Monthly Archives: November 2011

Happy Thanksgiving

Last year, on Thanksgiving, I went for a walk over a bridge with my camera in tow.  It was that walk which made me really covet a telephoto lens, but that’s neither here nor there.

This year, I wanted to do a Turkey Trot.  Since that wasn’t going to happen… a Bridge Tour it was, again.

Except that this year, I went by bike, and over two bridges instead of just one.  Next year, I will do a Turkey Trot.  But if tradition dictates that I have to take a photography crawl over a bridge or two… I think I’ll add a third as well.

Speaking of riding my bike, last night I went to the pottery place to pick up the bowls my friend and I painted last week.  Guess what?  They were closed.  My friend had called to ask if the bowls were ready, and they didn’t say anything about closing early, so I was pretty ticked off.  Not because I was riding in nearly freezing temperatures in the dark — turns out I actually like riding at night, if only the obnoxious motorists could be eliminated from the equation — but it’s just the principle of the matter.  So, no bowls.

In looking back at my posts from last November, I proved to myself that I was correct in thinking that my house is invaded around this time every year.  (Actually, this house has been Hotel Central since before Rosh Hashana, which was two months ago, and it’s really starting to drive me insane.)  I remember this because it really, really, really sucks to finally have a day off and look forward to being able to enjoy the peace and quiet and my own space, only to find that, whoops, it isn’t my own space after all, because it’s crawling with people who have set up camp here and make me feel like an impostor in my own house.

If you’re assuming that it’s normal to have family invade at this time of year, allow me to clarify: we don’t actually celebrate Thanksgiving in the sense of the whole gather-together-and-have-a-big-dinner thing.  So there is no reason for the invasion… other than to drive me insane.  Because of course the world revolves around me.

And also to drive up the electric bill, I guess, by leaving lights blazing all over the house.  Maybe electricity is free in their part of the world.  Or, more likely, they don’t actually care that this is not a hotel, because for all intents and purposes, it is a hotel!

Can’t wait to get a hotel of my own… I’m going on my “consolation prize” vacation next week.  I’m happy to finally be able to dive again — I haven’t since May — but I would rather be able to do the Bermuda half marathon too.

Apparently, I’ve become a sweatshirt designer.

And I’ve also acquired a set of drums.

Being pretty much the least musical person on the planet, I am not about to shell out for a drum set.  But I do think creating a massive racket would be therapeutic, even if it’s nowhere near as good as running.  Someone actually gave these to me.  And my parents are hopping mad.  I don’t see why they care — if I want them to hear me, screaming at the top of my lungs is not loud enough!

In stress fractures (yes, plural form) recovery news… I haven’t any idea.  I mean, it hardly hurts anymore, but that doesn’t mean anything at all.  Quite frankly, I don’t care if it’s fractured or not (okay, I care, but you know what I mean)… I just want to be able to run!!

Evidently, that is asking too much.

Anyway, hope you’ve all had a lovely Thanksgiving.

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Tissues & Doctors & Tests, Oh My

Oh, my life is so exciting.

Not.

I hiked out to the hospital three times this week.  Three.  First to see a specialist in “osteoporosis and metabolic bone disease,” who didn’t seem to understand that I am less than fond of the location of said hospital, considering it’s a mile away from the nearest subway station (“You’re a runner, and you’re complaining about a mile?”   Well, yeah, if I were in a position to run, a mile wouldn’t be a big deal, but if I were in a position to run, then I wouldn’t be here); then to get an X-ray of my hand to determine my bone age (as in: whether or not I am done growing… I should hope so), blood test, and find out that I had to do another 24-hour urine collection, which I just did two weeks ago, and I wanted to scream and cry when I heard that I was supposed to do another one; and then to go back to Dr. Tissues, who wouldn’t review my test results over the phone.

I’ve lost count of the number of labs and diagnostic tests I’ve had done since these stupid fractures happened.  And the main reason why I don’t just say what the hell, who needs this is because for things like that, my insurance company has to pay, but I don’t.  And my premiums and co-pays are so outrageously high that I figure they ought to foot the bill for something!

Anyway, the visit with Dr. Tissues didn’t really tell me much I didn’t already know, or at least, nothing that I didn’t know which I really needed to know.  I have osteoporosis — major surprise there.  I have a “borderline intraventricular conduction delay,” but apparently that’s just because I generally have a low heart rate and it is not a big deal, or harmful. 

Oh, and I’m evidently anemic.  Which is new, since I do get regular blood tests for my endocrinologist, and I’ve never been iron-deficient before, but this would explain why I’m so tired all the time.  Coupled with the fact that I have forgotten how to sleep like a semi-normal human being, since depression does that to me.

Allow me to explain the difference between negativity and depression: I am generally not an optimist, but I wouldn’t call myself a pessimist, either.  I am cynical, yes; I am snarky, yes.  But that’s situational.  I might get upset at something, get over it, and move on with my life.  Depression is different in that it’s all-encompassing — no matter what I do or how, it follows me everywhere.  It sort of makes me feel like finding a speeding train in front of which to jump, except that with my luck, I wouldn’t die, I’d end up paraplegic… which would put me in exactly the same situation I’m already in, only magnified by ten thousand.

Of course, since I’m so sick and tired of pretending I’m okay with this when I’m not, I actually told my therapist that little tidbit about the speeding train.  (Although, if I want to find a speeding train, I’m in the wrong city.)  Her solution: anti-depressants!  Of course.  You know, I really don’t think the situation is as complicated as she’s making it out to be: I am depressed because I can’t run.  Messing around with my brain chemistry won’t change that.

