**written while in pain and lacking adequate pain relief. Strong possibility that it makes no sense**
I sit at my mac knowing that for the next few months I wont be able to talk very much. To fill you in, I’m having major dental surgery in late February. There are so many reason’s why this messes with my head. My hope is too vent some of those fears here and not come across as a poor little whingy princess who needs a large mug-a-concrete because this is more of a cathartic entry, for my own good, rather than anyone else. I hope that by sharing, if anyone else is going through something similar, they will not feel alone for the short time it will take to read this blog.
As most of you know I am mental. I have child-on set OCD and PTSD. From the age of ten I have suffered with pushy wisdom teeth. Sadly I inherited my grandfather’s crappy teeth. Unlike my brother, whom on the first pain, ran to the dentist. Not me.
Please know that I’m not afraid of the dentist. I haven’t had a bad experience with one. Ever. I am afraid of being touched. In particularly, my face. In the past I have had horrible flashbacks, when someone has touched me around the facial area, r where I have hit out and seriously hurt people. This disturbs me greatly. It’s taken me nearly two years to just go and see the dentist. Something I am not proud of. If I had gone two years ago, this would be over.
Believe it or not, Dear Reader, I knew the consequences of my choices. I just hoped for minimal damage. Hope didn’t really work. I face the next few months with limited ability to verbally communicate. It hurts to speak. Smiling hurts. I have to take 4 ibuprofen and use a bucket of Listerine to brush my teeth. Which, at times, I have to do alone because I cry because of break through pain.
I love conversations. I love to hear about other peoples lives and how their experience has helped them evolve to the person they are today. The thing is, I need to be able to talk back. To ask questions. Try not talking when getting to know someone. Feel how awkward it is. I don’t need help being awkward. It’s a gift I bring to every party.
It takes me 45 minutes to say goodbye to one person. Ask anyone who knows me. My father once joked that even after death they will hear me talking from 6 foot under. It’s funny because it’s true. “Shut Up, Ms Pinkelstien” was a common phrase uttered from my teacher’s lips. My mother often asked me after being on the phone to my girlfriend’s from school for four hours;
“What on earth could you two possibly have to talk about?”
I still talk to that girlfriend regularly, our conversations are short if they are under 3 hours. It’s wonderful.
Right now, I can’t have those conversations. I can, but only online. It’s not worth the agony. So, Pinky has to shut up for a bit. No mean feat.
Further, My Dearest Reader, I am in pain. All the time. I have friends with chronic pain, and I don’t even dare to think I know what it is like for them, I am having a mear glimpse into their world. It’s horrible. When you’re already a bit of a nutty fruit bar, it’s even more confronting. I can’t eat (triggers eating disorder), the anti-biotics, which dull the pain, are making a mess of my stomach, which is effecting the uptake of my other psych meds. Being allergic to codeine, the only pain killers I have are paracetamol and ibuprofen in large doses. This of course messes up my already volatile stomach. I constantly feel sick. Constantly running a fever and require five hour naps during the day.
My mood is vile and I am nasty to my beloved family. I am intolerant of dickhead’s and am in a bitchy enough mood too call people on their dickheadary. I have said it a million times. ‘I’m not good at being sick’ and I don’t like to be taken care of. So not being able to speak much and constantly hurting and constantly feeling sick and impending surgery is really making me hard to live with and hard to like.
I don’t even have my sense of humour. Nothing is funny about how I am feeling right now.
The thing with the surgery, is the interruption to my psych meds. General Anaesthetic’s (GA’s) really mess with your brain chemicals and I am afraid of how I will feel over re-uptake. Zoloft is a nasty uptake. They all pretty much suck balls but Zoloft is particularly cruel. I can’t take any anti-anxiety meds because of allergies and my only option is to use antihistamine and be brave. So I get to recover from surgery, triggered off my nut, with antihistamine. FML people.
I’m not brave. I’m full of shit. I’ve learnt how to fake it so that certain types of people don’t come near me. I don’t like confrontation and I don’t handle other people’s anger very well. Similar to Sheldon from Big Bang Theory. I hope that I can go through with the operation. I hope that at the end of it, I can be brave and I wont cry. My mum said she would drag me there kicking and screaming then have me committed to psych. So that’s nice. Mr P said that he would support my mother. Surrounded! No way out. I can’t talk my way out of it. This makes me afraid because I don’t like to be out of control. I go all primal and not in a cute kinda arse kicking way but a scary “Come near me and I’ll fucking kill you” kind of way. I also become very belligerent and sound like a teenager. “You can’t make me”. Think Cartman from South Park.
So all the rotten parts of me have surfaced. I’m sure I will be making many apologies when all is said and done.
Thanks for listening.
This post is dedicated to my friend JH. Thanks for the inspiration.