I've started having dreams again, crazed terrific dreams of strange lucidity. If there is any barometer for the quality of my life it has always been my dreams. They are the mirror to my soul. When things are going well, I tend to night terrors so vicious and evil, sleep itself becomes a thing to fear. When I am unhappy, my night meanderings are wonderful and fantastic.
Lately, I've been a little depressed. Right now my purpose is to be studying another language, but I'm stymied by the dry mouth, which is causing canker sores. They make mouth moisturizer, it doesn't work very well and is pretty much sweetened KY-jelly. Pretty gross.
Last night I dreamed I was an Aztec princess, only not a princess in the traditional sense, in the dream Aztecs were nothing more than a Native tribe. So I was something closer to a chieftain's daughter, allowed to run wild with the boys because I was young. Every year they had a fest, and the boys were given a set series of nineteen tasks, which they attempted to complete in any order while 'killing' (with red paint) the other boys. If a boy completed a single task before he was tagged, he at least was not shamed. A boy who completed two or three could now call himself a man, as could a boy who completed only one but also tagged another boy. Four and he was a hero. I was determined to participate even though I could never be called a warrior, being female. The boys were determined to tag me out quickly if they saw me, and thus not be outdone by a girl in a man's game. Somehow, I completed all nineteen tasks, something no one in the history of the festival had ever done. I had tagged no one; I had been given no paint and no feathered weapon to use.
I had a dog in the dream, a great evil brute of a hunting dog. They brought me forth to the temple ahead of the boys and the murmur of the crowd, to see what the goddess would do. They brought forth my vicious dog by my side. She blessed us as warriors, something she would also do for the boys who had done well, and the murmur of the crowd swelled but no one would contradict the say of the goddess of many feathers.
All was well.
Time passed. The girl died, no better or worse than any other girl. Her life fared no different after that than any chieftains' daughter. The tribe of the Aztecs died, no better or worse than any other tribe which pinnacled in its glory and was gone. The girl had been reincarnated many times, and now she was an archeologist's assistant, without the dog. The end of days seemed nigh and the earth was torn by many earthquakes. People lived in fear of that date, which was not really the end of the days, but a festival day, to mark the rebirth of the goddess of many feathers. We had found a new pyramid, a very tiny thing, really a hump of brick steps in the jungle. The proscribed day came and the goddess arrived. Many people were present on this day, fearing the end of the world or celebrating because any day is a good excuse to get drunk. The goddess was very angry. No one worshipped her anymore; they worshipped a great gray god, without feathers, and his might was greater than hers but she was still a goddess, however tiny, and deserved some respect.
She recognized me as the blessed girl, reincarnated. She demanded justice for humanities crimes. Even a tiny goddess can wreck havoc upon the earth; she had been the source of all the earthquakes and mudslides in the Americas. I grabbed another assistant and slit his throat upon the temple, he was scared but he did not fight. He had been looking for her, for purpose, for some kind of god, his whole life. She took his soul and brought it up to her feathered heaven while I ripped out his heart and ground it into the stones.
"One sacrifice will be enough," I announced to the terrified assembled. And the feathered goddess was satisfied, for all those years of non-worship, to have a single soul and feathers, and she returned to the earth. The quakes stopped, the people went about their lives and could worship the great god unmolested as before.
All is well.
The dream changed. Now I was a different kind of daughter, the child of a holy man, an imam maybe, some great cleric of a faith similar to Islam. Somehow, I had fallen in love with a boy who was not of the faith. I had not been immodest, I was simply in love, and would marry no other though they locked in my room and threatened me. So it was declared then I would never marry. A wily friend of ours, perhaps a nursemaid of my youth, and believing in the powers of love and destiny, hid our love tokens in a chest, along with my bridal dowry that was supposed to have been destroyed. For two years I did not speak a word, only hung my head, and ate little, just enough to stay alive. My body frailed and I lay bedridden and gathering my death. Likewise did the boy lose his luster, but came and called to me every dusk until the guard would shoo him away and he would leave. Finally, in two years, as I lay upon the threshold of death, did my father relent and consent for me to marry this seeming infidel boy. The chest was brought forth, lo, a miracle it had not been destroyed, and we were wed, and there was peace between two great houses, though they were of two faiths, and there was peace in that land between the peoples of the two faiths.
