My Suicide Attempt at age 15.

Note: I am hoping this post gets lost in the rush of the Holiday season.  I wrote the draft almost two years ago and felt it was too much to have out there in the void of the internet, but what happened to me when I was 15 years old is affecting me now.  This posting is very personal and I don't want to hurt my family members with this story, but I think the lesson I learned has given me a different perspective on the illness I have now.  Read what happened and I will explain what changed inside of me.

How did I cope with the constant abuse coming my way?

To be brutal honest with you, not very well.  I had one close friend, her name was Rosa.  She was so sweet to me.  I guess she liked me because I did not judge her or her family. I found out later that the home her family lived in was a stop on the Mexican Underground railroad, so I finally understood why they were so protective of their home.  Rosa's family would not let me inside the house for about a year.  They lived across the street from the Jr. High school, so we would hit a tennis ball on the courts at school and talk.  We talked and talked, until the sky darken.  We spoke mostly about nothing.  It was great.  I didn't care about the cultural differences.  Those seemed to disappear when we hung out and did normal stuff.  I am as white as they come, but I was so desperate for some social interaction that there was no room to be judgmental.  It took years for them to trust me, but it was so fun when they did.  The whole family would come out when I visited.   I loved being with all of them.  Oh, I was so bad at Spanish!  They laughed their heads off when I tried to speak it and I had my first tongues stew at the house.  They gave me a bowl and told me to guess what the meat was.  The tongue was very squeaky and they just laughed and laughed.  But it was good laughter.  It was fun and I needed something to keep me going.

7th grade was a bit of a reprieve from the constant abusive attention.  More elementary schools funneled into the Jr High, so everyone was in shock to be in a different place with different expectation of them.  Bothering me was put on a back  burner.  I actually liked 7th grade and regretted not getting a yearbook.  I can honestly say that was the last time I felt that way.

The problems really developed for me when Rosa disappeared.  After the Christmas break everyone returned to school except Rosa.  I was alone.  No one to hang out with during lunch and no where to go after school.  That was when the cruelty filled me.  Their wasn't anything to offset the things being said to me.  I experience full force how unwanted I was.  I felt and still feel that my very presence is offensive.  I was told how disgusting I am by my peers at every turn.  I am shy and quiet, so the people around me won't be poisoned because of interaction with me.  Even now, my reaction to people is fear.  Rosa did come back after months away.  Her family had gone to visit Mexico and then decided to stay.  They did that to Rosa all through High School and I didn't have her to depend on.  I would wake up and Rosa would be gone.

Medically, my life had become a living nightmare.  I was not told of what the symptoms were of my syndrome because I don't think doctors knew much about the poly cystic ovary syndrome at that stage.  Puberty hit me like a freight train.  I was having trouble with my menstruation cycle, which in my house can not be mentioned.  I found that part of life to be horribly embarrassing and I wasn't going to talk to a male doctor who yelled at me about my problems.  The hair on my face became noticeable at this point.  I had more of a beard than the male kids my age and that compounded the mortification.  Nothing worked to take it off.  I found shaving to be the best and I hated it because I have stubble an hour after shaving.  I cried to know that no one could touch me without feeling the rough sandpaper texture of my skin.  The things wrong with me were noticeable and it only served to separated me further and further.

My emotional walls were being built around me at that time.  My weaknesses would be found and exploited, so I built defenses around the offensive spot.  I became hard on the outside.  You have to run a gauntlet to be my friend and few want to try, but I like my obstacle course because it gets rid of the rift-raft pretty fast.  I don't have to worry about mean characters using me and I am fine using the word no.  The side effect I have to deal with is the harsh loneliness.  Heart crushing, soul stomping, skin cutting loneliness.  I feel it cutting into me at odd times through out my life.  I was driving home from work and as I climbed the hill into Simi Valley and looked across the expanse of new housing being built my heart contracted into a pain I seldom let myself feel.  It was so overwhelming.  I marvel that I am able to bear it, let alone bury it inside me.

