Thursday, December 6, 2018

Not All whatever

So in social media "news" ... *sigh*...

Twitter banned users from harassing trans members via misgendering or using dead names.

And you're like, "well about time, nice work!"
(Seriously, if that's not how you feel, get off of my blog.)

But SOMEHOW ... somehow a group of rejects got together and carefully dug through the thousands of trans people to find the dozen or so criminals in the group and say that no trans person deserves rights or to be treated with dignity and respect because here's a small segment of the population that has abused the system and are just bad humans no matter the gender.

Allllllll righty then.
So I guess that ends the "Not All Men" argument forever. I mean, I can list a dozen killers who are all famous for some pretty sick crimes and,  interestingly, they're all men.

Now, I'd normally tell you that not all men are psycho killers who keep children for snacks. But if we're gonna judge the whole trans community by the bottom of their barrel, then it's only fair to do the same for EVERY other group.

And since someone is gonna think dumb shit like that men didn't choose to be men but trans... I can't even type it because of the level of dumb here... well, for those who are gonna whip that out, I present priests. Sounds like a good group who do good things, till you view them only by the very worst among them.

If you've ever taken a class, you only did as well as the lowest grade. Everyone is now going to be paid as much as the lowest paid person in the company. Any savings will vanish, just like it does when the very worst investors have at it. Yes, from now on, we're all gonna just be whatever the lowest of the low happens to be.

So get out there and strive to drop the bar even fruther down.

The robots need to take over now. I can't even.

Tuesday, December 4, 2018

Truth, Lies, and Illness part 2

As far as being a burden, yes, yes I am. I've cut most of the people out of my life who treated me like one. And I took a LOT of activities and independence off my calendars so I don't go out and become a burden to unsuspecting strangers. I put the responsibility of my breathing on myself as much as I possibly can.


I'm reading something now that talks about living more fearlessly. Or living in such a way that fear is there, but suggests to just do the opposite of whatever it wants.

And I feel the need to defend myself. Which is probably another indication that I should be in mental therapy counseling or whatever.

"Unsuspecting Strangers"



I have gone to the hospital to have lung tests done. The last one resulted in the tech calling the code team. Part of the reason is that she had no idea what else to do as my respiratory attack WOULD NOT STOP. Her job, the actual thing she does for a living (I'm assuming here, because I'd like to think the hospital didn't ask a receptionist to "cover" the respiratory lab or something), for which she must have had some kind of training, includes dealing with people who have breathing issues. This test isn't done on healthy people. They only whip this phone-booth sized coffin with a tube that cuts off your air supply for people who are having real problems. Which means she wasn't an UNSUSPECTING stranger. She was freaking trained to deal with this situation, and I caused her to freak the fuck out.

This is not the only instance where I've had medical people, ones with letters after their names, sitting there wide-eyed without a clue as to how to keep Death from taking me.

So when I say that I would be overwhelmed with guilt if I put a regular person, some mall-dweller or whatever, in the position to decide between trying to help me or fleeing the scene, this is what I mean. The odds of a random person knowing what to do aren't good. People with decades of training and experience stand there going, "uhh... what?" Yeah, I have instructions on my medical ID bracelet and phone saying to get me to cool air. What if they don't look? What if that time it isn't enough?

What if I die and someone ends up with guilt because they couldn't save a stranger, and they never even find out that the odds were stacked heavily against them? I'm just some asshole who got it in her head to go do a thing one day, and then couldn't breathe, and now they fucked up CPR or whatever and had to watch me die. And THAT goes through my head EVERY time I plan to walk out my door. EVERY time.

It's a little easier with friends and certain family members. They at least know to dump ice or other frozen products on my airway and chest and then shove an inhaler in my mouth once the cold had a chance to work. And they know how bad it is, so they know if that doesn't work and I end up dying, it really is despite their best efforts and there really wasn't something more they could do. I'm not forcing them into a guilt situation as much. Yeah, they'd still be sad and all, but these are rational people who would come to the conclusion there really wasn't something else to do.

Yes, I'm more afraid of saddling a stranger with guilt than I am of staying home in my air conditioning with some control over things.

And that probably isn't mentally healthy. Or physically. But it IS what I've got.

Monday, December 3, 2018

Truth, Lies, and Illness

Posted by Wholesome Memes on Saturday, December 1, 2018


See... I want to believe this. But the chronic illness that is kinda leading to mental illness (and by kinda I mean a suped-up truck with hauling capabilities off the charts) has a different take.

I wasn't stupid. But the oxygen deprivation has taken a toll on my mind. I notice it all the time. I'm slipping.

