaosium's, but am currently starting on William Hope Hodgson's (I can never be sure if I'm spelling his name correctly) collected works. I read his "The House On The Borderland" a long while back at Project Gutenberg. I recall it was terribly fascinating and bizarre, but then it just...ended. And I was so furious. The story is told in "discovered manuscript" format, as far as I recall, so on the one hand, the lack of an ending fits in, but on the other, he spent all this time and energy building up to this really bizarre finale that just didn't happen. For example I vaguely recall the narrator, while dwelling in the mysterious house in question, sees this valley or something with these giant figures in it, one of which somewhat resembles the god Set or some such, but it's never explained just WHAT these beings are, or what all is going on throughout the entire story. No explanation. Just lots of really weird scenery and happenings. And that royally pissed me off. At least Lovecraft, for example, gives you some idea of the reasoning behind things in his stories, even if not the ENTIRE story. Anyway, I'm currently reading another work of Hodgson's, "The Boats Of The Glen Carrig," and although fascinating, I'm getting the strong feeling it's going to be much like the other story in that it details a lot of weird happenings but then never really explains exactly what's going on. I guess I'll just have to see.

I finished Arthur Machen's "best of" works by Chaosium prior to this; I'm a bit iffy on him. On the one hand, he has the most gorgeous descriptions of the Welsh countryside with the limestone hills and deep woods and hidden springs and whatnot, and his earlier (I think) "little people" stories are really quite interesting, but on the other hand, like Hodgson, he often tends to suffer from underexplanation, just having something weird happen and then leaving it at that. That might make for interesting nonfiction but it doesn't work so well for fiction. The introductions to his books explained why he was like this--he was more of a religious, mystical person and despised science and its tendency to break everything down into its component parts--but still, when reading a story, it's frustrating for there to be so little...what's the word I'm looking for? Not climax, nor denouement ("denouement: final revelation: a final part of a story or drama in which everything is made clear and no questions or surprises remain," from the MS Works dictionary), though the latter might come close. No tying together of loose ends. Even in a story where he did explain everything--it was about a guy's doppelganger appearing to a group of people far away investigating a haunted house--there was still the question, "Well, that might be what happened, but why did it happen?"--seriously, the only reason it was explained at all was because one character talked to the guy in question and pretty much explained it all to him in a straightforward, rather infodumpy manner. "You know, Sir So-&-So, you may have experienced what's known as a 'phantasm of the living,' here is a summary of various other known cases of such, bla bla bla..." Not making for really great storytelling. Not really HORRIBLE, but not really great, either. In his earlier stories like "The Great God Pan" and "The White People" he was frustratingly vague and left too much open ended, IMO, but at least it made more sense in that context, and more was explained so it made for better stories. I get the feeling from a lot of his works that he started out wanting to tell a story but got tired of the traditional story format so just kind of told some random events (seriously, he often derails in the middle of his stories to tell other stories that have no actual connection to the current plot, and sometimes forgets to return to the original story) and then got tired even of that so stuck on a "The end." So some of his work is really good but it's also really frustrating and unsatisfying in many ways. Oh, he also terribly relies on coincidence of the most outlandish sort in some of his stories, too. It's amazing how he'll have all these characters randomly meeting in a huge city like London and it turns out they're all connected to the same case. I was willing to overlook that if the story was interesting enough (as in "The Three Impostors"), but still, it was goofy. And I'm still wondering what the heck all the stories-within-stories in "The Three Impostors," while quite entertaining, had to do with anything.

I wonder why Del Rey has not issued a reprint of Weird Shadows Over Innsmouth seeing as they did a reprint of Shadows Over Innsmouth, which is itself already out of print so I had to obtain used. The Wikipedia page on this book has no info about the reprint; I should leave a note on the talk page requesting that. Not terribly motivated though.

I just realized I made a big error in my earlier entry regarding the game Alone In The Dark. Firstly, I think the computer game (the most recent one which I thought was based on the movie) was released BEFORE the movie, but it's hard for me to tell since I'm familiar only with the ORIGINAL game, which had nothing to do with the movie but for the title and the main character's name. Secondly, while browsing around at Wikipedia recently, I saw the title Shadow Of The Comet and, reminded of that review I'd read for what I'd thought was Alone In The Dark, which had mentioned a guy going crazy after seeing a comet, I only just remembered tonight to look that up. It turns out THAT was the game I saw reviewed, not Alone In The Dark, BUT, in my defense, 1. they're both based on works by Lovecraft, 2. apparently events in Shadow Of The Comet are referenced in Alone In The Dark, because 3. both games were put out by the same company. I do seem to very faintly recall reading the references to Lord Boleskine or whoever from Shadow Of The Comet (which I've never played) in the various reading materials provided in Alone In The Dark (I remember I copied all the reading material from the game because it was so interesting, but I forgot where I put it, fooey), so that's probably why I thought they were the same game. To this day, I don't know why Lord Boleskine or whoever went mad on seeing the comet. If anybody out there by any chance has ever played Shadow Of The Comet and knows, please inform. I'm guessing it had something to do with some nasty cosmic alien-god or something but that's just based on how such things usually go.

Good Lord, the article had a screen capture from the game and do I miss those days. I have fond memories of Alone In The Dark. Running into this room so full of spiders that I kicked them like crazy and they blocked my path and my character ended up doing this weird helpless turn and cancanning out of the room; playing a record on a gramophone to get these dancing ghosts out of my way; putting up mirrors so some faceless night-gaunts would see themselves and freeze so I could get down the stairs; foraging around for useful stuff and weapons; listening to giant rats make popping noises as I tried to kill them; going into a bathroom and confronting this nasty worm thing in a tub snarling at me and then hurrying back out...good times. I tried playing the sequel but it was too memory intensive for our computer so I never got very far, it was so woefully boggy, plus it didn't really have anything to do with Lovecraft anymore--something about a pirate, I dunno--so I lost interest. I read in the Wikipedia article that there were even Deep Ones in that game. I don't recall them. I don't even really recall the zombies it says the game had, huh. I just know those spiders, and this humongous worm monster thing I encountered while trying to make my way down a tunnel (finding my way past its bulky body was what frustrating me badly enough to write to the game company for help, I figured it out before receiving their response which advised the same technique), were really frigging annoying. And I vaguely recall the image of the tree (which is kind of explained in the article, until now I wasn't aware of the actual plot of the game, shows how ignorant I was back then) and the names Derceto and Shub-Niggurath, the Black Goat of the Woods with a Thousand Young. No, none of it made the slightest sense to me back then but it was still fun. Then when I solved the game, every single monster vanished and I wandered my way back up through the tunnels and into the house and outside, it was so eerily empty, then that cab driver laughed at me evilly and that was the end, ha.

Good Lord I bet none of that made the slightest bit of sense to anyone who may have read this far.

I found a site called the "Innsmouth Free Press" which is dedicated to fiction and whatnot about that lovely coastal town, ha. My only real issue is their "Walking Guide To Innsmouth." It outlines the various landmarks and locations in the town, but they're not canon to Lovecraft's original story. There are obvious additions, such as a high-tech company (!), that Lovecraft obviously never wrote about or created or even envisioned. Plus it says the population is 40,000 (!!!). Certainly not the updates I envisioned myself for the Innsmouth of canon. For example, when I started my "New Innsmouth" fiction, I imagined that the original town still existed, but was greatly fallen into ruin, just this tiny little rathole with maybe a few hundred inhabitants and dilapidated buildings, really gone to seed, really backwards and unwelcoming; meanwhile a newer and more successful and populous settlement, "New Innsmouth" (as opposed to "Old Innsmouth"), has sprung up nearby, still with a small permanent population perhaps only in the hundreds, but very quaint and charming and catering mainly to tourists, you know, like Mackinac Island. Whatever the case, the original Innsmouth still exists in my mind but is just really, really dumpy and forbidding. This vision of it all revamped and heavily populated (40,000??--Cheboygan city has only 5000!) and even with a high-tech company of its own is just...way too weird for me. Not in keeping with how I picture it at all. My issue isn't with somebody picturing it that way--seeing things our own way and contributing our own, often differing views is the whole point of fanfiction--but with presenting this as if it's canon. The "Walking Guide" seems to be there for anyone wishing to write fiction set in Innsmouth to submit to the site (I think it even mentions that near the link). I think it's rather misleading since people not intimate with the original story might think that, say, this high-tech company is original to the place, and won't even be aware that Lovecraft had nothing to do with that.