There were sweet instances of kindness happening to me at the same time as the cruelty, but they were harder to see because it was the behaviour that I expected to happen.  I vividly remember an older girl I knew from church coming to my defense as a group of boys made random rude comments to me while waiting for the bell to ring.  They dug and dug into me feeling like stab wounds drilling  into the protection of body armour.  Their comments are as destructive as a physical attack and I wonder why.  Now I just laugh at stupid people saying stupid things, but as a child those comments hurt beyond explanation.  I stood there and took it.  What else could I do?  I couldn't fight.  I couldn't tell a teacher, they were back in the PE office and I had to stay in the area so I could get to my next class in time.  This girl, Jenni's voice came out of no where.  She was disgusted by what they were doing to me and spoke up.  My mouth hung open in shock at her words.  It was nice to know that someone else could hear what was going on.  The way everyone ignored the rude comments I thought I was being over sensitive.  Her actions granted me about 30 seconds of peace, but it was a very important 30 seconds for me.

I began to think of death an awful lot around this time of my life.  I hated the outside voices coming at me.  I tried to block them out.  I walked home from school every day.  I didn't live far, but I could only go home one way, so I was unable to avoid my fellow students and even worse I had to walk along a busy street for half a block.  This street was used by the High School kids coming home.  They would shout obscenities out of their car windows at me.  "Bitch!" was one of their favorites along with "fat cunt".  So I would talk to myself to block out the other people around me.  I would also see how far I could walk while  "being blind".(closing my eyes)  It was the way I coped.

I was being told that I was ugly and worthless by people of all ages every day.  I began to believe there was nothing for me.  I began to believe that to make the world a better place, I should leave it. Since I had no one to hang out with my favorite past time was to figure out how I should kill myself.    I was still in Jr. High School, about 13 years old, no friends, no resources.

The Internet was not around at this point, so I did not have access to any of the tools needed to make the thoughts happen.  I would walk home with my eyes close and run through the list and how I could achieve any of them.  I am such a wimp though.  I was not into feeling any pain, so that cross quite a few of them off my list.  I had no idea where to buy a gun or any friends who hunted.  I couldn't think of a place I could hang myself without getting caught, plus where to get a rope and how to tie the knot.  These are all practical problems that would take effort to overcome.  That helped to cut down the possibility of me doing anything so drastic.  It gave me something to think about besides the constant sounds of "You are disgusting."

I developed a strange obsession. I would walk to the end of my street, it opened up onto a very high traffic road.  The busy street was constant with cars going 40 miles an hour.  The people who lived there had to have indoor pets or they would get run over.  I played a game with myself.  I would sit on the corner wall and dare myself to step into traffic. I spent hours watching the ebb and flow of traffic and when the cars reached a certain point I would tell myself to "jump".  I never listened.  I knew it was entirely too selfish to have another person "accidentally" kill me.  I would never put that kind of heartache onto another person  plus I thought it would hurt to much.

Meanwhile, my brain on darker thoughts, I found something that I knew would help me in my quest to end things.  My mother has had trouble sleeping for as long as I can remember.  I would have to wake her up to take me to school.  She was pretty happy when I stopped my early morning marching band class.  Well, I found in her things a bottle of unused sleeping pills.  I noticed that they were past there expiration date and were about to throw them into the garbage, when I thought better of it.  I emptied the bottle and threw it away, but I put the pills into a nondescript container ready for a rainy day.

I tried to escape.  I wanted so badly to leave. I found a music school that I could go to and live there.  I needed a change of scenery.  I needed a change of people.  I did not trust any one in Simi at that point, not enough to feel like I could talk to them about the pain.  I felt poo-pooed and belittle like I was a little kid tattling because their brother got more ice cream than them.  I was not taken seriously and I wanted that to change.  I filled out the paperwork and was accepted to the new school.  I told my mother about the incredible news.  I showed here the pamphlet and started preparing myself to go.  She said no.  She said there wasn't enough money.  I really didn't care.  I knew she was using that as an excuse.  She didn't want me to go, not because of the money, but because she didn't want me to leave her.  If money was the issue we could have worked it out.  I knew no was no and I didn't fight.

