*glares at desk*

[saitaina]

Originally published at Memoirs of a Nobody. You can comment here or there.

Cut for length, the bored and sick have a lot of time to ponder things.

There are sixteen various pill bottles and concoctions lined up on my desk in neat little rows.

They are supposed to keep me functioning daily. Only five of them are new additions from the surgery and yesterday.

I’m twenty-five, I should not have sixteen pill bottles to function. Just yet another reminder that I’m getting weaker.

I still have no idea why my body is betraying me. It’s as if thirteen was a fun and magical point for things to start shutting down. I know my lungs are a result of the pneumonia when I was four, and my stomach is from the hernia, but the rest of it is a mystery that’s driving me nuts trying to figure out.

I want a cure, not sixteen bottles lined merrily in a fucking row, taunting me of unanswered questions. I’m tired of simply treating the symptoms of some un-named and un-discovered condition that’s tearing my body apart.

And the stupidist part is none of it is serious. Just a bunch of little things. Easily treatable they assure me.

Sixteen fucking pill bottles.

I’m starting to wheeze again. I hate the sound of it. The crackling with each breath in and out. I hate the feeling worse, but at least it’s not bands tightening around my chest anymore, making me gasp every few words. I woke up with it again, then endured the fun of four breathing threatments (I still say the nebulizer makes it look like I’m smoking a bong), two doses of an inhaler and choked down three Prednisone pills.

Practically the same treatment I had yesterday in the ER…only they gave me prednisone shots and it actually helped. This crap is just loosening the bands on my chest.

I told mum I would have rathered they left the damn IV in and gave me shots to take at home. It’s not that hard, screw into port, slowly push, unscrew and discard.

But no, they give me crappy pills and a freakishly huge bruise from my IV and port. At least this time she got it in on the first shot, I’m tempted to buy her services every time I need an IV and do away with this twelve tries bullshit.

Though she might need a lesson in why latex is bad to put on someone who gets eaten away by it. She put two latex strips on my IV, then a securing thingy with latex in it, and then tried for a latext bandage…thanks sooo much, idiot.

…come to think of it, I think the entire staff needs retraining. We asked the RN if the bandage she was going to put on me was latex and she shrugged and tried to put it on me again. We yelled at her to stop and she just looked confused.

One would think a giant neon sticker with LATEX ALLERGY on the chart would have clued her in. Maybe she can’t read?

I think I’m starting to get addicted to my sleeping pills. I can’t seem to stop taking them. They work so nicely, to shut off my mind and force me into slumber. Sad fact is, they’re not even sleeping pills, they’re anti-psychotics used to treat schizophrenia and bipolar (depressive). Idiot doctor put me on them back when they still thought I had bi-polar to try to balance me out (or some weird thing). All they did was put me to sleep for hours on end. And that was at 50mg, the normal dosage is 400-800mg (I wonder how long I would have slept on that….).

Mum and I talked the other day, about the fact I was staring to get worried and anxious over her mental health. She mused that maybe I should move out if it upset me so much, but decided against it (!) as that would just make me worry more.

It hurts and pisses me off that she would brush off my concern. I know I tend towards anxiety with things and worry too much, but really, she’s my MOM. I could have lost her and then she acts like I’m insane for worrying that she might be getting down again. Excuse me for wanting my mother around. Such a sin I have committed.

Mom’s still harping on me to get something published and get a ‘real job’. I wonder why she thinks being an author is a real job, but that’s not even the issue anymore. I don’t feel like writing. I mean I have all these ideas and get excited about them, but then I sit there and think about my writings, and I realize this is the problem, but I don’t see any of my writing as worth it.

If I had talent it might be more worth the effort to put pen to paper (or key to computer as it were), but I long ago accepted I was a hack writer. My mother has this delusion of me being the next JK Rowling or best seller and I can just see anything I write in a bargain book bin (if it even got that far). I lose more readers with every chapter I write and that’s in fan fiction. I would hate to see me publish something and have the readers mail them back, demanding a refund by chapter five.

I did find it amusing the other day, to read some of my first works. Once I stopped cringing over every little detail, I was amused to remember I started out as a romance writer. Writing trashy het novels that would not be out of place with a half naked man on the cover, clutching some big breasted bimbo.

Now the only thing I write is overly melo-dramatic boy on boy angst that barely has a kiss. Hell, my characters end up broken more then they do fucking. And I need to get over this trend of physically abusing my characters. It’s transfered from fan fiction where I not only maim (My latest story has two concussions, a broken wrist, a sprained wrist, one gunshot wounds, and numerous cuts and bruises…and it’s only six chapters in..and not including the psychological damage.), to my wannabe novels.

I wonder if that says something about me, that I have no problems beating the hell out of my characters physically and emotionally…

I have three new icons lined up to be made, just for fun ones for I think the first time. I’ve been bogged down with so many requested graphics and those required for things that I felt as if I was drowning in a sea of routine steps instead of playful fun.

I moved all my icons and minor graphics to MagickWorks Graphics. 204 graphics, not including the 50 awards that are also posted there just so I can look back and feel good when I’m feeling un-inspired.

I need to stop repeating designs, I think I’m getting into a rut. I was creative once…

I think I’m starting to get depressed again. Not in a bad way (well, too bad), but just so…tired of everything. It’s all the same, day in, day out. Things used to be fun but now it’s just draining.

The only bright spots are my friends, and Him, but I’m losing touch with so many by their lives pulling them away and Him is…I have no awnser. Everyone’s moving on or busy and I’m still sitting here, waiting for my time to be with them, to smile.

I hate change.

And now I have to take one of my hated pills and go lay down. I don’t think my rambling is doing anyone good.