Long story short, I think the "Walking Guide" should have been written strictly according to canon, or, at the very least, should have made it clear somewhere in the article that most of the information provided was not created by the original writer and was in fact contributed by So-&-So (the creator of these new locations is not named in the article, so far as I can tell--I really think they should be).

Still, an interesting site with some interesting fiction. I downloaded the PDFs, at least. Now if only the background image didn't take so dreadfully long to load.

Oh, that's another thing. The stupid Internet seems to be returning to the state it was in all last summer, having trouble connecting, giving me shitty speeds, then refusing to go anywhere even if I do successfully connect--sometimes even kicking me off right after I connect. This pisses me off so much. It's the EXACT SAME THING as all last summer. The thought that I have ANOTHER ENTIRE SUMMER of this to look forward to infuriates me. I wish I had a way to tell whether it's the phone or the ISP so I could call them out on it and demand answers, but whenever I complain, they always blame the other party. Nobody's willing to admit when they're to blame anymore.

And get this, two of the channels in our cable lineup were messed up--USA Network was broadcasting Game Show Network, and Comedy Central was broadcasting Speed--one of my fave channels, and one of Dad's fave channels, broadcasting channels we aren't even supposed to have (well, we're SUPPOSED to have Speed, it's on the lineup they sent us, but they seem to have dropped it long ago). We called them to complain and they said they would send a technician to check it out and if he had to come into the house there would be an extra $35 fee! Now WTF would they expect to find at OUR house? What, do we have their satellite sitting in our back yard so we can directly change what channels are broadcasting?? Seriously, that's the only thing that could have happened, a mixup with their satellite, a problem on THEIR end. How the hell could we get USA Network to broadcast GSN?? Yet that's what they told us, they'd send somebody to check it out. Naturally, they said for us to be there and wait for them to call within like a five-hour window of time (because everybody's schedule falls right in line with the cable company's and we live to wait for them to arrive any time between noon and five) and Dad refused to do so (and I am the one called avoidant), so we had to call to reschedule. They were going to come on Saturday (today); they rescheduled for Wednesday. Quite a delay there, Charter! How did your Monday and Tuesday fill up so fast?? USA and Comedy Central, meanwhile, seem to have returned to broadcasting their actual channels. WOW, Charter, how did you do that without even entering our house?? Amazing! I'll wait and see if it stays this way, then call to cancel (though then there'll probably be another problem, that's how it always goes). Wish I were snarky enough to tell the tech support guy, "And seeing as we made no change to our TV or cable setup, this rather proves the error was on YOUR end, so the next time such happens, we'd thank you to look for problems on YOUR end and not insist on sending somebody out here to charge us an unnecessary fee."

Ma said the man was very nice when she called to reschedule, and asked if we'd considered cable Internet. Cripes already. Yeah, guys, maybe when you drop it to below your starting fee of around $60 a month? Like, to less than 1/3 that? And while you're at it, fix the Weather Channel. The last time you changed your lineup, TWC stopped giving us our local Cheboygan forecast and now seems to think we live in Harbor Springs, an hour's drive away. "Well, that's TWC's problem, not ours," Charter insists, but why would TWC change the location they broadcast to us the moment Charter changes their channel lineup? At least take blame when it's due, Charter, and perhaps people would take you more seriously.

Continued the next night, though I haven't really anything to continue. Just chased off that damn raccoon yet again. Last night there was awful screaming in the woods that I can only assume was him and perhaps another raccoon, annoying pests. Tomorrow (Monday) is the procedure. I know it won't help, I'm just hoping against hope that at the very least it doesn't make it worse. Posting this before I forget, wish me luck since I could use it, tar.

 

Found on the Net:

Selections From H.P. Lovecraft's Brief Tenure as a Whitman's Sampler Copywriter

Samples:

Caramel Chew

There is a dimension ruled by a blind caramel God-King who sits on a vast, cyclopean milk-chocolate throne while his mindless, gooey followers dance to the piping of crazed flutes. It is said that there are gateways in our world that lead to this caramel hell-planet. The delectable Caramel Chew may be one such portal.

Toffee Nugget

Few men dare ask the question "What is toffee, exactly?" All those who have investigated this substance are now either dead or insane.

http://www.mcsweeneys.net/2008/8/15burns.html

 

Typed up earlier.

Oddly, my sudden interest in Gothic literature led me into an interest in early fantastic literature such as Arthur Machen and William Hope Hodgson, which led me right back to my old friend Lovecraft, and now I'm all interested in him again. I've already read just about all of his fiction (i. e., the fiction I'd be interested in reading) and own most of it, plus his collaborations and August Derleth's work which is credited as his, and Lovecraft is long dead, so it's not like he's putting out anything new. Still, every few years, it seems, I feel like rereading his stories; I just never tire of them. I've never been too interested in reading any of the derivative fiction based on his works (aside from Derleth's, which is okay but not as good as the original thing), but I'm currently reading a three-volume set of Machen's works, by Chaosium, the people who put out the "Call Of Cthulhu" games and books, and they list some of their other publications in the back material. Turns out they only have a few books still in print but I went looking anyway at Amazon and added them all to my wish list to work my way through eventually, with hope. The good thing with Lovecraft is so very many people, SCADS of people, have written scads of works based on his material. The bad thing with Lovecraft is so very many people, SCADS of people, have written scads of works based on his material. I added just the books put out by Chaosium--and this after buying a few more Del Rey editions I had previously overlooked since they're derivative and not Lovecraft's own work. There's still a slew of stuff out there. I've barely scratched the surface. Like I said, I prefer Lovecraft's work, but I find his ideas so interesting, maybe these other people have done something decent with it.

I have to admit I prefer derivative works written in Lovecraft's own style. Honestly, his style is incredibly purple and overwrought. But that's what makes it fun. I adore how he wrote a lot of stories like they WEREN'T stories--like they were factual accounts, with snippets of diaries and news articles and transcripts and all. That just makes it all so much creepier and realistic. A lot of people writing Lovecraftian fiction use his themes but write in a more fictional style and it just doesn't translate as well IMO. The authenticity isn't there. I think this is why I liked Machen's The Three Impostors, a "novel" which in the end really did not tie together that well nor make much sense. It was told as stories within stories, people recounting stories, snippets of stories here and there, told like people are relating facts. Making a lot of it seem more like a factual account than a novel. I did the same thing when I tried my hand at Lovecraft fanfiction--including diary transcripts and whatnot. I adore the feeling of "finding" some lost manuscript and taking a peek at it. Strangely, this is a big theme in Gothic fiction too (the "discovered manuscript"), so was perhaps one reason why I was drawn to it (but have lost a bit of interest since Lovecraft and Machen and whatnot have distracted me).

On looking up all these Lovecraft-inspired books I learned a bit more about his writing process and how very much writers borrowed from and collaborated with each other back then. Lovecraft, for example, took some ideas from Robert W. Chambers, who in turn had taken some ideas from Ambrose Bierce; then August Derleth took those ideas from Lovecraft (and even used Bierce's name in his work). Lovecraft wrote and dedicated a story to Robert Bloch, renaming him in the story "Robert Blake" (I was too dense to realize this when I read that particular story, despite it even being dedicated to Bloch), then Bloch wrote a story with a character based on Lovecraft. I never even knew that Lovecraft's character the Comte d'Erlette was just a pseudonym or fictional version of Derleth, but take a look at the name and you'll see it plain as day. (Some tiny part of my brain insists that I DID once notice the similarity, and wondered--since I had long ago realized that Derleth often based his own characters' names, e. g., Ward Phillips (sic?), on Lovecraft--but if I did, I forgot it.) In short, all these big tangled webs of writers interacting and writing back and forth and everything. A lot of things I thought were Lovecraft's, such as Tsathoggua and Hastur and De Vermis Mysteriis, were in fact created by his fellow writers. Everybody borrowed from everybody else and then gave back with ease. All this time I had considered Lovecraft to be relatively forgotten and unpopular, so I was rather surprised. I wish I could have that kind of relationship with other writers, but nobody's interested enough in my work to read an entire series, much less want to write anything based on it (the three people who did start fanfics of my work quickly lost interest in that and in me and forgot I exist, as always), so that will never happen. I rather envy Lovecraft even if he was purple and overwrought and aside from an admittedly strong cult following isn't regarded very highly today.