I made it to 9th grade.  They gave a presentation on suicide and the signs people give before they commit to doing it.  I laughed inside my head.  They told me what would give people a hint and I stored the information away.  Things had continued to get rocky.  My school peers had tried to do a "Carrie" like joke.  I was nominated for prom queen.  The principle caught the names and asked all the girls including me to come to her office.  The pretty, popular girls spilled the beans.  I wished I wasn't there in the office to hear it was a joke on me.  I wished I didn't hear the plan through the principle's open door.  I left the office and I walked home.  It was before the bell rang, so I got to walk home in peace. 

Plenty of fat people are married with kids.  Plenty of fat people have jobs and careers.  Plenty of fat people lead perfectly normal lives, but I am treated like something you find on the bottom of your shoe.   My friend was gone.  The doctors hated me, my brothers hated me, my classmates hated me and to tell the truth that feeling hasn't dissipated with age.  Knowledge that a person is wrapped up in their own life has been the difference in my thinking.  People don't try to ignore me, but since I am not apart of their daily lives then it just feels that way.  I was very lucky to have a friend who told me the truth.  I wasn't quite friends with her when she had her first baby, but we were close by her second and she just had to pay attention to her husband and her kids.  It has nothing to do with her love for me, but I have tried very hard to respect that need for her to take care of her family.  I have learned that most woman can't take the time out for me.  I don't blame them.  I am in awe of the time, energy and talents that are required to be a mother and wife.  I do not have those same demands upon me and it is very hard to see that others are just too busy to take the time needed in being my friend.

I have tried really hard to remove the poison inside of me, but I don't understand what others see when they look at me.  I am passionate and I am very black and white, empathy and compassion are not natural traits for me.  I do forgive myself for my mistakes, but I do not forgive myself stupidity.

Finally one day I stayed late at school and so I was also late on my walk home.  I was basically the only one on the sidewalk and I was feeling very low about myself. In the half a block before I turn the corner over 15 nasty things were shouted at me from passing cars.  I was alone and the heartbreaking words floated on the air flatly refusing to be ignored in the silence.  They crashed my world.  I already felt unwanted and the words pierced my well developed armoured skin and hit the fleshy mush underneath.  I felt destroyed, the tears not meaning anything as I made my decision.

I walked into the dark house.  Every one was gone for some reason or another and the hurt multiplied inside of me.  I reached under the sink for a bottle of bright blue Windex, trudged upstairs to an empty room.  I turn on the TV and proceeded to take the pills I had tucked away, a year earlier, down from the shelf.  I took every single one with the Windex chaser and laid on the couch grateful to finally have it all over with.

I have no idea how much time passed.  Mom called me to help her with dinner.  I stood to help my mother and fell to the ground unable to control my limbs.  What I had done hit me full force.  I managed to stumble my way downstairs and found my mother was outside cooking on the grill.  I told her I was sorry, but I couldn't help her because I was feeling very sick.  I crawled back up the stairs into the bathroom.  I felt so guilty about what I had done.  It was unfair that my mother would have to find my body.  I stuck my fingers down my throat and forced myself to throw up.  I saw whole pills in the toilet and figured I would be safe.  I tumbled to my bed.  I was scared to close my eyes.  I kept thinking I may not wake up, but I never thought to ask to go to the hospital.  Isn't that weird?  I felt I would be fine.

I slept for 24 hours.  I came down to eat and I said to my mom, "I guess I was really sick."  She answered me by saying, "Yes, I heard you throwing up, so I thought I would just let you sleep."

I only told Rosa what I had done in a matter of fact way.  "Yeah, I took a whole bunch of pills over the weekend."  She didn't say anything about it and that was all.  I never mentioned it to anyone.

I only write this story because what I did in 9th grade is affecting me now.  Yes, I am depressed at what my circumstances are.  I think how I could take too much insulin or overdose on my pain pills, but I will never do that because of how I felt when I was a teenager.  I don't know if it was a religious experience, but when my mother woke me up, when I was interrupted by the person who loves me so very much, I felt how wrong my choice was.  