For those of you who know me, you know I've been considering going into security services, specifically personal protection i.e. bodyguarding. It was something I've wanted to do since before I got sick. I went to the one day seminar then, started to get into shape for the week-long training, and then came down with this mystery ailment (which my doctor insists could be fibromyalgia, a disorder I still don't believe is real). I'm not saying people with fibromyalgia don't have pain or symptoms, I just think there are other underlying causes that maybe aren't being looked at closely enough. To me, fibromyalgia is where they lump you when they aren't sure what it wrong, and it probably covers more than one actual ailment.
I spent the next year being sick and not getting better. The more I rested, the less energy I seemed to have. In the spring, I decided I'd simply had enough. If I could not get myself better and live something close to the life I desired, than life simply wasn't worth it. Being a disabled lump unable to do anything isn't really living, and if I followed all the doctors' instructions that is exactly what I'd be. So through all the pain, I spent the summer getting myself into shape for fall bodyguard training.
I entered my first 5K and beat my goal of completing it in under 40 minutes. In fact, my time was 35 minutes. Training was a bitch, months of painful walking and then jogging. I found out that jogging was no more painful on my joints than walking or any other exercise.
I started a new medication that seems to be working, but makes me so tired I literally fall unconscious. I ate more vegetables and became religious about taking my vitamins. I played CNN in the background all the time and read newspapers online. I found a martial arts instructor, after experiment with things like acupuncture, yoga, and qigong. I willed myself better.
In the meantime, AgtOrange and I scrimped and saved for my tuition. I worked my first security gig, a street festival, that tested my abilities to stay awake and focused without sleep. I had worked it out that I could quit anytime I needed, but I made it where others who weren't sick failed. In the end, I worked 22 hours straight through and figured I was ready for school.
What was school like? It was like the longest powerpoint presentation of your life coupled with a sleep deprivation experiment. Practical exercises came later in the week. What did they teach? If you really want to know, take the damn class yourself. It's a good school.
What did I learn? Well, as I told the instructor at the end, I only learned one thing, and that was the breadth and scope of everything I didn't know. Now there is a list of all the things that come next if I really want to work as a personal protection specialist. I also learned (in prepping for school) that I am capable of grasping all the fundamentals of one thing if I spend 3 months of my life doing nothing else. That means I can properly learn only 4 skills a year.
In three months I took my body from near-bedridden to my first 5K. In three months I can grasp conversational ability in just about any language. In three months I can touch base with every concept I need to learn to work security. In three months I can gain proficiency with just about any job I work. I sure as hell won't be an expert, but the foundation will be solidly laid.
Why didn't I blog about it every step of the way? Because it was no one else's business. Because some things are private. Because, while I will happily tell you anything about myself, including things that most people would consider secrets, I don't blog stories that don't belong to me. The things I learned at school are not things you can commit to ether; there is no proper way to explain an abstract.
What comes next? AgtOrange and I have plans to visit my family sometime closer to Christmas. He will probably meet my mother, whom I haven't seen in almost a decade. This is not a reconciliation; I feel it is important he grasp my background. Since she is a native Vietnamese speaker, from now until then I am teaching myself that language. It will be a surprise when I go visit. (I'm not worried she'll find out by reading this blog because she doesn't read English.) Maybe someday I will visit my family in Vietnam. Either way, I have a pool of native speakers at my disposal to help me with a second language, not to mention all the Vietnamese speakers I live near. So far, this is proving to be the only language I have absolutely no aptitude for learning. It must be a mental block, but I will overcome it.