I'd love to do more fiction based on his work--the two stories I completed based on it ("The Prisoner Of The Glass" and "The Stone From The Sea," they're both onsite as far as I know) are probably the only serious attempt I've ever made at fanfiction, since for the most part I despise writing stuff based on others' work unless it's mythology--but am always paranoid of getting things wrong, even if I'm making it up. Despite having read his stories numerous times I just can't retain information properly...probably one reason why I can read his stories repeatedly without getting bored, my memory sucks so much. I would hate using Yog-Sothoth incorrectly for example and being called out on it by somebody far more rabid than I am. It once occurred to me to take notes, but that seems like too much work, I can't even keep notes on my own work straight (hence the current Ameni Chronicles debacle) and I haven't even been working on my own stories, so I guess the point is moot. Still, it would be great fun to try it again, even loosely. I started a third story more recently in which I combined Lovecraft's ideas with the native mythology of this area and that was quite interesting. (The uncompleted story, "From The Silver Car," is on my Google Site.) A diary-type story would be most fun.

The very way in which I became interested in Lovecraft was rather odd and synchronistic. I still recall it clearly. Years and years ago I read a review of a computer game in a magazine and it described a scenario involving an astronomer or some such who looked at an approaching comet or something and promptly went mad. Naturally, the reviewer didn't say WHY he went mad, and I was quite curious, wondering, "What was it that drove him mad?" But I didn't play many computer games and had no reason to believe I'd ever play that one, whose name I didn't even take note of, so it was a moot point.

Some time later I acquired the computer game Alone In The Dark and had quite an interesting and frustrating time playing it (I recall writing to the game company for a hint once for a particularly irksome part of the game); partway through game play I realized that this was in fact the very game I had seen reviewed. It was apparently written for people who already knew about Lovecraft's works so much of it, while fascinating, didn't make too much sense to me out of context, even though I ended up completing it (at the very end, I got out of the evil house, got into a cab, and the driver turned to me with a skull face and laughed evilly and that was the end, so I guess despite winning I probably died anyway!).

Later, in high school art class, students were allowed to paint various things on the bricks of the wall, and I came across the phrase "That is not dead which can eternal lie, and with strange eons even death may die," and, finding the student who had painted it, I exclaimed, "That was in this computer game I played!" I believe he gave me a very brief explanation of where the saying had come from and what it meant, though it still meant little to me. It didn't occur to me to look into it further.

Even still later, in college, while browsing the city library shelves, I came across a little book called The Lurker At The Threshold and, intrigued, checked it out and quickly devoured it. I remember sitting on the heater at home while it was cold out, just reading and reading. I didn't know at the time that this book was written primarily by Derleth and not Lovecraft, but it was written very much in Lovecraft's style, and I was hooked anyway.

Even later I bought a copy of that book, and some more books, and eventually read almost all of Lovecraft's fiction (the fiction that matters, at least). What is weird is that honestly, none of these events led directly to the next. The computer game review did not make me go out and buy the game. Playing the game did not make me check out Derleth's work from the library, and checking out the book did not immediately make me buy Lovecraft's works. Everything just seemed to happen on its own, one thing after another, building off of the last. Like perhaps some great cosmic force was influencing me, insidiously and unconsciously compelling me to follow this eldritch trail to its DREADFUL AND HIDEOUS SOURCE BEYOND TIME AND REASON!! Okay, kidding. When you read Lovecraft you have to write things like that sometimes. But the point is the same. It makes me think of what happened with the game Alone In The Dark, in fact. It was a computer game based on Lovecraft's works. Then they made a movie supposedly based on the computer game, though the only similarities were the title and the main character's name, Edward Carnby. Then they went and released ANOTHER computer game based on the movie Alone In The Dark which had nothing really to do with the ORIGINAL Alone In The Dark. I wonder how many people know about this connection? When I first heard of the movie I got excited thinking it was based on the game, then learned that it really wasn't, so my interest died there. (Though I did buy the soundtrack to the computer game based on the movie based on the computer game, because it had the Bulgarian Women's Choir (I think) and I liked them in Brother Bear, but it wasn't as good as I'd hoped. Good Lord this all is confusing.)

Ha, I read in the intro to one of the Chaosium books about how to title a Lovecraft-inspired book--first you start with a noun like "Horror," "Lurker," "Haunter," "Whisperer," "Color," "Shadow," "Dweller," or "Inhabitant," then you add an "At," "On," "Over," "Under," "Out Of," or "In," then a creepy or cosmic location such as "Red Hook," "Warrendown," "The Graveyard," "Time," "Space," "The Ages," "The Aeons," "Darkness," "The Dark," "The Threshold," "The Tomb," "The Lake," "Innsmouth" (my particular favorite, I just adore Innsmouth and the Deep Ones), or "The Gulf," and presto, you're a Mythos writer. And it is so true! Plus I've learned you must use words such as "cyclopean" and "eldritch" as much as possible, ha.

I think all this worked its way into my brain as, even though I haven't had a Lovecraft dream yet (pity), a couple of nights ago, in my output log, where I should have written the time I had instead half-sleepingly written (and misspelled) "Dunwhich" (Dunwich). WTF was going through my mind on that bathroom trip? An iridescent congeries of globes?

I wish I could find photographs of the Welsh landscape that Machen writes about so often with the limestone hills and formations. It sounds so beautiful. I think it must be based on scenery in reality, but I couldn't find an equivalent when I searched briefly online. His descriptions of settings are gorgeous; he really dwells on that limestone. It sounds like a karst landscape. The reality, if there is one, probably isn't as pretty as the mental image I've formed. I might borrow the image I've formed of this in my mind for the Underisland (and no, I'm not going into detail on what that is, you'll just have to start reading my stuff).

The frigging raccoons are starting up again, annoying pests, squabbling on the porch, showing up in the daytime (ugh), clearing out the bird feeders. A day or so ago I had to twice shoo off one who insisted on approaching the porch in broad daylight, and that freaked me out, he had no business being out in the daytime; then last night I huffed and yelled at TWO of them, one of whom insisted on scooping up another mouthful of bird seed before furtively following his companion off into the dark. They had somehow almost cleared out the tin plate I have set on the stool out there for the chickadees, without knocking it over. All this time I had thought squirrels responsible for the missing food. Then all night I dreamed I was chasing away raccoons. Frigging raccoons. It's too early in the year for this crap.

Once in a while I hear the flying squirrels chirping faintly in the dark, and the chipping sparrows have returned for the summer. They're so adorable with their little red caps. The sunflower seeds seem to give their tiny beaks trouble so I went looking for sparrow-friendly bird seed, but could find none; everything seems geared toward finches, or colorful songbirds, or chickadees and nuthatches, or squirrels. I seriously do not want a food geared toward finches, so plain old mixed food was the only thing I could find. It's been my experience that the only part of mixed food that ever gets eaten is the sunflower seeds, so that's why I switched to just getting sunflower seeds, but I bought two small cheap bags of mix anyway, telling myself I'll do it just for the summer, see if the sparrows like it. Just after I tossed some out and went back to look, I saw five or six sparrows littering the porch, munching away, so maybe they do like it, though I'm not sure if they were eating it or sunflower seeds; I hadn't thrown out very much, so felt kind of bad, but I already know they'll eat sunflower seeds if they must, so I guess they'll just have to make do. They sell shelled sunflower seeds, but they are incredibly expensive, and I know that they would just get eaten up in a heartbeat by the chickadees and squirrels, and that would kind of miss the point of making it easier on the poor sparrows. Yes, the chickadees are "my" birds, but they have beaks specialized to crack open sunflower seeds, so I really do not need to make that any easier for them. Why is there no sparrow-specific food? They may not be too colorful but they sing nicely.

The white-throated sparrow and song sparrow often sing incredibly loudly from the bush right near the window and I love their songs so much, I wish they'd all stick around, I adore the sparrows. It's the frigging finches that bug me. And the robins toss the dead leaves around like crazy seeking worms and make quite a mess on the sidewalk. Hard to believe one little bird can be so messy. At least they don't bother the feeders any.

Some days ago when it was warmer, while looking over the junk beside the garage I spotted what looked like a little worn-out bicycle tire tread lying in the leaves; puzzled, I followed it to its source to find a head with tiny glittering eyes sticking up out of the leaves where a little garter snake was sunning itself. Oddly my first instinct was to grab it up and wrap it around my fingers, but I refrained, and went and got the camera to take some pictures instead. It stood perfectly still until an ant crawled on it and made it twitch and slide further away. I spotted it or another snake the next day under one of the lilac bushes but it's quite cold now and even snowed yesterday so I imagine they're lying low. Dad said they caught a big snapping turtle out where he works. I can't imagine I'll ever spot one of those wandering around our property, I would probably freak out if I did.

