|Willow (the_willow) wrote,|
@ 2012-04-28 23:04:00
The Upper Reaches Of The Painscale
I may either crawl to an ER or Clinic of Fucking Doom & Unprofessionalism on Monday - depending on my levels of pain. I missed a day, due to pain; half sleeping, half curled up with the cat not sleeping. Today I managed to check in online once. I am currently in so much pain I'm crying. So I think, yeah, crawl somewhere in hopes of someone willing to believe the levels of pain and give me a PT referral or something; because even lying down isn't helping unless I"m asleep and the pain goes from groin up over my hip, over my buttock, down the back of my leg, to the bottom of my foot, to the tips of my toes. One long branching line of pain. And lidoderm patches aren't helping and I don't have big whoop droopy painkillers in the house anymore and I've had enough l-trytophane to equal one huge turkey all by myself. So... of course, while in this much pain, my wanting to be around other people goes down so much, so I say I may need to go somewhere on Monday. And then on Monday, I may rather curl up in a corner and suffer than have to travel by jerky, bumpy bus, limping along with my cane, and have strangers touch me.
My longing for a medical professional I feel even somewhat safe with. I just... I can't begin to describe it. No fuzzy feelings and hair stroking and then putting me on a bunch of drugs I'm allergic to, and then telling me when I swell up due to allergens I just need to eat less. No bullying me into taking medicines I don't want or need or have pointed out I have averse reactions to. Just... shit. I'm talking myself out of going anywhere near a damn white coat on monday.
Anyway, alive. Just, in pain. A lot of pain. Earlier it dipped down to 8, 8.5 and I peeked in on twitter and managed a reply and despite it being a 9, I just peeked in on chat. But I'm beginning to be honest and realize it's BEEN at 9 for daaaaaaaaays now. And I've been denying it and pushing myself and thinking my brain was just being 'weird' for being unable to think. But y'know, I'm pretty sure a 9 on the painscale and still cooking at least 1 meal a day for myself, is huge -cause 9 probably means 'brain quit now'. And I should have noticed I was eating less and cooking less and it meant something. But....
Anyway, making statement. In public. On journal. And the funny thing? I'm not even suicidal. I have so discovered that is primarily a coping mechanism for anxiety. Self harm and no more Willow is because Willow has become to anxious to live in her own skin. Pain? Pain just means curling up like a snail under salt and trying very hard not to whimper. And thinking odd thoughts like; as a wounded animal, I am very dangerous, cause I might rip someone's throat out with their teeth if they caused me any more.
And yet? Took me days to catch a clue. This endurance bullshit in my head? Is some... don't even have words for how messed up it is. And I can't even blame a Catholic childhood! Cause at no time am I thinking enduring it all is making be a better/blessed/saintly person. I'm not doing much thinking at all.
Oh yeah, tried to call my therapist and ended up in a fucking loop where it wouldn't go the the voicemail system only to their human messaging service - who refused to take any messages cause they should have been open. I finally hung up, being on the phone and focusing for that shit was too much effort. I was about to fall over.
I am sitting on three pillows to write this and things are still only at an 8.5. And slowly climbing. So enough effing update about how half my body is simmering quietly in a pool of electrical agony and fire pain.