In the spring I will start running again, even though I detest running. I want a better time on the 5K and I want to maintain my body. At that point, I will begin training in Shaolin kungfu in earnest and maybe go back to capoeira (which I haven't done since I got sick). The skill after that will be Spanish, a language I've dabbled in for years but never seriously applied myself to learning. In the fall we'll be vacationing in a Spanish-speaking country and I'll get to put my skills to use. I'm not sure what I should do after that, but it falls along the lines of getting my EMT-B and maybe working as an EMT (even if I have to volunteer) for at least six months. I will dabble in other skills that may or may not prove useful, such as crowd surveillance and how to spot a fake ID (some of my friends are bouncers). Maybe I'll take a computer class. I might also start doing that clinic escort work if I can. It will give me practice for real bodyguarding later.
I am hopeful that in two years I will be ready to look for work as a protection specialist. If that happens, I'll probably stop blogging entirely.
I love Facebook games, but there are a few popular ones I just don't understand why people play.
Top Restaurant -- While I can see the appeal of a game which amounts to virtual whack-a-mole, where you are constantly putting out a series of 'fires' in order to stay ahead, this (and most other restaurant applications) is a little too much like running an actual restaurant. Anyone who has ever worked food service will rightfully shy away from such a game. Some of them, such as Top Restaurant, add to the horror by encouraging one restaurant owner to steal tips off the tables of rival restaurants.
Aquarium Games -- Having a virtual aquarium is nice as a screensaver, but when it becomes something like a fast-paced virtual pet? Not so fun. Sure, you get gold for cleaning your aquarium, but the downside is these aquariums can get dirty at a phenominal rate. Who in real life wants to clean a fishtank four times a day? And in most of the games, the damn fish still die.
YoVille -- I am utterly baffled why this game is so popular. The Sims rocked for several reasons, a sort of virtual voyeurism coupled with their amusing behavior being two. But all the characters in YoVille look like prepubescent gangsta wannabes, while the whole point of the game is to get the best wannabe clothes, with the best home interior, by working at a bakery where you have to clean ovens. You get points (and are encouraged) to constantly message your YoVille friends, and since no one has anything meaningful to say (in fact, they often don't know each other outside of facebook games), things devolve into postcards saying, "yo, yo, YOOOOOO!" and "hey, whaddup?" back and forth to infinity. Why does anyone want to come home from work in order to log on and do virtual work? Or hang out with folks who want to be wannabes?
Last night AgtOrange swore he almost went to the couch, on account I was tossing and turning all night long. That explains why I only want to go back to bed and prolong my nine hour rest. I dreamed I owned a nightclub.
And before you say, that sounds cool, so you were dancing and hanging out all night in your dream? No, I mean I dreamed I REALLY owned a nightclub, or was starting up one, and we didn't have enough cleaning crew, drunks were fighting, some government bureaucrat swore I had some license wrong in an effort to get more money from me, there wasn't enough parking so we were having people park in an adjacent dirt lot, there were some car breakins so I was having staff patrol that dirt lot unofficially. Then I was getting more bureaucrats saying I couldn't use that lot as it wasn't mine, to which my response was "I didn't tell anyone to park there, what people do with their cars is their own business." Add that to the regular hell of owning a bar, liquor orders, bitchy cocktail waitresses, insane cooks, drunk bartenders, drunk customers, security escalating fights instead of diffusing them, the constant worry of being robbed (on account we didn't have a good enough security system or locks for when the club was closed) and you'll get a closer picture to what my dream was like. Oh yeah, and for some reason no one wanted to go into this one back room in the storage area because one of the cleaning ladies swore it was haunted.
Did I mention this dance club was also open during the day, but as a sports rec center? The bar wasn't making enough money on its own, so in the afternoons (post cleanup), we'd have these pullout bleachers on one wall and the dancefloor was a giant gymnasium with a basketball court for games. The other wall had indoor rockclimbing handholds on it and we'd throw down mats, which was creating a problem at night because drunks wanted to climb the wall. Um... yeah... didn't say my dream made any sense, it just made me tired.