I just saw in the latest issue of Traverse that the rail trail nearest our house has been renamed from the Gaylord To Mackinaw City Trail or whatever to the North Central Rail Trail or some such, too lazy to look it up. That's a surprise to me, the signs along it haven't been changed. The article says it's like over sixty miles long! If only I had more endurance to walk. I. e., a bigger frigging bladder. It's also supposed to be covered with crushed limestone. I imagine they've done that only in certain areas since it's not covered in my area, it's just a rutted dirt trail with some rocks. I have to wonder where the limestone came from. Not landmarks, I hope. I keep having thoughts of writing something up, putting it in a waterproof container, and hiding it somewhere along the trail to maybe be found or maybe not like I do on the island. I doubt it would ever be found, though I did cross another walker the last time I went along the trail, surprisingly enough; that was near the bridge and crossroad so perhaps that explains it. It's just not used that much except by snowmobilers, although horses must traverse it now and then since I occasionally see their hoofprints, but aside from this once I have never met anybody along my tiny stretch of it. It's very desolate out there, woods and hills and swampland; if not for the highway being within hearing distance, with the dim roar of cars almost constant, you'd think you're in the middle of nowhere.

I finally invested in a 4" memory foam topper for my bed since I liked the 1.5" one so much and they don't seem to sell the 8" ones anymore, and put it on the old spring mattress and the 1.5" one atop it, I didn't even bother trying to put the included cover on it since putting on the covers drives me screaming insane and I am not pleasant when I'm screaming insane and I really did not want to put myself in a foul mood the rest of the evening over a stupid mattress topper. I'm used to doing a little hop (not a jump, just a hop, I catch my weight with my arm) into my bed every time I return from the bathroom and there's always a little bit of bounce because of the underlying spring mattress, but now with the new memory foam topper, I hop into the bed and just land motionless and it's rather unsettling so that and the feeling of it will take some getting used to; it's much mooshier feeling than I'd expected. I slept last night, at least, so I guess that's what counts. Plus it has made my bed much taller (I keep hitting the side of it rather than landing in it when I hop, I imagine I'd be quite amusing to watch were I to try sliding over the hood of a car like they do in movies), so that's a rather weird feeling too, almost like I'm in a different (but equally messy) bedroom. Strange.

Apologies to anyone who feels I may be ignoring them, I'm honestly not.

I have to go and eat now and can think of little else to say, so tar.

 

Conversation between my mother and me last night:


Ma: (showing me a gemstone pendant) I need some advice on what to do with this. I have no idea why I bought it. It's so ugly. It looks like vomit! What was I thinking when I bought it?

Me: (taking the pendant, ready to defend its beauty since I can often see the beauty in even the ugliest things) (taking a serious look at it) Oh my God.

Ma: I know, right?

Me: I was going to defend it, but... (long pause) It looks like ham with pickles!

Ma: (laughing)

Me: (grimacing) It looks like Spam with pickles. It...ew, it looks like Spam with boogers on it!! (both of us laughing and gagging) Why did you have to give this to me after I just ate??

Ma: (trying to breathe) What should I do with it?

Me: Put it in a dark room where nobody can see it!

Ma: I can't even remember why I bought it. (taking it back) I think I'm going to puke.

Me: That couldn't possibly make it any worse. (making waving gestures) Put it away somewhere and forget about it!

Ma: I can't! I have to bead it and give it away to somebody!!

Me: Then bead around it completely. Cover it. The whole thing. Completely.

Ma: (laughing) (long pause) Yeah.

Me: Completely.


Seriously, this gemstone looks like pink regurgitated Spam, or the inside of the human stomach or something, with little yellowy-green blotches that look like boogers or mold or...moldy boogers or booger-mold. It must be some sort of Boogerspam Agate or something. Ew ew vomit.

 

I was supposed to go in for a cystoscopy and bladder hydrodistension and ended up getting just one done. I was really, really hoping this would alleviate the symptoms I've been having--when we'd gone shopping for groceries the Saturday before, I'd looked longingly at all the drinks and even considered getting one to celebrate being able to drink normally again, when I'm thirsty, but I hate counting my chickens. Turns out I was right not to. Yet again I just can't be the lucky one.

The few days leading up to the procedure I was so anxious and depressed; I've heard of how mere anesthesia can kill a person, and I've never been under it before. I kept thinking that this might be the last time I take a walk; the last time I see the birds eating; the last time I see the trees waving their branches in the wind; the last time I hear my cat purr. I've come to hate my life, and hope more days than not to just not wake up the next day, but that doesn't mean I hate life itself. I love life...I just wish my life had a better place in it all. So I could appreciate it properly. The difference is that you never expect to die in your sleep--you don't anticipate it coming. With this procedure, I saw it coming and dreaded it.

They wanted us in there at 6:15AM, so it was still dark when we left--dawn was just starting to glimmer when I put the bird food out, sad that it was too early for the chickadees or even the squirrels to be out; the robins were just starting to sing as we left. There was some confusion when we got there as there was nobody at reception to greet us and we had to go the emergency room to sign in, instead. Then to the waiting room in surgery. I left Ma with a couple of lists--one of a few things to pick up after the procedure, as, having seen how she always is after anesthesia, I figured I would be out of my senses the rest of the day, and another with a couple of questions I'd wanted to ask the urologist but had never gotten to ask since he always brushes me off and gets me out of there as fast as he can and even when he does answer me he never seems to give me full answers, plus, I wasn't sure if I'd get to ask him anything before I was out. I went into surgery with my list of medications; the nurse had me give a urine sample, then led me to a bed and presented me with a very awkward gown and strange socks to put on, then drew the curtain and left me there. It's so difficult undressing and redressing while trying to keep yourself covered, especially with those awkward gowns you can't possibly tie on your own; I was still struggling with the socks when she came back in. They were so frigging tight I could not get them on properly; I saw the words "Embolism socks" on them and realized what they must be for, and they hadn't any toes, but still, how was one expected to get them on? The nurse had to put them on for me and I felt so stupid and helpless with her practically yanking them up my legs like I was some kind of invalid. She also had to tie the robe but I kept it held behind me in case it wasn't closed properly. Its bulkiness was good in a way since I removed my bra (wasn't sure if I was supposed to keep it on or not) and so it hid my shape, but it was still quite awkward.

There was such a mixed jumble of activity and so very many nurses coming in and out I can't bother to outline it all. I remember that, after my refusing the offer of water, they rubbed some kind of minty ointment or chapstick on my lips with a sponge ("If it gets in your mouth it won't hurt at all, it's perfectly safe"), presumably because my lips are so chapped, maybe they figured that bothered me but it didn't so I was rather perplexed by that action. I seem to recall at least three female nurses and one male, plus the anesthesiologist, an old bearded man who came in and started asking me the same questions everyone else kept asking; he was very friendly and comforting, patting my arm and everything. All of them were very kindly. He asked what medications I was taking and I showed him the list I'd made out in case I couldn't answer clearly. My heart rate or whatever was checked, my blood pressure, my lungs, they even looked in my mouth for some reason, all those typical things, and a nurse put a blood pressure thing on my finger and got ready to start an IV to numb my arm. I wasn't sure why I needed my arm numbed, but whatever. The anesthesiologist--I think his name was Kenneth or Keith or something--kept asking me about my medical history and along came the question including if I ever had fainting spells and I said, a bit lamely, "I sometimes faint."

"Do you know why?" the anesthesiologist asked.

"My blood pressure just plunges. It usually happens when I see needles--" I waved toward my right arm where the nurses were busy "--or when something really nauseates me." This seemed to come across as quite normal as I was asked no more about it. The nurse told me there would be a small prick and I closed my eyes, keeping my head turned and flinching a little when I felt the needle; that itself didn't make me pass out, and I opened my eyes and did a few more things that were asked of me, but during a lull in the questioning, I began to feel that dizzy feeling, and put my head back again as I had when they'd checked my mouth even though that had made it difficult to breathe. I shut my eyes and tried to take deep breaths since I have a bad habit of breathing too shallowly during such times; I told myself that I was already lying down and back, so it was okay to pass out if I had to, but still, I found the thought rather irritating since lying down should make me less likely to pass out even though my head was elevated over my heart.

