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Earlier in the month, I "legit" thought I was going to die soon.

4/19/2019

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Last year at this time I quit my job with no good prospects in front of me. This was in part because of my health (doctors are stumped, so I'll name my disease Uysterious Coughing Syndrome - you can decide how to pronounce it). The other reason factoring into leaving Arts Academy? I hated it.

When it comes to money, I am a risk taker. Logically, I should not have quit. Yet, I'm so glad I did, because I landed my dream job.

So, with everything clicking along so nicely, getting scary looking results from the routine monitoring of my Usterious C-S made perfect sense in a world that often appears to be run by a nine-year-old god with conduct disorder and impulse control "differences." He is pouring lighter fluid on our beautifully constructed ant hills (e.g. Notre Dame) and crushing us with his foot every time we get a little too confident. This particular imaginary god is definitely a boy. Sorry boys.

Clearly, I'm still in a bad mood, and that makes me cynical. I am not truly cynical -- honestly -- but when my goals for life seem like they are purposely being thwarted by nature, then I get a little cranky and sarcastic.

I am less convinced that I am going to die, which is good. I'm not fully convinced. It has been interesting living through those few days, though, trying to figure it out. I was filling out some quicky-internet will and thinking about leaving messages for my children and how best to do that. Coincidentally, I have been watching After Life with Ricky Gervais and I wondered if it had something to do with the great patterns I see coming about in my life that ultimately never do me as much good as I imagine they should.

The point is, my lungs look terrible and they are loaded with nodules - even the "ground glass" type which is associated with lung cancer. Sounds like cancer. Yet it is looking like inflammation from Usterious Coughing Syndrome - so after a course of prednisone they will probably shrink or go away. And I don't have any other cancer symptoms. So I get to be on prednisone and wait three months.

In the meantime, I will take it as a wake-up call to get ready to die (everybody ought to). I'll get my will figured out and begin writing more so I can leave more of my thoughts and hopes for my children... to my children. I hate that my parents died when I was young and that they have been gone so long and missed so much (well, they may have seen everything - god forbid - but I haven't been able to enjoy the flesh and blood realities of parents in a moment of my adult life.).

The one thing I thought that I want to do before I die is be less guarded and more honest. Being a teacher, there is pressure to be careful about what you say and do. I'm not saying that my desire is to say or do anything terribly controversial - but I do avoid expressing some thought that I have about religion, spirituality, and society in the raw way that I would like to. I am careful with my words, but I'm not sure that makes a ton of sense. I am not generally a fan of the "F" word because it is overused (blame Six Feet Under and The Sopranos for the trend) and used as filler so often that it has lost its power. Yet for someone who does not curse regularly, I think I have a right to use it in a judicious - and perhaps funny - way that makes me feel powerful. You -- reading this -- may not understand. But this, after all, is not your self-indulgent online journal. It's mine.

I just saw a show on creativity and one of the great creators talked about how honesty is so important in creativity. Honesty can be tough. It can make a person feel vulnerable. I'm going to take a deep breath and share the overwhelming thought I had when I thought I was going to die earlier in this month:

For most of my life, I have been 5'7", 165 pounds (give or take five), and "pretty" by white-girl societal standards.  I am strong. I'm a good runner. I am not all muscle. I am not all fat. In no way do I live up to the "thin ideal."  Thinking I would die soon, I looked back on my life and thought about how much I resent every person who ever made me feel like I was not okay the way I was. In other words -- how many people encouraged me to lose weight, talked behind my back about my weight or size, or judged me without ever knowing me because of my size. The worst offender in all of this was me -- but young me was also a victim of the hundreds or thousands of messages I got that I needed to change - that I would be better, happier, and more worthy if I changed. In my fifties now, looking back on that.. I wish I could tell every one of those people to fuck off and figure out your own problems.

Hey, Every One of You:


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Author is on prednisone. Feelin' good... no bad... no good.. no furious

4/13/2019

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via GIPHY

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Unicorns and Rainbows

4/7/2019

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That just seems like too much of a coincidence. I am honestly not that freaked out about dying if that is my path.