The previous dream was I found an eatery/cafe/bar that was also a medical clinic. Basically you could get a drink and watch people have minor procedures done on the other side of a glass wall. Creepy and I don't think it flies well as a concept bar.
I want to go back to bed desperately, but I have my biking class this afternoon. *sigh*
Last night's DC Bloggers Meetup felt very successful to me, and I'm excited about having a strictly social Halloween party next month. We had a reporter and several new faces, in addition to members of our regular characters.
AgtOrange and I have both been plagued with insomia, or at least a bedtime that gets progressively later each night. I'm in double trouble on account, for no apparent reason, he has suddenly taken up the habit of snoring.
The past week or so, he starts up with this horrible sawing around 0600, and I depart to the couch. I've told him I may have to break that promise I made about not stabbing him in his sleep if he keeps it up.
Last night we crawled into bed around 0200; neither of us were tired.
Me: I doubt I'm going to make that ISOC-DC breakfast tomorrow. AgtO: The alarm is set for 1000. Me: It's at 0830, but I'm not going to set an alarm that early. If I wake up in time, I'll go. AgtO: There is no way you are going to get up on your own that early. Me: Actually, I figure you are going to start snoring around 6am. If you do I have to get out of bed anyway. Otherwise I'll stay sleeping. Is that a silly plan? AgtO: So you are basing your attendance on whether or not I snore? That is silly.
In the end, I won. Around 0630 he woke me with a single, terrific trumpet noise, so loud I think it woke him up as well. Then I got out of bed and hopped into the shower. Even after puttering around on the Internet for some time before I left, I was still the first person to arrive.
As I ready myself for bed tonight it occurs to me to write down last night's odd dream lest I forget it by morning.
I was a student, in a university much like the ancient Greeks had, but in a place called Faralon. I was about to graduate and I had a choice, either become a member of the Faralon staff (I think it was an island) and stay there forever, or gather up the things most precious to me and leave, never to return. There was this huge elaborate gathering ceremony, where one assembled all the items deemed precious and traced outlines on a huge mural on the glories of Faralon.
"It isn't fair," I complained to anonymous dream voices, "I've only been here for the length of one dream." I don't remember their exact reply, but it equated to 'Life isn't fair'.
As I was finishing the ceremony, I started to wake up.
"Wait!" I yelled to the dream-voices, "Which one did I pick?"
"Isn't it obvious?" came the reply.
Now this felt like just an ordinary (if somewhat unusual) dream, but when I looked up Farallon I found two entries. One is "Faralon Rock", off of Tobago and Trinidad. The other, which 'resonates' with me more, is an ancient oceanic plate called Farallon Plate. It's named after the Farallon Islands. I have never heard of either to my memory, or any other place called Faralon. Who knows, in some alternate reality maybe I dreamt of Atlantis. Wouldn't that be a good fantasy story?
If I have two or three bananas starting to get old, along with a chunk of extra energy, I tend to make banana bread. Last night, I had four bananas and a heap of laziness. What to do? I found this recipe for old fashioned banana pudding and tweaked it to use up some things I had in the house. The resulting mess looked unappetizing but tasted like pure heaven. Here's my recipe:
Jadxia's Banana Pudding
1 HEAPING TBSP. flour (really closer to 2 Tbsp.) 1/4 c. sugar 1/4 c. brown sugar 2 eggs
1 3/4 c. milk 1/4 c. cold coffee (leftover in the pot from the morning)
1 tsp. butter (appx.) 1 vanilla bean contents
graham crackers, crumbled (or Nilla wafers)
Directions In cold saucepan, combine flour and sugar. Add eggs, mix well. Turn on burner and slowly add milk and coffee, a little at a time, stirring constantly. After mix thickens, add butter and vanilla to taste. (Personally, I had cut up the whole vanilla bean and stirred it into the mix until all the goodness was in the pan).
Mash up the banana and mix in a bowl with the graham crackers. Pour the contents of the saucepan into the bowl and mix (fishing out the vanilla bean if you've likewise dumped it into the pot), then throw in the fridge for a couple of hours.