I wasn't ugly. But the steroids and being told to stay still as much as possible caused my weight to double-and-then-some, which isn't helping my appearance.

Worthless depends on how that word is written, because if you stick a space in there and do some very basic math... Umm... If "worth" can be measured in terms of money, not only am I worth considerably less than I once was, but I'm now an economic drain. There are plenty of politicians leading my country who have implied as such and clearly would prefer that people like me drop dead or deport ourselves as we aren't adding financial value.

As for being weak... Physically, I use to lift 80 pounds overhead at least three times a week. Now I struggle lifting 5 pounds. Mentally, I use to multi-task with the best of 'em and deal with drama and stress without having a breakdown. Now, no. Because I live to close to the breaking point, getting tipped over it takes almost nothing. I had a meltdown over a lollipop once which is so dumb I can't even stand that it happened. And that pops me around to emotionally, where I was once stable and labeled "not like other girls." But now things hit me more often and I have new feelings that I can't even identify, much less deal with, but it's not like I'm crapping out money for a therapist. Which would be nice, but I can't even afford better lung docs so ... oh look, there's that worth/ value thing again.

As far as being a burden, yes, yes I am. I've cut most of the people out of my life who treated me like one. And I took a LOT of activities and independence off my calendars so I don't go out and become a burden to unsuspecting strangers. I put the responsibility of my breathing on myself as much as I possibly can. But still. There are family members I haven't seen in years because yes, it would be a HUGE burden on them to make their home cool enough for me to breathe or for us to meet up somewhere that's cold. I'm not worth wearing extra layers of clothing for, to them. I don't push the point. That worth thing, if it isn't about money... if it's about value in the family, well then I've fallen clean off that wagon. I'm down to less than a dozen family members who care.



I'm not sharing this on Facebook because I don't want pity or to be argued with about my feelings, my reality. I saw the post on my friend Becky Suglia's timeline (Dec 3, 12:14pm EST -- Friends only: her link) and I wrote this reply. But then I didn't want to comment with something THIS LONG on her Facebook wall. So I moved it all here, to my blog, where it will barely be seen.

My reply isn't the POINT of the post. The meme isn't for people with chronic illness. Or whatever other argument someone who can feel cheered up by this will make. I'm not there. I lack evidence to contradict the facts of my reality. Yeah, I have some good days. And there is a small group of people who are glad I'm around and don't think about me this way.

But my body is a prison. My freedom is restricted by my need for cold air. And yeah, I could try carrying a bag of ice everywhere, or this fan or that fan, etc. But see that paragraph about being weak? Yeah. And whipping those out reminds me that I've put myself in a dangerous situation. That I shouldn't be doing what I'm doing. And I feel like I'm behaving in such a way as to indicate I am ungrateful to be alive.

And that's when guilt and depression really kick in. Self-blame. And then I, the person who was always quite fond of herself, land up in a pit of self-loathing. Then grief and regret. Until I can't stand it anymore.

Those are bad days. I'm ashamed of myself when they happen. And then I see memes like this and they make me feel even worse about myself. EVEN THOUGH I KNOW THAT ISN'T THE POINT! It's supposed to make people feel better. And I truly hope it does make someone else feel better.

But that someone isn't me. If it's you, here's another copy:

Sunday, October 21, 2018

Consent

Rapist be like:

"Just because I was having sexual relations with a party who did not, and perhaps could not, consent doesn't mean I consent to having my future taken away. That's not fair!"

Yeah...

Maybe rapists really do want it taken away. Maybe they're asking for it. Perhaps they're even dressing the part of someone who has their future taken away. We should definitely check the wardrobe of rapists, see if they own anything in the same color spectrum as any uniform worn in any prison anywhere ever. Also, people who have had their future taken away are prone to drinking and drugs, so that needs to be checked for because, again, maybe the rapist was asking for it. Right???

Just saying.

Wednesday, October 17, 2018

There Are Geckos in Haiti #WEP #FlashFiction

#WEP #FlashFiction CHALLENGE FOR OCTOBER - DEJA VU OR VOODOO


My cousin keeps talking about this contest. So I figured what the heck, I'll give it a go. Hope you enjoy!

There Are Geckos in Haiti



Timmy’s hands hold his head up as his elbows dig into the table. “Why does it matter that you weren't the first to know? The test came back negative. Can't we just be happy that I don't have cancer?”

“Because I should have been the first to know! You told her instead. She's the one that made your appointment.” The tissue box creases in my hands. It's like deja vu; the same argument again and again.

“So?” Timmy slams his fist on the table. The envelope with the doctor's bill, for tests not covered by our insurance, bounces from the force.

