Four-ish Years Ago
I sat on my couch in my living room to listen to the voicemail I had been waiting to receive for a week. My husband of 6 months sat on the other end of the couch, pretending to play some game on X-Box while I plugged in my PIN and listened. I had to sift through about 9 other voicemails first, because I’m the person who NEVER CHECKS HER VOICEMAIL EVER (please stop leaving them) and then it starts:
“Hi Alexis, this is Dr. Whocares with your latest test results. I’m happy to let you know that your ANA came back clean and I’m gonna say with confidence that you don’t, in fact, have Lupus…”
I immediately hung up the phone without listening to the rest of the message and burst into tears like a toddler who just had her favorite toy snatched away from her fingers and then watched as it was set on fire and disappeared into ash as if it had never existed.
Super Husband (let’s go with SH for short, yeah? I’m fucking lazy and typing too much hurts) abandons the game he wasn’t actually playing and cradles me, “Oh God, it’s Lupus, isn’t it? It’s okay, we can deal with this…”
“No it’s not Lupus!” I wailed, snot definitely running down my face alongside my tears, “It’s never Lupus.” That made me bark out a sarcastic laugh, because I was about 4 seasons into binge-watching House via Netflix DVD (either they didn’t have streaming video yet, or I was too cheap to pay for it).
SH let go of me, very confused and I think partially afraid to question me in my manic state, “Isn’t… that… good news?”
“NO!” I stood up and started pacing, and I actually mean pacing back and forth along an 8-foot patch of floor because I actually do that shit, “I mean, okay, yes, it’s good news, but all it means is that I still don’t have an answer as to what the FUCK is wrong with me, which means I have to go through more tests and more exams with no answers and I HATE NOT KNOWING!”
Side note: I eventually listened to the last part of the voicemail where Dr. Whocares referred me to a new rheumatologist. Two weeks later, I had my answer and a diagnosis.
Four-ish Years Later (aka 3-ish months ago)
After going through a series of what I called “bad patches” over the course of the previous six months, I had an exceptionally shitty meeting with my supervisors. In the middle of the meeting, I come to the realization that the life I thought I was leading didn’t actually exist and that all those “bad patches” I kept talking about were my actual reality. It was like being punched in the gut, except instead of crushing your intestines, it crushes all of your hopes and dreams. Lovely stuff.
Side note: I’m fairly certain crying about your life going to shit during a meeting about your poor work performance is not considered proper business etiquette.
And OH, the depression that realization brought on was swift and hard and deep (…well that sounds dirty… Fuck it, I’m not changing it). It combined with a depression about which I was already in complete denial, and together they formed a super-depression that helped absolutely nothing, as depression is wont to do. Or wont not to do. What the fuck ever.
And the new anxiety this new super-depression brought to the party? Awesome. I’ve come to really enjoy panic attacks. Especially the kind that keep me from going to work because if I open that front door, my life is over.
The entire point of this stupidly long exposition is to explain why, after I had an unbelievably shitty doctor’s appointment with Dr. Fuckwad where I was basically accused of attempting medical fraud, I randomly came to the decision that I wanted to start a blog. I decided that I wanted somewhere to bitch about everything I feel and describe all the bullshit I have to go through as a young woman with an invisible chronic illness — and not have to apologize for it.
Side note: We are going to completely ignore the fact that in the past decade I have started an infinite number of blogs that never got past the first post. “This time is different!” or whatever the fuck I’m supposed to say to convince you to follow me.
So. Why the blog? Because in my “real” life, if I was as bitchy and hateful and sarcastic as I am most of the time in my head, no one would like me (and people barely tolerate me as it is). And as much as I would love to not need people, I do need them. Without the support of those who love me (for some reason I don’t understand), I would be a pathetic mess of a woman and people would pity me.
And there is nothing I hate more in this world than someone’s pity. Save it. I don’t want it and I hate you for it.
Final note: Chances are I’ll never post to this blog again, but feel free to check back and see if I do. It should be at least somewhat entertaining.