Obviously, if you are trying for a pretty presentation, use only white sugar and maybe replace coffee with more milk. Then layer thinly cut slices of banana with graham crackers/vanilla wafers neatly before pouring the sauce over it (don't stir). Sprinkle with extra crushed graham crackers or wafers. That is pretty much the original recipe, which can be found at MyWoodenSpoon.com
Remember all the good ole' days, when we'd go strolling down the streets of Geocities, each homesite tucked into a cool little neighborhood -- intentional communities of like-minded hipster folk. I lucked out when they opened SoHo for new building sites, secured me a cozy studio at no cost, and made my first venture online.
We didn't know each other so well in those days. You were the guy I said hello to down the street; maybe I asked you a question about the new store in town or the cool sneakers I saw you were wearing.
Things started getting rough between us when you stopped being just a casual acquaintance and became my new landlord. How cold I felt toward you, the errant business "tycoon" running through to pillage my awesome crib. It was my first crib, you see; I had emotional attachments. When the passcodes stopped working for my own home, I tried to contact you but no one ever answered. I walked from one austere FAQ to another, finding only more questions and never the right answers, never the friendly voice of a helpdesk with the key to my door.
Still, I gave you the benefit of the doubt simply because I couldn't seem to contact you directly. I figured if I could just reach you, rather than your uncaring auto-programs and machines, we'd really see this relationship could be mutually beneficial again. And I understand why you had to evict me when I didn't take care of my property. I couldn't, being locked out, but you didn't know that. So I quietly packed up my pictures and my files, various miscellany I'd collected while living in that beatnik neighborhood, and moved to the new site, with the new keys. The neighborhood wasn't as cool, it wasn't a Soho Studio, but I could pay to have my name, shiny across the top of my new place, and then I paid you for storage for the stuff I hadn't yet found a place for, and then I paid you to keep this new neighborhood pristine and free of ads, signs or billboards.
But it hurt me to see the old neighborhood demolished. The new space seemed too small and the rent seemed too high. I never did find a good place for half of my stuff; there just wasn't enough room. Some of those fancy amenities didn't work half the time, like the weather display I put up. And every now and again one of my guests would complain about a sign blocking there way -- they just popped up out of nowhere and get torn down the next day. Sometimes the mail wouldn't get through.
So I moved. I left most of the old things in storage, sure I'd come back for them someday. Yet life moves on and as time passed, going through all those old memories seemed less and less important. It was actually a relief to find out that you had decided to tear this place down. Might have been nice if you'd tried to notify me directly, with the new address I gave you, instead of leaving the mail in the old forgotten box. I said to myself, "finally time to get off my butt and move my crap."
But Yahoo, you are really not making this move easy. Sure, I could pay yet another fee and you'll move me to some fancy new site of yours, someplace where the amenities will probably work, at first, where I won't see the billboards, for awhile. But I'm done with you as my landlord, can't we just go our separate ways in peace? Why are you determined to keep all my stuff? You're just going to throw it out as soon as I walk away. You won't let me grab it all in one batch, oh no, you insist I take my things out piecemeal one at a time. That makes for some slow going work. Apparently, there's a bunch of other folks all having to do the same thing, because every time I have an hour to work on it, there's a traffic crash. It's like roadkill out here.
What I'm really trying to say is, I don't think we can be friends anymore. I'm not enamored of your new mojo and fancy-looking tricks. Sometimes I may have to deal with you, but I don't have to like it. I have other friends to answer my questions now.
Today I am halfway through week four of my nine-week running program. That's workout 11 of 27 done. This week has been grueling and I've stumbled in sweaty and flushed with 13 minute miles under my belt. It'll get better, or easier, or both.
Last week when I went to the gym there was a girl sitting on the exercise bike with her feet propped up (not pedaling) watching television. I started on the treadmill and she gave me a funny look, did a few weightlifting moves and left. I told myself I was just being paranoid, that she hadn't given me a bizarre dirty look. Didn't I use proper gym etiquette? I wiped everything down when I was done (although she didn't stay that long) and didn't think I was in her way at all.
