Quirk #13

I have a tendency to get caught in a nasty tornado of the "what if's."

This is something that, as much as I've tried, I don't completely have control over. I've tried to train myself not to do it. My psychiatrist has tried to medicate the habit out of me. So far, the only thing that works is complete and total avoidance of the world around me. This of course works, because if I'm not aware of the things I would worry about, I don't worry about them.

Unfortunately, the avoidance technique isn't a permanent solution. I mean, I can avoid things for only so long, and then there they are, back full force -- if not more so than before.

Writing it all down seems to help a little bit more than the avoidance technique, but if someone happens across my brain spillage (thats what I call it when I do that -- see last post for example), they get all sorts of worried, or take things out of context, or don't realize that its just me spewing out everything that happens to be in my head at the moment.

It's for that reason that I used to keep a journal, but no longer really do. The last time I kept a journal, it was read by someone, and the idiocies inside of it were used against me. Now I try to write in public, and only write the things I'm okay with other people knowing. That restriction makes it a lot less theraputic than it used to be.

But back to the what-ifs.

I start with something relatively straight forward, and then my mind goes into overdrive predicting all the things that can go wrong. This used to happen with everything in my life, not just the understandably scary things. Heck, it used to happen with things as basic as doing the laundry. What if all the machines are full? What if I run out of quarters? No, I have enough quarters. What if the machine breaks? What if someone decides to be bitchy and move my laundry before I go down to get it? What if management decides, for once, to enforce the curfew on the laundry room? What if, what if, what if? -- scream --

I've gotten it under control enough now though, that the what-ifs only strike when a situation is much more serious. The whole abnormal cell thing, for example. What if it's pre-cancerous again? What if it's cancer this time? What if it was cancer before, but the doctors were incompetent? What if I have to have surgery again? What if I have to have a hysterectomy? What if it's a radical hysterectomy? What if I want kids later on? What if, what if, what if? -- scream --

And the thing about it is, I can't get past it until I've worked out both my emotional and active responses to each and every what-if that comes to mind. Only then, after I've rehearsed all those things, can I sit myself down and actually take care of things. It can be crippling at times. It drives other people insane sometimes. Heck, it drives me insane. But there's just no getting around it. My brain kicks into emotional overdrive, and it won't shut off until I've appeased it appropriately.

Telling myself "I'll deal with that if it happens" doesn't work, because then my brain says "What if you put off thinking about it, and then when it does actually come up, you're caught completely unprepared, huh? Then what? Huh? Huh? Huh?!"

*sigh*

It's remarkably exhausting. And it seems to be all I'm doing lately -- if I'm not in avoidance mode, playing Wii or WoW.

And Now For Something Completely.... Personal

I'm going to preface this post by saying:

A) This is probably more than anyone wants to know about me
B) This is incredibly personal and specific information
C) This post may contain discussion that is disturbing to some, so I won't feel bad if you decide to skip it.
And D) If I don't write it down, its going to drive me insane (it may anyway), and this is my primary writing outlet at the moment, so I'm putting it here.

Last year I was diagnosed with Cervical Dysplasia, CIN3. For those of you who don't understand the totally vague and seemingly arbitrary medical terms, that means that I had pre-cancerous cells growing on my cervix. The cause? That nasty little HPV thing that's being splattered all across the television and news lately. Apparently there's a vaccine for it now. Not that that does me any good, because I already have the damned thing, and the vaccine only keeps you from getting it if you don't already have it. If only they'd have come up with that vaccine sooner...

In any case, last year I went through the biopsy, and then went through a very icky surgical procedure to have those pre-cancerous cells removed. This particular surgery, called a conization, was just one of the options on the table for treatment. If the cells were too deep, my other option was a hysterectomy. Thankfully, the cells weren't too deep, and all that was needed was the conization. I went back after that surgery, and everything seemed fine, the surgery was successful, blah blah blah.

Fast forward to approximately 2 months ago, when I started feeling like shit for no apparent reason. I had a lowgrade fever that was making me not hungry, dizzy, and nauseated. I went to the doctor. They didn't know what was wrong, but ran some tests, and then sent me to a specialist thinking it might be a thyroid problem.

Still no answers there. Fine. Run some more tests. Get my annual Pap test done.