“That's my job. I'm your wife. I'm the first one you should tell if you think you've got cancer. Especially there. I'm the one who should have made that appointment. I'm the one who should have taken you. And before that, I'm the one who should have looked, felt the lump for myself. I could have probably told you it was an ingrown hair. I've got twenty years of waxing on you. Not like I've never seen one.”

“Oh, you're a doctor now? You know the difference between an ingrown hair and testicular cancer by just looking? Henrietta didn't. She waxes too.”

Fire explodes through my body. “Excuse me?”

Timmy's eyes widen like a mouse as the trap snaps down. “Well, I just mean, it's not like … She was with me when I felt it, so naturally I had her look. That's when she made the appointment.”

“With. Her. Where?” I exhale white-hot rage between each word. The letter opener is only an inch from my hand, sitting under the pile of used tissues. Do I have any tears left for this man?

“At work. Of course at work. Where else would we be?”

Timmy's answer doesn't come out like a fluid fact of obviousness. Instead, it's blips and pauses, like a child creating a lie one word at a time, checking if they make sense.

“You just dropped-trou at work? Who else got a free show? Or are you also a stripper now? There a stack of ones in your wallet?”

“The ATM at the strip club gives two- dollar bills,” he says with a sneer. Then his eyes widen again before he looks away. “So I've been told. I got one as change for a coffee once. That's how it came up.”

He's not capable of the truth. But I ask one more question anyway. “Is this why we haven't been together in weeks?”

“We're together right now,” Timmy says. Sweat mixes with his alpine-scented cologne. Our dining room reeks of it. I'll eat in the den, once again.

“You know what I mean.”

“Intimately? I haven't felt well. My stomach. Another reason I suspected cancer!” He nods his head, as if he's convinced himself.

I shake mine and throw the balled up tissue from my hand at him. Of course, it barely crosses the polished oak surface. Still, that's further than the one still caught in the candelabra. “No. Intimate was showing your junk to Henrietta. Intimate was her calling a doctor instead of reporting you to human resources for exposing yourself at work to a coworker.”

He rolls his eyes, crosses his arms over his massive chest, and leans back until the chair creaks. “It's not like I lit candles and read her poetry while she looked. You're overreacting. I'm right, you're wrong.”

I shake my head. “Tell Henrietta you'll be staying with her. And that I'd like to swap copies; her next STD test for mine. May as well put our cards on the table. Anyone else that needs testing while we're at it? The two-dollar bill strippers you mentioned?”

“You're not going to throw me out. You need me. It's the same threat every time.”

I reach into the tissue box I've been crushing. Under the last tissue is the doll. I didn't plan to do this. Okay, maybe I did. The last time he made me cry a box of tears, I swore to myself that it'd never happen again. I grab the letter opener, the sharp little dagger we got in Haiti on our honeymoon. When the woman told me one day I'd be glad for these things, I thought it was a joke. A tourism rouse. I plunge the dagger into the tissue box, speaking the words and filled with belief. Across the table, Timmy grabs his chest.

I just saved a bunch of money on divorce lawyers by switching to voodoo.



By Jamie

758 words

There Are Geckos in Haiti #WEP #FlashFiction

Sunday, October 14, 2018

Why I Cheat When I Play The Sims

There are cheat codes for the computer versions of The Sims. Motherlode and familyfunds are the two money ones (simoleans). And I use them. EVERY TIME.

But why? Part of the game is getting the Sim a job and earning money and blah blah blah.

You know what? I have to deal with money problems in the real world. Hard ones. Impossible ones. Ones that aren't going to be solved by building up a certain skill and making a few more friends.

So I cheat. And then experience, in a game, a version of how a life might be if financial issues were off the table. Deal with other things.

And you know what? I can. My Sims are happy. They have good lives and fun adventures. Sure, things still break. Fires still start. Bees! But they have solutions. It's manageable. Life is still happy and fun.

Plus, it's a game. There are no real consequences for cheating. It isn't like in life where, if I rubbed a lamp and asked a genie for 10 billion dollars US, I'd accidentally screw up the global economy. I haven't robbed anyone. (Other than, perhaps, myself. Robbed of the experience of an avatar being as flat, stinkin' broke as I am.)

This is also the one advantage The Sims has over games like SecondLife. Sure, multiplayer means social interaction. But to get game money... there's no cheat. You need to have money, or make game items and sell them to get money as a job in the game. And, just like a job, you then have to get people to want your stuff. And soon you're almost never playing for fun and just working to get a few cyber dollars so your character isn't as poor as you.