Today, I went down and two people were in the gym, one on weights and the other on the mat doing crunches. Again, I got on the treadmill and started it, and recieved dirty looks again and they left. I must really be crazy paranoid, I though, along with a general "what the fuck was that all about?" musing.
So I finish my thirty minutes and go back to the apartment. A lady asks me on the elevator, "are the machines in the gym fixed yet?" "I guess," I reply, "I've been using the treadmill just fine." "Yes, but last week there was only one treadmill working."
Now I get it. The only treadmill that appears to work is the one I always use, and I never realized the others weren't working. So I must've been going down and getting on the treadmill right before the gymrats/weightlifters were about to start the cardio part of their routines. I wasn't paranoid crazy; they really were giving me dirty looks before storming out of the gym.
Funny enough, I don't care. Hey, you snooze, you lose, and they weren't on the machine so I took it.
This is why I am nervous about health care reform. Yes, I know we desperately need it. But we have to make sure we do reforms the correct way, or you end up in my personal hell.
I have the DC equivalent of Medicaid, it's healthcare for low-income people. They have a tendency to pay doctors very late (sometimes never) and at reduced cost. This means that very few doctors accept it. Of the ones who do, they are either very dedicated to helping the poor and sick, or they are terrible doctors who will accept any health insurance just to bring in more patients (because people who have a choice are going elsewhere). Limited selection of doctors means you don't have much choice in the matter as to which one you see.
I don't do well in doctor visits. Being a patient makes me feel terrible, because I associate it with being sick and I detest being ill. Just waiting to be seen gives me anxiety. Add that with a lackluster doctor and you have a recipe for disaster.
Apparently, the nice person I saw before at the rheumatology clinic was a 'student-doctor' with a teacher and not my actual doctor. They were very understanding and communicative. Today was my follow up, where I met my real doctor. My labs came out clean, except for slightly low vitamin D. The doctor instantly decided my pain was from depression, even though I insisted that, even if I was depressed, it would be because I'm in pain all the time and not the other way around. She immediately started grilling me on leading questions, such as "is there a family history of depression" or "have you ever been depressed?"
Stupid me, to answer truthfully. Yes, I have been depressed before. That is how I know I am not depressed now. I'm frustrated with the medical system because half the time they aren't running the right tests or asking the correct questions. I keep wondering if this is vascular or related to my thyroid. Why vascular? I have a known heart problem, a history of arrythmia/unstable angina and MVP, and the pain in my feet started with what seemed to be poor circulation (feet get really cold and then start to cramp, causing pain). There is also a family history of thyroid problems, not to mention the lump in the right side of my throat which my regular doctor thought was 'probably just a cyst'. Hey, did you know having a nodule on your thyroid or parathyroid can cause joint, muscle, or bone pain? Why can't I get anyone to look closer or run an ultrasound of my thyroid?
My pain is not depression-based. It's not all-over blah and achy. It is very specifically pain in certain parts of my joints. It started with the feet/toe joints and ankles, including a feeling of 'being shocked' in my feet after exercise. Then pain in the finger joints (but not the wrists) as if I had arthritis. Then pain in the tendon region of my elbows and in my left knee. For some reason, Co-Q-10 combined with Flaxseed Oil helps quite a bit to prevent this pain. Advil/ibuprofen works best to alleviate the breakthrough pain (although it makes my stomach hurt if I take too much).
But she was already on the track of, "Aha, it's depression", which is enough to make anyone depressed, because this doctor who is supposed to be helping me isn't even listening to me. So now I have a referral to be evaluated by mental health.
Want to know what it says is the reason for being referred? "Patient admits to periods of frustration."