My next memory was of staring at ceiling lights. I don't remember opening my eyes or coming to, just staring at lights like I'd been staring at them all along. I knew I'd just been thinking about something, almost like reciting a thought in my head or mulling over a problem, but I couldn't for the life of me remember what it was, and that really bothered me. My legs were tensed up and I kept telling myself to untense them but I couldn't. And I kept dragging my sluggish brain around, trying to figure out what I'd just been thinking about--it was like when you're thinking something over, then you start to doze, then you tell yourself to wake up and you can't remember what you were just thinking about--that's the feeling I had, and it was so annoying. I just kept staring and staring at these lights trying to figure out what I'd been thinking. I then became aware of all the people moving around me and told myself, it really didn't matter what I'd just been thinking about, because I was in the hospital for a procedure, and I'd apparently just lost consciousness. I blinked a few times, then lifted my head a little to look around. Nobody was even batting an eye. It was pretty obvious what had just happened, but I asked anyway, "Did I just pass out?"

"Yes," the anesthesiologist said, "but you warned us, so it's okay."

I've tried to explain to two people, including Psychologist, so far, what happens when I pass out. I seem to have depersonalization episodes of a sort...

depersonalize: alienate somebody: to make somebody lose his or her sense of personal identity and external reality
Encarta ® World English Dictionary © & (P) 1998-2005 Microsoft Corporation. All rights reserved.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Depersonalization

...when I faint and at certain other times, such as when I get incredibly, incredibly upset--one recent example being right after the appointment with the urologist where he refused to refer me to another specialist, and I broke down crying in the lobby while my mother threatened to leave. I didn't use this big word, "depersonalization," with Psychologist since I hate to appear like I know more than I should; I sometimes dumb myself down to not appear like a know-it-all but at times can't help myself, for example when she'll start to explain some psychological concept and I'll find myself nodding in complete understanding when she's gotten only a few words out like it's common knowledge. But it's the best term to describe what goes on. When I faint, and when I get incredibly, incredibly upset, it's like the rest of the world around me just..."fades out," becomes dreamlike and unreal, and I can't even be sure that what I myself am doing isn't part of some weird dream. One reason why the thought of storming back into the urologist's office and demanding a referral seemed so easy to me, like something in a dream, something I couldn't do in real life. This is more apparent when I'm fainting and coming to again. There will be these people around me and I'll be uncertain what just happened, even if it's pretty obvious, and I can't really know if these people are real, or if I'm even real, and I get this feeling of terrible frustration at this uncertainty. Hence my unwarranted irritation at not being able to remember what I'd just been thinking (which was probably nothing at all) when I'd passed out in the hospital. I didn't have the same dramatic "dragging myself back up toward reality" feeling I had when passing out in Big Boy, but then again, I didn't even notice all the people around me at first, just the lights, then suddenly there were all these people and I couldn't even be sure if I'd passed out or not. It's rather creepy to not be sure if everything around you is real or not, to not even be sure of what you yourself are doing, hence one reason why I was kind of fearing the thought of anesthesia--I rather figured I'd have the same reaction. I hadn't even gotten to the anesthesia yet.

I wondered if, like when I passed out once while getting an immunization, I would have a dream while under the anesthesia. I seem to enter dream states quite quickly and easily; I'll often awaken from "micro-dreams" when I doze off for a few seconds.

The IV was placed in my arm and the nurse tapped it a few times, asking if I felt it; at first I said no, then clarified that I could feel her tapping me, but I didn't feel any pain or anything. The anesthesiologist said they'd be putting a tube down my throat so I could "breathe in gases" and this kind of made me shudder. I wondered if my blood pressure had dropped when I'd passed out. I forgot to mention that when I awoke from passing out, I found an oxygen tube placed in my nose, and cold air blasting into my sinuses; it had an odd metallic smell. I hadn't even noticed them putting it in. I didn't mind it at first, but I tend to have sinus issues and to blow and rub my nose a lot, so after a while it got a bit irritating and I kept surreptitiously rubbing at it; when the air was turned off, I took it out once or twice to rub my nose and then put it back in, and looped the tube back over my ear as it had come out of place. I made sure not to look at the IV in my arm, which was not in fact in my arm but in the top of my hand, which I found strange but in keeping with what I've seen on TV.

They kept asking my mother's name and her relation to me; she'd said she didn't want to be in there, but they called her in anyway, and she was in there briefly after I came to. I was then wheeled to another room, this one private (there had been at least three beds in the other one and while waiting I'd heard the nurse talking with a woman awaiting actual surgery to my right, and two old men talking to my left) and with various equipment in it; the bed was placed beside another one with a sort of level on it and I was told to pull myself onto it and scootch into it a certain way. This daunted me since it looked so awkward, I'm horrible at scootching, but I did as I was told while the nurses and techs or whatever occupied themselves with something else; I carefully pulled myself from one bed to the other and fidgeted to make sure my robe was pulled under and covering everything important, then turned to look at my right hand. Blood was pouring down my fingers and dripping all over the pristine sheets in a red pool. My IV had pulled loose. I didn't pass out or feel queasy in the least--I just cried out, "Oh dear!" and felt horrible that I'd caused the nurses more trouble. At the same time I was rather surprised. It just seemed an inordinate amount of blood for one little IV, and I felt no pain at all.

A male nurse or technician appeared at my side to readjust the IV--it was still in me, just loose--and then commenced taping and retaping and re-retaping to make sure it was secure. I felt him rubbing and rubbing and rubbing my fingers to wipe the blood off--I didn't watch, probably to keep from fainting, I'm not sure--but there were still drying stains left on my fingers when he was done. That niggled at me. I wanted it washed off.

A female nurse did something with the IV and told me that I would start feeling kind of drowsy. I sat there, quite alert and awake, awaiting the drowsiness I fully expected, but none came, and I was perplexed. Maybe I would not react to anesthesia the same way as others and they would need to use more on me. The urologist arrived and I got to ask him my question--if the effects of the procedure weren't immediate, then how long should I wait before deeming the procedure a failure?

"The effects won't be immediate," he answered. "There'll be some irritation for a while." And yet again, he failed to answer my full question. I remember feeling a flare of angry frustration; he never wants to answer my questions, and I feel he must think I'm some kind of ignorant idiot or something.

I then found myself staring across the room toward the other wall, and I had to pee. People were moving away from me. The urologist was gone. I lay there for a few moments, mystified; when a nurse addressed me I realized the procedure was over. I looked at the clock and it was just after nine; I really felt like I had to use the bathroom, but it didn't feel anywhere near as bad as I'd expected it to, based on what I'd read of this procedure. Still, nobody was telling me I could get up and go, and about twenty minutes passed, with me growing more and more anxious. When a nurse asked how I was and I tried to tell her I had to pee, I could barely talk, my voice came out as nothing more than a croak. I'd had a tube down my throat and it had been removed without me knowing it. They asked if I wanted a drink and I said no; so they fed me a spoonful of shaved ice. They removed my IV, having to bandage my hand twice as the blood soaked through so fast. I was again asked how I felt and again stated I really wanted to go to the bathroom; the nurse said it would probably feel like I had to go a lot more than I really had to (I didn't know what she meant), but I was helped down and carefully wobbled my way there. I was fully awake, fully alert and clearheaded, though my throat was scratchy and my legs felt like rubber.

I don't remember the anesthesia or the procedure at all. Nothing. It's a total blank. I had fully expected to feel the humiliation of having to position my legs for the urologist to start the procedure, and to have them tell me to start counting from five to one or some such, and to feel the weird unreal feeling of losing consciousness, and then the unreal feeling of coming to, with a bladder so full I would probably cry in pain; but no such things happened. One moment I was there feeling angry with the urologist, the next I was looking at the clock on the wall, my throat hoarse, having to pee, fully awake. It made no sense.

I went into the bathroom and managed to urinate but I strained and strained, it felt so much like I had to go more but nothing else came. That wasn't nearly as much urine as I'd expected. I took so long the nurse called out to see if I was all right and I expressed my confusion to her. I came back out to change, feeling rather distressed, and asked to go and try again before leaving the room; again I tried, again I felt like I really had to pee, but nothing came out. My mother arrived and she and the nurses explained that the urologist had found an ulcer in my bladder--he'd shown my mother the pictures, she asked if I'd seen them but the urologist had been gone by then and I never saw anything--she described it as looking like a "radiating explosion"--a Hunner's ulcer--the definitive sign of interstitial cystitis, so the diagnosis is certain now. And as soon as he'd found it, he didn't do the hydrodistension, because I guess it would have ruptured my bladder. He got only 200ccs of fluid in it--about 7oz--before ending the procedure. There was some talk of maybe trying to get medication directly into the bladder rather than taking pills like I've been doing for over FOUR MONTHS with no results, or of bladder augmention surgery, but nothing was definitive, all I know was he said to call him back in a week or two for...I don't even know what. Left hanging. Yet again. He didn't even finish the frigging procedure.