What I don't want is to put my children through losing me, because LORD do they need me. They need a laid-back, fun, creative, loving, stabilizing influence. They need someone who understands them. And sadly, I am it. Not one of them has a clue about how to love one another. I'm not saying they don't love one another -- I'm just saying they are stupid in the expression of it -- especially the ones with the Y chromosomes.

Tooting my own horn, I know. But facts are facts. I'm not perfect, but I'm by far the best. If I were to disappear before my children are launched, the next few years would be absolute shit for them. Unless a miracle occurred. Which it won't.

 I'll just have to make sure I write ten tons of advice. They are smart. They'll get through it. I just hate to think about them having the dreams I used to have about my parents. I had them for so many years! In my dreams, I would discover that they had been alive all along and just avoiding me. They were such terrible nightmares. So horrific.

Why would my parents want to leave me?

I'm sure they didn't, yet they did. I don't want to leave my children.

The other thing I don't want is some ugly, gross, smelly, horrible, painful death. I put in for the dying quietly and unexpectedly in your sleep kind of death. I may need to make a move to Oregon. I always knew I belonged there. With Norma. :)

Maybe I actually won't die. I don't know. It's looking a little sketchy for me right now. I'm sure if you are reading this you are wondering why, so I'll share just a bit of what I found in my most recent cat scan result:


Scattered subcentimeter nodular densities noted bilaterally. These have increased particularly in the right lung field where they measure up to 9 mm in size. Given the majority have a patchy groundglass and semisolid appearance in a clustered configuration would suspect an infectious or inflammatory process. Recommend follow-up chest CT in 3 months.

See? Could be just some sort of inflammation that I can reverse with prednisone and an anti-inflammatory diet. But I've got to admit that the number of new nodules, and the new terms (like "groundglass densities") have got me thinking the worst. There are eight measured nodules in my lungs along with:

"
Additional new scattered patchy groundglass densities in the right middle lobe and right lower lobe particularly towards the lung base. Some of these are linear in configuration."

Whatever. I'm just in a bad mood now.


ебать it.

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ебать - Now That Is Ironic

4/7/2019

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Was that just yesterday that I got back on this journal and wrote about how great everything is?
лайно.

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Reading last year's writing - an exercise in confusion

4/6/2019

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Sad Woman Sitting: David Spillane

The last time I touched this website was last summer (I think). I left Twitter, writing, and blogging all at the same time. This was not because I was tired of it, but because I got a job that took every last bit of creative energy I had in a day.

When I look back, I can see what a nightmare of a year I suffered from about 9/2017 to 9/2018. I had the mysterious illness (which I still have, but the implications are no longer so terrifying -- they think it is an autoimmune diseases that just crops up, causes inflammation, and makes me cough now and then -- The solution is long courses of prednisone - but it works.)

I miss writing, but I finally have a dream job, so how can I complain? I am putting out a TON of wonderful energy to a large number of receptive people - parents, administrators, colleagues, and most importantly, young people (in the 11 - 12 range). I'm certainly touching more lives positively with this than I have so far with my writing.

It is funny to abandon a website, come back, and find thousands of people are still reading my old stuff. Then I look back at my old journal entries, and it's so embarrassing because I write in a time of vulnerability, and I'm much more guarded when all is going fine for me. I see my vulnerability, depth of thought, superstition, and spirituality. Being in trouble (in relationships, in sickness, etc.) takes a person there, I guess.

Though looking back at my vulnerability makes me cringe, I appreciate where I went psychologically. And I like that I shared it with strangers. I sound a little flaky, I think, in some of them -- but I certainly can't judge that person. She was facing possible serious complications of illness, financial ruin, and perhaps death. How can I blame her for becoming so superstitious? But I refer to myself as "her" because I don't feel comfortable owning that person - I don't feel this way anymore. It is me, though. And I'm glad I have that resource to get me though tough times. I just feel a little strange about it now.

I look forward to getting back to writing in the summer.

And I'm glad I'm out of the struggle.



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Andrey Bogoslowsky; Painting, “Portrait of a happy woman with blue
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