Gee, I've spent a year sick and with prolonged joint pain and you can't even give me a proper diagnosis, everyone just assumes I must be depressed and that is causing the pain. No, I started out IN PAIN and I can't do the things I enjoy (like dancing or having sex) because THEY HURT and MY DOCTOR ISN'T LISTENING TO ME. So if I AM depressed (and I don't feel depressed, I feel rightly pissed-off), maybe that is why.
If we do get government healthcare, we need a law that says all doctors are required to accept it. Just because I don't have alot of money or good health insurance, why do I have to have compromised healthcare?
Sunday I woke up massively early, with plans for Intern and I to visit the FRESHFARM Dupont Farmer's Market. What I hadn't planned on was the deluge that started when I stepped out my front door. With no way for either of us to call it off (and I was determined to go either way), we both arrive late, bedraggled, and slightly damp.
I did find a vendor for local, organic whole wheat flour. It's possibly the most expensive flour I've ever bought, but it has also made the best whole wheat bread I've ever baked. This stuff is off the charts delicious! (When I perfect the recipe, it'll be featured on the sister site healthsneak.com).
AgtOrange and I dropped Intern off at home, so she wouldn't be flooded out in the expected second deluge (where, once again, the weatherman was wrong -- it never happened), then we went off to lunch at Eden Center.
Afterward, we passed by an apothecary, but even though I'd been looking for a specialist in Chinese herbs, I was almost too scared to go in. All of the bottles were labeled in Vietnamese and I wasn't sure if I really wanted to be seen by a real Chinese herbalist. I'd had varying degrees of success with the herbalist who used to be in Chinatown, usually dependent on whether or not I'd had a translator at the time. Back then I'd get tea for asthma, and would have to mimic a cough if no one was around to translate. At AgtOrange's urging, we entered into the sweltering interior.
I did not end up getting herbal medicine; turns out they do acupuntures as well. And thank goodness, the acupunturist spoke totally perfect English (it's a 3rd-generation shop, the herbalist's English was not so good). She read my pulse and looked at my tongue, asked me a ton of questions and pronounced that I had "heat in the blood" and could be treated. They could even squeeze me in the same day.
The acupunture needles weren't bad at all. She put them in the webbing of my hands and feet (I went in for joint pain) and all along the meridian lines of my stomach. Then I had to lay there for 30 minutes, which would have been soothing if my feet hadn't itched so terribly from the needles. In fact, I felt energy going to my feet for the first time in months, and my bad knee stopped hurting. Removal was just as painless.
"You're not going to like me after this," she said, when the last needle was removed.
"Why, what's up?"
"Well, you have a lot of bad blood built up in your joints. I really need to stick you and drain the heat out. It's going to hurt."
She stuck me in the joints of my fingers and on the sides of my toes while I winced and tried not to squirm.
"That's not an acupuncture needle," I remarked dryly. "No, it certainly is not," she said, pushing on the joints and digits to manipulate blood out of them, which was even more painful than being stuck.
She put some ointment on my feet and helped me up and on my way. Did it work? Well, yes and no. The acupuncture itself, with the thin needles, did seem to move blood and energy around. It was doing something. But the stuff she did after feels like it crippled me. Rather than waking up feeling better (she said I should have two or three days before the pain returned) I woke up this morning feeling worse, much worse, and more than can be explained by a few small pinpricks.
It may be that I simply over-extended myself yesterday. I know I went well past my energy reserve limit. Also, since I had slept only two hours the night before, I'd loaded up on coffee all day long. When I walked in, I probably did have too much yang going on; I was bouncing off the walls. It's possible all that caffeine led to a misdiagnosis.
Either way, when I left we had already agreed I would see my regular doctor (who had recommended acupuncture) for the blood test results. That appointment is in a week and I shoud know once and for all if I have lupus, rheumatoid arthritis, or some other auto-immune disorder. If everything comes back normal, they will call it fibromyalgia. So next week I should have a clear diagnosis of some sort no matter what the tests show. Then I am to call my acupunturist back and we'll decide then if I should continue with acupuncture (possibly in a different style/pattern) and start the herbal medicine or if I should just try the herbal medicine by itself.