After two spoonfuls of shaved ice the nurses had kept urging me to drink plenty of fluids to "flush the medicine out of my system," but I kept refusing, partly because I was wide awake and didn't really need anything flushed out of my system, partly because I was ready to snap, "I'll start drinking plenty of fluids when somebody fixes my f**king bladder!"

Ma and I left--I tried the bathroom again in the lobby with the same results, next to no urine, but this overwhelming feeling that I had to go--and as she went into the supermarket and left me in the car to wait I sobbed my eyes out. I knew this wouldn't be an immediate fix, but I was hoping so much for something, and yet again nothing was done, and now I felt even worse than when I'd gone in. My urination was acting up for like a WEEK STRAIGHT and I lost three nights of sleep before it finally let up, presumably as I'm putting on water weight before my period, though that's never stopped me from overurinating before. (Last month about the only relief I got was four days during my period, a time when, ironically, I'm already uncomfortable--it acted up near-constantly all before and after that. By the time I'm done losing my water weight, I'm putting it on again.) So even though my bladder had been very oversensitive, at least I'd gotten some sleep the past few days. Now him shoving a camera up my urethra and not even doing the procedure had irritated it all so much that every time a mere few drops of urine made their way into the bladder, it burned as if full, and I had to use the bathroom every five to ten minutes even though for once there was hardly anything in there!

Ma returned with two prescriptions--an antibiotic and a painkiller, generic Norco, which is basically Vicodin with less acetaminophen--I was too leery of taking it. Whenever I peed, it hurt and burned, and I was urinating blood, so dark that I felt faintheaded, but I'd expected that. What I hadn't expected was to feel like I had to pee every few minutes when there was nothing in my bladder but a few drops! The urologist just made it worse! And what's more, he hadn't even clearly stated what was to be done next, just to see how it went and then call him in a couple weeks--well, what the hell is it supposed to do, clear itself up??--ulcers don't just go away on their own, especially when that's what I've been WAITING FOR IT TO DO FOR OVER A YEAR NOW. I can only assume he means for the pain of the cystoscopy to fade and then to check it out again because nothing else makes sense, this Elmiron is not working. I could have sworn I didn't even have an ulcer, because I have no pain. Just this tiny little bladder that refuses to stretch. But I guess this rules out the gynecologist's theory that I simply wasn't letting my bladder fill up enough so it got out of shape; no amount of me waiting for my bladder to fill up can fix this, even the urologist didn't fill it up. So all my mother's comments that "You're going to have to practice and let it fill up!" are bunk, now. I've been telling her all along that when about 4-6oz is all it can hold, all the holding in in the world wouldn't help me, because I can't get enough urine in there to stretch it out adequately, not without a hydrodistension. And I guess with this ulcer in there, that's out of the question. But with the medication not helping the ulcer, what am I to do?

I sat at the computer doing my eBay, not even caring that it took me twice as long as normal, crying at having to get up and use the bathroom every seven minutes and I didn't even have the excuse of excessive water weight loss to do so, since barely anything trickled out of me. I went to take some aspirin but my mother said the urologist had said I couldn't, as it could affect the ulcer and make me bleed to death. I sat at the computer crying a bit longer, then got up and snapped, "I don't care if I bleed to death, I'm taking some ibuprofen!" Because I really think my urethra was inflamed, and every time just a little bit of hot urine touched it it felt like my bladder would burst; I needed an anti-inflammatory. I ended up taking one of the hydrocodone as well--it said to take 1 to 2 every four hours as needed, for pain--but after two hours had noticed absolutely no change. (I actually took it first, then, when nothing happened, took the ibuprofen.) The pain and blood weren't bothering me; that overwhelming pressure in my bladder was! I would gladly have put up with urinary pain worse than that if the pressure and full feeling would have only gone away, but even when the pain and bleeding at last subsided, the pressure didn't.

Over four hours later I tried two hydrocodone though the thought chafed me, I don't want to become an addict. After five hydrocodone so far (I waited and took two more at bedtime), I don't see the appeal. Maybe you have to be in extreme pain to appreciate it, but I felt no real difference one way or the other. Guess even hardcore narcotics don't work for me, either.

I had asked the nurse if this feeling would subside and she said hopefully by nightfall though it wasn't assured. I was told no driving, no heavy labor, no sedatives; I don't really do the former two, and I didn't take my sleeping pills, but despite being slightly drowsy from lack of proper sleep (I'd gotten up so early), there were no remaining side effects from the anesthesia at all. I'd felt pretty stupid having to be wheeled out to the car in a wheelchair, though I knew it was necessary; I hate being treated like an invalid. I removed the socks immediately at home and told my mother she could keep them since she said they looked so nice; she said I should keep them on a bit longer, and kept urging me to go lie down, but I'm not the sort to take it easy and stop moving around and all that crap, I have stuff to do (one reason this condition bothers me so much, it so severely limits my activities), and I didn't even feel groggy, just very irritated and upset. I didn't even have the leisure of feeling out of it the rest of the evening. The urinary urgency abated somewhat, but I could still barely make it a half hour between bathroom visits; I told myself this was partly because my bladder had been very sensitive lately to start with, plus, I'd just had a camera shoved up my urethra, I'd read online that this could take as much as a week to abate, just live with it, but I'm sick and tired of just living with it, especially when I was fully expecting at least PART of a resolution. I'm f**king sick of letdowns, too sick of them to bother lying around and resting. The pain went away but every time I went to use the bathroom, and strained (I always strain more than I probably should--it's a compulsive habit of getting out every last bit of urine), it just felt like there was a boulder pressing down on the urethra or base of the bladder, so strong that it brought tears to my eyes as surely as any kind of real pain, like there was a flood of urine in there which was not in fact real. In fact I underurinated most of the day, and it was so dark and concentrated, it perplexed me; even when retaining water I'm not used to it being so concentrated, I wondered if the procedure affected it somehow though I don't see why it should have after the bleeding stopped. It really frustrated me that for once my urination was under control but it felt even WORSE than it usually did when the urine was acting up!

I kept a heated rice bag between my legs most of the rest of the evening, wincing at the burning but hoping it would alleviate the pressure. It was too late to take a hot bath as I longed to do. I took two more Norco at bedtime, fully expecting not to be able to sleep; I managed to do so, though every hour when I got up to pee, my bladder felt so much fuller than the small amount of urine I always let out, and I was so discouraged. It seemed to start abating at last sometime during the late morning, though I noticed that every time I went to the bathroom, the mere act of urinating seemed to make it feel twingy and pressured again. But at least it doesn't seem quite as bad and a few times I've gone a full hour without using the bathroom. I took a hot bath which wasn't nearly as beneficial as I'd hoped, but there was little else to do but take the antibiotic--I've decided to take the hydrocodone at bedtime only, if need be--even though I don't have an infection because maybe it could help. And took some acetaminophen in the lame hopes that, because it says it alleviates fever, maybe it helps with inflammation though it's not an anti-inflammatory like aspirin or ibuprofen. The symptoms I had last night, I'm betting that's exactly what it's like to have a urinary tract infection, so now I no longer feel a UTI would be such a minor affair if that's how lousy it feels.

Occasionally the overurination will start acting up after I've gotten to sleep (it usually kicks in before), and I'll start dreaming this dream that I go to pee, but my bladder still feels full, and no matter how many times I use the bathroom it always feels full and I feel that if this is to be the rest of my life, I'd rather be dead; I then awaken with a truly full bladder and go to let it out, and it's such a relief, even if it's acting up and waking me up, that at least I can empty it and feel better for a little while. I went through this bad dream all day yesterday. I wouldn't wish that on anyone.