And if one more person tells me that it’s not a good thing for me to use running as a drug, I’m going to lose it.  Would they rather I use actual drugs?!  (This whole anti-depressant pushing thing has me thinking the answer to that might be yes…)  I mean, seriously.  Everyone needs some sort of outlet.  And as far as addictions go, this isn’t a bad one to have.

Unless you’re forced to turn into a couch potato.  And are having everyone look at you as just an anorectic, which is so incredibly frustrating because even at my very worst, I never, ever wanted to identify myself that way… but I can’t seem to get away from it.

Maybe I should take up drinking.  Hey, I’d gain weight from it, and then maybe everyone will leave me alone!  Win-win!

About that dinner my friend wanted me to attend?  Did not happen.  For me, anyway; I just couldn’t face it.  Not so much because of the food aspect, but because of the social aspect.  Apparently, though, she really desired my company, which is bizarre, so we went to paint some pottery.  To be honest, I didn’t want to go there, either, but it was kind of nice.  It was just the two of us, so it wasn’t overly stressful the way it would have been with a whole big group.  But I don’t think people with perfectionistic tendencies should paint pottery — I just know that when I get it back after it’s done being fired, I’m going to find a flaw that will drive me berserk every time I look at it!

So, yeah.  That is my exciting life.  I know, I know.  I hate me, too.

I Blog Because…

…there is no answer to that question, is there?

Even if I were to say that I do it because it’s therapeutic, that’s only true up to a certain point.  All of the ranting and raving in the world won’t make this go away, it won’t make me feel any better, and it’s just an all-around waste of time and space.  Of my own brainspace, really, since I don’t think anyone is even reading it, and I’m killing myself slowly by devoting so many neurons to it.  I’d rather just throw myself in front of a train and get it over with, thanks very much.

I can’t blog in “my own voice” because I don’t currently feel like I have one.  Lazy lumps on a log don’t usually have one.  I had trouble identifying myself as a runner even when I could run, because I always felt like an impostor; now I really feel like it’s all just a big fat cruel joke, and none of it ever happened.  The amount of money I have spent lately is frightening, and I don’t just mean the medical bills.  This always happens to me when I get depressed: I turn to retail therapy.  And it never works.  I know this, and yet I keep doing it.

At least things won’t run away from me when / if I need them.  People never fail to pull an abandoning act.

But first I have to get slapped in the face.  I had to block about half of my Facebook friends from my feed, because it hurt too much to see them all gloating about races I was also supposed to be doing.  Instead I just get to sit around and … um … eat and get fat?  Many people might call that a dream come true.

I call it a nightmare.

And speaking of which, I had the most bizarre dream last night (in between my second and third stretches of sleep — the concept of sleeping through the night is quite foreign around here)… I accidentally swallowed a toothpick and it got lodged in my throat.  I wasn’t even using the toothpick, my dad was doing something with a whole pile of them, and I have no idea how it wound up in my mouth, but whatever.  Unfortunately, I woke up before I choked to death.

Such is the story of my life.

Devastation and One Bright Spot

Months ago, when I learned that Katie was going to be attending a symposium in Washington, DC, I decided that it would be a lovely time to pay a visit to my friend who is conveniently attending law school there.  Then came the stress fractures that ruined my life, and I thought I wouldn’t be able to go… but when I realized that it was going to be the same weekend as the New York City Marathon, I decided that staying home would be infinitely more painful.

 

As it turns out, the world must have some sort of vendetta against me, because there are so many runners in DC; I was practically tripping over them every time I turned around, so much so that I may as well have just stayed home and been a marathon spectator.  Except that then I wouldn’t have gotten to meet the absolutely lovely Katie, which is the one bright spot in an otherwise bleak period.

It’s not like I was going to run the marathon this year, anyway; I wouldn’t have had enough time to train for it.  Even though it doesn’t seem to matter whether I train “properly” or not, since I end up in the same place no matter what I do.  But I was planning to do it next year, and even that is pretty unlikely at this point.

I passed by a woman in a wheelchair yesterday; she had no legs.  Words cannot express how indescribably guilty that made me feel — I have legs, albeit ones attached to a body that will just keep breaking — according to Dr. Tissues, which is the name accorded to the “specialist” who handed me a box of tissues and walked out of the room because she thought I was going to cry.  And you know, if not for that appointment, I wouldn’t be as horribly depressed as I am, because it feels like it’s getting better; I can almost walk normally now.  But since it doesn’t matter if or when this heals, since I’m just going to get screwed over and over and over again, I’m not going to bother looking for the bright side of this situation.

The not-so-bright (AKA, honest) side of it is that this hurts.  I don’t mean physically, either, in this case; but I don’t think an EKG was necessary, because I already know my heart is broken.  Everywhere I turn, people are experiencing great “big” races, and I can’t even get one.  I guess you could say that I’m jealous.

I’m also freaking exhausted; I didn’t use Dr. Tissues’ tissues, but I do feel like bursting into tears every second of every day.  I probably would, if I were the crying sort.  But it is so tiring to pretend not to feel like that all day, because, well, nobody likes to be around depressed people, as my “best friend” enlightened me all those years ago.  Speaking of which, a few of my high school friends wanted to go out for dinner this week.  I do not have the energy to pretend to be happy for them, I really don’t.  I have to do that all day at work, and that’s more than enough for me.

Maybe this is just indicative of my complete inability to sustain a normal relationship, but I have to say — this hurts more than actually having my heart broken in the traditional sense.  After that, I thought that if I don’t let my happiness hinge on someone else, I would be immune to such things… but I guess I was wrong.  It looks like I’m just not entitled to anything that makes me happy at all.