So I think I've figured on a new 'diet' that is going to work for me on a long-term basis, it's what I call "eating real foods".
This is stemming from the fact I am STILL feeling quite bleh from the colonoscopy. I have a low fever off and on, my stomach just does not feel right, and, well, the biopsy could have been better.
Turns out that big (2cm-ish), flat polyp I was worried about, well, it was an adenomatous polyp after all, and I'm due back for another colonoscopy in three years. Mind you, I'm THIRTY-ONE YEARS OLD. So if I'd waited until I was fifty to look for a polyp, which is the standard age, I probably would have died of colon cancer. If I'd waited until I was forty, which is the age they screen high-risk people, I'd probably have colon cancer by that time, also.
Sadly, we weren't even looking for colon polyps so much as some form of inflammatory bowel disease, which is something we didn't find. What's causing all the joint pain, then? Back to square one, folks, and waiting on the blood test results from the rheumatologist. Also no word on why I keep doing things like, say, throwing up or having constipation and diarrhea. We'll just leave that in a chapter titled 'the mystery of my gut' and move on.
The diet:
I propose to eat only real food, and by real food I mean stuff that didn't start out processed to death before it got to my kitchen. So whole fruits, veggies, and animal bits are all on the okay list.
Everything else I'm going to limit to under twenty percent of my total diet. This includes oils I use for cooking, processed sugars, desserts, candies, deli meats, any kind of cheese, fermented items, etc. Real foods have minimal additives.
I may attempt to make more of my foods organic, but that's not a self-requirement. I will probably cook everything, at least enough to remove the potential hazard of salmonella and E. coli(and in today's manufacturing and processing, that is everywhere).
Items I will probably eat more of: I love steel-cut oats, especially stuff made with milk. This is a bit of a quandary for me, since I have to drink soy milk (by my own words, a processed food). So I'll probably start making it with half-water, half-organic-soy-milk, and adding plenty of fresh fruit.
Goodbye, Kellogg's All-bran, you have been good to me in a fiber way, but all that HFCS gives me heartburn. You will be my lazy-day cereal.
Vegetarian stir-fries with brown rice. I made one today, and it was delicious. Green beans, mushrooms, and red bell pepper done in a homemade sauce. This sauce was a complex one, made with fresh orange juice, lemon juice, chili peppers, garlic, a dash of fermented fish sauce, hoisin, sherry, and chicken stock. Okay, not entirely vegetarian, and not 100% 'real food' but it would not be hard to modify.
Besides, I am on a high-protein diet, so I don't want to go totally vegetarian (even if I could give up yummy meat). It is just too much of a pain, I mean, how many beans can you eat?
The nice thing about being totally out of shape is that you really notice it when you attempt to get into shape. If you are very overweight, those first pounds can melt off much faster than if you are only ten pounds overweight (like I am).
I've just started the second week of the "From Couch to 5K" Program. I had to skip a few days to recover from the procedure, but since I was at the very beginning this doesn't seem to have affected me much. There are 3 runs a week for 9 weeks, after which the goal is to be able to jog 5K nonstop. This used to be my Wednesday morning donut run (as I am, suspiciously, exactly 5K from the nearest Krispy Kreme).
Now I have a personal goal since I have to pass the recommended physical requirements for school, which is 2 miles in 20 minutes. I can honestly say I have never run a 10-minute mile, let alone two of them. It will be pretty awesome if I go from being the sickest I've ever been (which is saying quite a bit) to the most fit I've ever been over the course of a summer.
At the end of the first week, I estimated I was walking/jogging about a 16.6-minute mile. At the start of the second week, the extra jogging has bumped me to a 14.3-minute mile. Imagine, I've shaved more than a minute off of my time in one week! And just months ago I was barely walking at all. So it is nice to be out of shape sometimes... but it sure will be great to be in shape as well.
![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small}
awake
hopeful
confused
tired
working
artistic
hungry
stressed
bitchy