My period is due to start, so I have to wait two weeks before maybe seeing the urologist again, for what, I don't even know. Yet another stupid delay. Why did I have to be the one to get this stupid disorder, this stupid ulcer? Out of all the diseases I could have gotten, why this one, and how did I get it, and why at this point in time? With as little of a life as I already had, why did I have to get this now? Why did God deem it necessary that I get it? And why does He deem it necessary that I seem to end up thwarted in every single attempt to get better? That every single time I start to show a twinge of hope, it's crushed? May is almost here, almost summer, almost time to go to the island and who knows what other lovely places, and I'm no better off than I was a year ago; and if I get any kind of surgery, probably the only real solution for this, I'll probably miss summer completely. The only "good" thing that came of this is I found out for certain I have interstitial cystitis. But big whoop, when nothing we're doing to treat it seems to be fixing it. Psychologist and others tell me that I'm taking big steps, keep strong, but it just doesn't seem to matter how many big steps you take if they don't take you anywhere but in circles. I'm tired of trying to be strong. I've never been strong. I just want to be better. I just want it over with and to have the tiny bit of a life I had before this. I realize many people are much worse off than I am, but I wasn't in any terrific place myself. You'd think that, trying as hard as I try to be a good person and keep to myself, I would deserve SOME tiny bit of something to go well, but I never seem to. I wake up feeling like the butt of some cosmic joke...as if I were important enough to be part of a cosmic joke, but nothing else makes much sense, except for life being purely random and chaotic, and I've never really subscribed to that theory.

Then the very afternoon I was recovering, I got a call from Psychologist's receptionist, sounding very contrite, informing me that my appointment for the 7th had been rescheduled due to a family emergency (I know Psychologist has been having some family issues, but I still find it weird that they have an emergency scheduled in advance)...it was rescheduled for the same day and time as an appointment of my mother's. So she called them back to ask if they could see me on a different day, but I guess none were available except my next scheduled (dis)appointment in late May, a month from now, over a month since I last saw her. Typical.

Psychologist had tried to put me in touch with another client of hers, somebody in the area very into native culture; this person had said sure, she would love to hear from me, and had given Psychologist her phone number and invited me to a "drumming group." I tried calling her twice, but chickened out both times, and at last told Psychologist that I just can't use the phone, it terrifies me too much, especially what with all the negative experiences I'm having calling doctors lately. So right during my appointment, she'd called this lady and left a message, telling her about my discomfort and asking if maybe she had an e-mail address. She got a call back mere moments later, and wrote down and gave me the lady's e-mail address and another phone number. By the next time I saw her, I still hadn't worked up the guts to contact the lady; "I was hoping that by now the two of you would be flinging letters back and forth," Psychologist said, at which I admitted I just didn't know what to say. "Just tell her, "Hi, I'm Rachel, the person Psychologist mentioned, I hear you're really into native culture and I'd like to get in touch,'" she suggested.

So a few days later, feeling terribly lonely, I at last worked up the courage and on the 29th of March sent the lady a short e-mail, fully expecting it to bounce back as undeliverable or something. It didn't...but neither did anything else come. I meant to wait two weeks and try again, but another appointment with Psychologist was coming up, so I tried again on April 8th. I never heard back. Psychologist didn't bother asking me about this at my last appointment, and now I won't be able to tell her for a month, if that, that this person who she said was SO eager to get in touch with me apparently didn't want to hear from me at all. Why did this lady give me her phone number and e-mail address and even invite me over if she couldn't be bothered to reply to one lousy e-mail? Honestly, why do people do that? I don't understand. I really would have loved getting in touch with her, too. Yet another part of the cosmic joke. I'm glad I chickened out of calling her and didn't go to her stupid drumming group if she's exactly the same as 99% of everyone else I try to befriend or who tries to befriend me. She didn't have to say she was so eager to hear from me, or even give her address, if she couldn't be bothered. I don't see the point in that, honestly. It's like people just love being assholes.

I noticed while doing a boredom-induced search at Amazon that ES Posthumus has a new CD out, Makara, and though I really didn't want to spend any more money this month I snatched it up; it wasn't expensive enough and I wasn't willing to buy another item just to get free shipping (I almost always go for free shipping on Amazon), so it should arrive faster than usual, though they've been pretty fast lately shipping out even my free-shipping items. I hope it's good, I loved their first two CDs. I'm reading some Arthur Machen now since I got bored of Elizabeth Gaskell's idea of "Gothic" fiction, which is rather dry and meandering; seriously, she'll spend like half a story telling the background of something, then maybe get to the real plot, and I just got tired partway through "Lois The Witch" and decided for perhaps the second time in my life to put a book aside unfinished. (That's not to say this is only the second time I haven't finished a book, just the second time I deliberately decided to do so since reading it bored me or fed me up. The "Mystic Michigan" books, I think they're called, were the other time; God, those were just so lame.)

That was typed up earlier this afternoon, now it's night. The irritation has mostly gone away at last (though the urination has picked up, right on cue), but I looked up Hunner's ulcers online and am greatly discouraged by what I found. It seems the only way to treat them is surgery--burning or cutting them out--instills of medicine into the bladder are just for pain management, and again, I have no pain, just an abnormally small bladder. I just want to stretch the stupid thing out and hold fluid in it again, and I can't do that as long as this ulcer is there, and Elmiron doesn't get rid of ulcers, it just PREVENTS them, which is kind of after the fact now. You can try to avoid certain foods that cause flares, but 1. I don't have real "flares"--I count as a flare only when I lose lots of fluid, which is physiologically normal, just bad because of my tiny bladder--it acts up constantly, it doesn't flare; and 2. I would have to avoid pretty much every single food and drink there is--probably also including our tap water, I'm sure there's too much acid or something in that. That's no way to live, avoiding every single food and drink except tepid water and milk. There have been times I've cut back on certain foods and drinks--a long period when I went without drinking Activia yogurt, for example--and I never noticed any improvement or change in symptoms. Not even in how I've exceedingly cut back on my caffeine intake. And again, that's just stuff that irritates the ulcer; stopping eating and drinking whatsoever wouldn't make it go away. Either way, if I want to get better, it looks like I'm going to need surgery. By now I just want this f**king bladder cut out of me. Pee into a bag the rest of my life, it could hardly be worse.

I read that only 5-10% of people with interstitial cystitis, I think, have these ulcers. Whereas only 20-30% of people treated with hydrodistension feel relief. Interesting how I just can't fall into that 20-30% who are helped by hydrodistension, but I easily fall into the lousy 5-10% who have a Hunner's ulcer. Yet another example of my part in some big cosmic joke.

I wish I had somebody to hold me and comfort me. I'm so lonely and alone all the time, though I hate to be touched I want a hug or something so much. I can't talk to my parents, I can't talk to my psychologist, I can't bother or be held by anyone. All I can do is cry to myself and hug a blanket or a stuffed toy and wonder why me. I'm so tired of being the unlucky one.

 

I'm alive. But the procedure was a failure, and now I feel worse than ever, mentally and physically. -_-

More later when I'm not so tired and disappointed, though the latter probably won't diminish much. Probably not the former, either, since decent sleep seems doubtful now.

Oh, and my next psychologist appointment was cancelled again, too, so I won't see her for a month.

 

Typed this up hours earlier. Have settled way down and really don't feel like posting it now--I'm just nonconfrontational that way--but it feels like a waste not to. You should see all the ranty stuff I type up just to get it out of me, then never end up posting. I could make a book out of it.


A personal opinion entry. Take it or leave it. It's not about site matters so it probably won't draw much attention, and that's what I'd prefer, since, honestly, I journal mainly for the people who AGREE with me, but I've found that when it comes to this topic, people seem to turn into blithering idiots for some inexplicable reason. If someone wants to debate something I said, they can do it in their own journal, and people can go and agree in comments THERE. Notice that I'm not debating other people in their own journals? Because I find it rude. While I do slip sometimes, for the most part, when it comes to PERSONAL space (e. g., not public forums), I try to keep my opinion confined to these four...webpage walls. Because if I were to go and rant on somebody else's page, I'd look just like the people I criticize here, and I would hate that very much.

And I hate how longwinded I had to make that disclaimer just to feel slightly safe.

Saw an article at Yahoo! News about the French government getting ready to ban certain types of Muslim women's face veils and full-body garments, etc. Sadly this is an occasion on which I have to disagree with France, a country I revile much, much less than a lot of Americans, it seems (partly because I have French-Canadian ancestry, but mostly because I just find it utterly idiotic to revile an ENTIRE COUNTRY AND NATIONALITY because of some of the decisions of its government or the fact that its military might have had some failures in the past--is that all we use to judge an entire people nowadays?--seriously?).