I can't deal with it anymore. I can't enjoy a game where the goal is to get money. If I were good at that, maybe I wouldn't be playing a game to escape the world where I'm broke. Which, oh yeah, reminds me that I spent money I don't have on this game. Even if it's a gift, I could have traded it in for a tiny fraction of the value... oh look, it's the guilt train! Pulling into the station. Which makes me want to retreat into a game world so I can feel any other emotion even for an hour.

Which, again, is why I break out the cheat code and give my character an absurd amount of funds. Because I just can't deal with the problem of being broke.

I'm not legally allowed to return to work without a medically release. I can't get a medical release without a diagnosis. I can't get disability without a diagnosis. I can't get a diagnosis because the doctors can't figure it out (but all agree it's something and it's BAD), or won't risk giving it a name and being wrong because of insurance, or are unable to nail it down because it's so bad that even the tests nearly kill me. (Seriously, the code team was called last time.)

And so I feel helpless, hopeless, and worth  _  less. (Those spaces are intentional because I feel my worth has decreased as I am not an earner. Which holds a different connotation than the word worthless.)

Why would I want to PLAY anything where I feel more of that? It crushes my soul. I barely remember why I fight to stay alive most days just because of the pain. Add in all the feelings from money? If psychiatry were free, I'd go. Okay, that's not totally true. If it were free AND I could do it from home, thus not landing in more pain or risking my life if the office isn't suitable for my respiratory needs, then I'd go.

But that's a pipe dream. So I occasionally game. A world where I can escape from all the problems I don't know how to solve. A place where I can actually deal with what is thrown my way. Where I still manage to succeed. Achievement unlocked! So desperate to feel like I can do something well that I'll settle for an arbitrary win in a game world.

I use to be so good at life. What the hell happened to that girl?

She went to work one day and, unknowingly, inhaled chemicals. And while it IS killing her, and has ruined her, she hasn't actually died yet. Somedays, it's really difficult to be grateful for that. Which is horrible to admit. Choo choooo! 🚂There's the guilt train again. Guilt for not being grateful for this prolonged suffering and poverty. "Think of all you've missed!" Yeah. I know. Rainbows and kittens and all that.

It isn't fame and fortune that I'm aiming for anymore. Just for life to be a tiny bit easier. To just not feel so horrible all the time. To feel like I could do one thing right, one thing well enough to be worth something.

The real world Sim version of me doesn't need millionaire estates. Just needs to not be curled in a ball unwilling to do ANYTHING because it's all so terrible. In fact, the game won't even allow me to create a Sim like me, because they are all healthy. Sure, they can get sick, but they heal.

Hope. I cheat at the Sims so I can escape to a world of hope.

Friday, October 12, 2018

#StopTheHate #ThirdShiftMakesAmericaGreat Grocery Store Hours

Yet another store is ignoring the needs of second and third shift employees. So I filled out the little survey. You can see what I wrote.

Weis
Address: 7801 Glenlivet Dr W, Fogelsville, PA 18051 Hours:
Open 24 hours

As of November, they will be closed from 1 am to 6 am.



"The night manager guy (tall, slender, glasses) is SUPER nice and helpful. The cashier, Stacy, is great. They are NOT the problem.

My husband and I are HEARTBROKEN to find out the store, as of next month, is no longer going to be open during regular shopping hours. It's in the warehouse district, where people work 24 hours. But all the third shift workers are "second-class citizens" who pay astronomically higher prices to see doctors (only the ER in the middle of the night), have significantly fewer choices in gas stations, fast food, and pharmacies, and now YET ANOTHER grocery store that isn't open during regular shopping hours. And no, I'm not going to start referring to daytime as regular because that just reinforces the stereotype that third shift employees are less deserving of healthcare and food.

Look, we already don't have access to a deli counter, meat counter, pharmacy, gas, or most of the other stuff at your store. But to now lock people out for five hours? Like customers SUCH A HUGE INCONVENIENCE.

So sorry to have burdened your company with our food shopping. Looks like, just like Giant, Whole Foods, Aldi, and several other stores around here, we just won't be able to shop at your business regularly anymore.

Thank God for Wegmans!!!

I do wish you'd reconsider. We really loved the deals at your store. A shame you don't like customers who aren't on YOUR schedule.

Please, NEVER EVER EVER EVER EVER get anything shipped or delivered overnight. Stop using electricity and other utility services at night, no more nights of Netflix, and don't call emergency services from 1am to 6am. You (the person who made this choice, not the poor soul reading this normally) do not deserve all the wonderful things people in this country enjoy THANKS TO SECOND AND THIRD SHIFT WORKERS.

#StopTheHate #ThirdShiftMakesAmericaGreat "

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