Fast forward to yesterday, when I get a phone call from the lovely woman physician's assistant (who seems more capable than any normal doctor I've ever been to see, by the way) that did my pelvic exam. The Pap test found abnormal cells. Again. She's referring me to an ob/gyn.

The last time I went through all this, it was hard. It was a complete surprise, and I wasn't prepared for any of it, didn't know anything about anything about it, had to do tonnes and tonnes of research on my own to try and understand what in the fuck was going on.

As hard as last time was, this time is even worse. Why? Because now I know exactly what I'm in for. I know that if the biopsy comes back with pre-cancerous results, then I'm probably in for a hysterectomy simply because the dysplasia has re-occurred, and that means I have the highest of high risk strains of HPV, and it will just keep re-occurring until it turns into full fledged cancer, or I die (whichever comes first).

I've been saying for a long time that I didn't want to have any more kids; that one rug rat was enough. I've been saying that. I haven't really been meaning it. I absolutely adored being pregnant with my son. I'd love to be able to have another baby, especially if it was a girl.

The only reason I've been convincing myself that I don't want any more kids is because I know that in order to have them, I'd have to be way more financially stable than I am now and that I'd have to go off of the medication I currently take daily to stay sane. I don't think its realistic for me to think about having another child, so I'd been trying to make myself think about getting my tubes tied instead.

But now I'm looking at that choice being made for me. And somehow that makes it worse. I wanted to be able to make the choice. It's my body. I should get to choose. As much as I hate periods, they're a reminder that I'm a woman, and I can make babies if I want to. To lose that... Will I be less of a woman? Or will I just feel that way? I know it seems like a stupid question to ask... But think about it this way. If I were a guy, instead, we'd be talking about cutting off my balls. Talk about immasculating right? Right. Point made.

I am scared. I am angry. I am sad. I am beyond sad actually. I'm full on depressed. And I feel most totally and completely alone.

And the BF has no comforting things to say to me. Him of all people... There were no reassurances that everything would be alright. There were no admonishions for me to not worry. Hell, even the asking me what was wrong when I got off the phone wasn't comforting. Instead of a caringly worried "what's going on?" I got a "what's up?" in an annoyed tone of voice that left me wanting to do nothing but punch him in the face instead of explain.

Of course, that's all typical of him. He's distant. He doesn't say "I love you." He doesn't get all sappy or emotional. And most of the time that's just fine with me. But in life threatening situations... The normal rules don't exactly apply, and I need more -- more that I shouldn't have to ask for. If I have to ask, it makes me feel like I'm only getting what I'm asking for because the person giving it feels obligated... Not because they actually want to give it. And that just makes me feel worse -- like I'm some sort of imposition, or burden to be dealt with only if it complains too loudly.

*sigh*

Are Wii Having Fun Yet?

It started out like any other Super Mario Brothers. I was short, I was red, I had a moustache. I was even 2D.

But then things got weird.

Not only was I rescuing the princes, but I was rescuing Bowser as well. There was a purple and black void in the sky, and I was being followed around by "Tippi" the butterfly, who kept blurting things out to get my attention. I'm magically transported to the world of "Flipside." The only way to reescue the princess (and Bowser) was to collect "8 Pure Hearts."

My enemy is named Bleck, he has a "minion" named O'Chunks, and another minion who "is always up for a good chunking." And another that keeps transforming into different gendered characters, while the other minions make fun of his/her cross dressing and sexual orientation.

The next thing I know, I'm picking up "Shroom Shakes" and "Pal Pills" and being taught a "transdimentional technique" by a guy who insists on judging me based on the size of my 'stache.

I start to wonder who's bad acid trip I wound up in by mistake, so I look at the game box again. It says "Super Paper Mario" on it. It says "rated E for everyone."

o.O

I think I know why they call it a Wii now. Because the developers were so hopped up on LSD all they could say when corporate asked what to name the thing was "Wheeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

You Can Say "Ass" On TV...

But you can't say "asshole."

Apparently "hole" became profanity while I wasn't looking, because the censored part of "asshole" is not the "ass" part, but instead is the "hole" part.

I guess I'm going to have to start censoring the word "hole" out of any office communications I make...

In the mean time, it's nice to know that the FCC thinks it's perfectly acceptible for me to call someone an ass, as long as I don't get any more specific about exactly which part of an ass they are.