On reading the article, I saw the caliber of the "comments" that had been posted by other readers...God do I wish Yahoo! would screen comments and let only the at least semi-intelligent ones through. Almost nothing but scads of yokels ranting and railing about the ragheads and how this should have been done ages ago and "Go France!" You know what I find most ironic? I'm willing to bet money most of these people lauding France now are the exact same people who, at ANY other time, are constantly reviling and cracking jokes about France, even when France (as a collective society) has done nothing whatsoever recently to deserve such comments. E. g., when I went to Fort Michilimackinac and my brother saw the French flag and started cracking snide jokes even though France hadn't done anything at that particular moment to warrant such an attitude--seriously, if a country or its people do something stupid, make fun of them at the time it happens, then LET IT GO. God already. Get over it and move on, you big babies. We still make fun of France for things that happened CENTURIES ago, for crying out loud, so we have no reason to be offended if the rest of the world decides to criticize us, year after year after year, for our own failures (does Katrina ring a bell?). Talk about beating a dead horse, we've been digging up France's horses, litttle more than skeletons, and flinging them around singing "Nanny-nanny-boo-boo!" like it's the mature thing to do. Cripes, no wonder so many of the French hate us.

Anyway, really nice how these people can be "Go France!" about a country they pretty much despise at any other time, and will continue to despise in the future, unless, say, France proceeds to take other actions these people agree with in their entirety. I said in here earlier it's hard to take somebody seriously when they only show up to talk to you when they have something to criticize. Well, same here. Really hard to take people seriously when they congratulate you only when they 100% agree with you, when otherwise they'd be rubbing your face in the dirt. I'm reminded of the girl in high school who would beg everyone in the lunch line for spare change so she could buy something to eat, then would join her friends and snicker about the "nerds" who gave her their money. And would also complain about the food. Or the girl who came to me in junior high, begging for my help since I was so good in journalism class--even though she'd made fun of me before, she seemed so sincere, I helped her. Then moments later, heard her snickering with her friends about how lame I was. I wasn't lame when she needed my help...just lame at every other time. It says a lot about the intelligence of these people when they can't even see how hypocritical they're being. Or else it says a lot about their morality when they don't care.

"It's about time France did this!" people barked in the article comments. "Islam is so oppressive to women, make them get rid of their veils and move into the 21st century already!"

Okay. So, following this "reasoning"...

When are we going to drag the Amish into the 21st century? Seriously, I think it's about time they moved ahead. The way they and the Orthodox Jews oppress their women is appalling. Never mind that for the most part these women agree with the customs and beliefs of their CHOSEN religious paths...we should totally drag them all into the 21st century, and get rid of the head coverings and full-length dresses--slap them into miniskirts, while we're at it, this is all about women's lib, people!--and the world will be a happier place.

(I just realized the additional irony that many of these commenters are the exact same ones who complain of our "liberal" government forcing its views onto the people, making us take down Christmas decorations in public spots, telling us how to parent our kids, cramming all this horrible tolerance down our throats...so, that's a bad thing, unless they're doing it to Muslims, then it's "enlightened"? Huh.)

I think too it's about time we went after that Catholic Church. How they refuse to ordain women is just unacceptable. Frigging Catholic Church and its horrible, horrible oppression of women. Move into the 21st century already. Come on. Everybody has to be fundamentalist Protestant now, haven't you realized? (No, not secular. Everybody knows those secular people are all about forcing their abhorrent liberal views down everyone's throat and forcing people to stop worshipping and practicing as they see fit and...oh. Did Irony just step into the room unannounced?)

I find beer commercials and especially those Axe (sic?) body spray commercials to be horrifically degrading to women. The one where women are "robots" washing a guy as if in a car wash, like that's their only purpose in life, to care for men, was terribly insulting, much more so than a face veil which a woman chooses to wear (keep in mind I'm not talking about women who really ARE being forced to wear them against their will--apples and oranges). Where's all the outcry against that from these people? A woman can't wear a veil at her own choosing, but scantily clad women can lather a man up to make some big corporation some money and that's just fine? We sure live in weird times.

And yet again there are the commenters whining about how Christian prayer isn't allowed in schools, why should Muslim prayer be allowed? I just do not see how they have not yet realized that PRAYER IS ALLOWED IN SCHOOLS. PERSONAL prayer. The school can't ORGANIZE prayer because that violates the separation of church and state. But if you want to pray on your own, as long as it doesn't interfere with school, cripes, go ahead and do it already. I know I did. I know others in my school did. No prayer police came along and stopped us. Granted it's different if you have to physically bow five times a day, but as long as that doesn't interfere with your school work, and you're not making anyone ELSE do it, who really gives a damn if you wish to do it? Or if you wish to wear a veil BY YOUR OWN CHOICE?

The article mentions that France's government is secular. These people are lauding France now. Yet see if our secular government tries to restrict the religious practices of Christians, you'll hear a hue and cry like there's no tomorrow--from these very same people congratulating a secular government's restrictions on the practices of a different religion. Hell no should a Muslim woman be allowed to wear a face veil!--but don't you dare try to take away a Christian's right to display a Christmas tree in a public school (because that's the most important thing about being a Christian, you know, is being able to publicly display Christmas trees, in fact I think that's one of the Commandments, "Thou shalt always publicly display a Christmas tree, otherwise thou art not a true Christian," or something like that), that's just not right at all. Frigging secular governments, trying to put restrictions on the majority religious view when they should just stick to oppressing the minorities. A secular government is horrid when it's restricting Christian religious practice, but it's fabulous when it's restricting that of Muslims. That's the logic here, after all. I'm using sarcasm, but I'm not making this up. Well. Except the part about the Christmas tree Commandment, but with the way some people carry on about Christmas decorations you'd think they're a sacrament. Even if the Christmas tree is inherently pagan.

I recall reading that such things as the Star of David and ostentatious crosses were also under fire by the French government. Didn't see all these people stepping forward THEN to congratulate the French! It's very sad how little such people realize that, hey, when you start limiting the rights of one group, your group could be next. Don't go whining then because all the other groups sure won't be there to defend you.

I'm hoping that most readers of my journal have at least a modicum of intelligence so I needn't go on at length about why one person's argument that "Well, if we should be so tolerant of Muslims, why shouldn't we be tolerant of NAMBLA too?" was just so utterly ludicrous it barely deserves comment. Just adding it to show you why my eyes are starting to hurt from rolling so much. Unbelievable. I think Logic should be a required course nowadays.

This is all my opinion and no, I'm not going to debate it. Not even going to read comments though I can't stop people from leaving them. I admit I don't know all the details of the situation, but that's because of limitations in the information the article made clear. The very idea pisses me off so much I don't feel like looking into it further. Just felt like blowing off some steam. It was the comments on the article that exasperated me much more than whatever France's government might decide to do. Everyone has their right to an opinion, but I do wish more people would educate themselves at least a little bit (and post actual, well-thought-out opinions, not just a bunch of slur-filled ranting) first. It's sad times we live in when many people can't be motivated enough to do even that. When one would rather get their point across by looking like an ignoramus rather than by using an actual argument. Do they really think slurs will get their point across? I'd like to hope not, but seeing how very many people were posting slurs, and how many good ratings those slurs were getting from other readers, I feel my heart sinking.

And that's just my opinion which will not shake up world matters in the least. I hate feeling that I could be pissing somebody off and they'll feel the need to come and let me know in a public comment. My journal is not a debate forum; I should be able to be as opinionated and, yes, ignorant in it as I choose without fear of sending somebody into a tizzy. But I know such is not the way of the world. The last time I was upset about this unwarranted reviling of France in my journal, I got some anonymous moron (yes, I said it, I'll be a little hypocritical here, in this case it's warranted) snarking at me, the "French-loving faggot" (???), to move to France if I hated the USA that much. Good Lord do I hope such a moron doesn't show up this time. I'm proud to be an American (a FRENCH-CANADIAN American), but people like that make me ashamed that we're from the same country. But, hey--that's their view, just as this is mine, and we both chose and have the right to believe that way. Would they be happy if their government started telling them they didn't have that right?

I guess the fact that a big reason Europeans first started settling in America was to escape religious persecution isn't part of the standard school curriculum, nowadays. The Salem witch trials didn't teach us our lesson, I guess we'll need to oppress, persecute, and then maybe slaughter a bunch of innocent Muslims (and then Catholics, and then atheists) before we finally say, "Oh, now I get it!"


I owe a few replies, I know. Just stressing over this medical thing, and struggling to work up the energy to do anything. *sigh*