I wish I could say that things got better for me after that, but it didn't.  It was a struggle to not be bitter.  I wanted to blame others for my pain, but I discovered that I had to find a way to have my emotions and not harm myself or others.  The things I learned from that experience at 15 are still vital to me right now as I struggle to wake and struggle through the day.  It is unfathomable to know what it is like to be sick every single day, unless you are dealing with it yourself.  I try very hard to take that into consideration, but I have nothing now.  As far as I know I have no future.  I have no idea how to change my situation.  I am stuck in a rut that is only getting worse.  But after my experience I promised myself and I promised God when I was 15 that I would never attempt to harm myself again.  I do not break my promises.  I think they are the most important judge of my character.  No matter how bad it is getting now it is a promise that I will never break.

I do what I can.  I write this post to give hope to myself and others that are so desperate they think dying is the only way to be free.  I learned at a young age that this life is going to be hard.  We can fold under the pressure or struggle every moment to continue.  I shall continue because the pain shows me the joy.  I am very conscious of the kindness offered in a way I didn't understand when I was younger.  Thank you for caring, it helps to warm my heart.

How I feel after Months out of the Hospital

I am sorry that I have not written for the last months.  I just couldn't physically do it and then I couldn't mentally.  I spent hours thinking of what I was going to write while tossing and turning, unable to sleep, but with the light of morning, absolutely exhausted, all the thoughts were erased in the darkness of my fretful sleep. 

That's how it is, my life is so utterly boring and routine with horrible amounts of untold stress and anguish.  It's enough to make a person insane, unless you go numb and so that is what I have done for about the last 5 or so months.  I decided I didn't care about anything or anybody.  I feel like it worked, but I am having a horrible time getting out of that thinking, maybe I never will.

Anyway, I should tell about the next events with my health.   When I last wrote I was still in the middle of  Iv Antibiotics.  I had to get up early and stick to the Iv routine.  I also had to stick to the routine of taking care of my feet and then my daily routine of taking my pills, my shots and to try not to scratch the bandage off my chest.  Oh, and God forbid if I didn't do it.  That was the stress.  Even with a kind nurse coming to visit me, if I admitted to not doing something, normally because the pain was indescribable (that's the anguish) I would be threaten with more doctors, more pain and death.  I heard the threats so much my ears became deaf to it.  I can only do what I can do.  It's not much of an excuse, but it is the truth.

The Antibiotics are very harsh on the system and mine was no exception.  I had the worst side effects.  I wanted to stop the medication, but was afraid.  After talking with the nurse I knew it was a matter of enduring the whole 6 weeks.  By the end, I was calling the Doctor from the bathroom begging to allow the antibiotics to be stopped.  Her nurse said that nothing could be done unless I came in because I wasn't her patient.  I spent the whole time at the office in the bathroom.  Finally the Dr. comes in asks some basic questions and says I should go to the emergency room.  I asked why.  I was retaining water, having a hard time breathing and my blood pressure was up.  All of those things happen when I am swollen with fluid.  With the side effects I was feeling from the antibiotics I was NOT going to spend 4 hours in the ER waiting room only to be told something I already know.  She did not seem to know any of my medical history or any of the chronic problems I deal with.  I find that to be infuriating, but I am better about asking for more information.  Her concerns are everyday life for me.  I asked what she  needed from me and that I am not going to the ER.  She wanted blood and a stool sample.  I told her to call if the tests showed I needed treatment and I would, of course, go to the ER.  She acted like I didn't want any treatment at all.  I just don't want to go to a torture chamber (the emergency room in my mind) unless there is a good reason.  She never called.  I assumed from her lack of communication that my infection was gone.  I still had the nurse coming every week, so I could ask someone for information.

The nurse was coming because of the central line for the liquid medicine going into my chest.  I basically had a small hole in my chest that needed to be kept open.  I had to flush the lines every day even if I didn't use the central line for medicine because the body wants to heal the hole.  The saline would clean the tubes and kept the central line clear.  I did not like looking at the strange deice coming out of my chest and was so grateful the nurse would come every week to clean the wound and put a new bandage on.  I was very worried that they were going to make me do it and I was already overwhelmed with the amount of stuff I had to do. 

I am so, so very grateful that I am able to take care of myself, but it was really difficult.  Being sick is a full time job.  I have to be given instructions.  I need to do it in order and at the proper time.  It took all of my concentration and being ill ruins your ability to concentrate and the motivation to care enough. 

I ended up with the central line for more than 2 months because the surgeon was too busy.  I really wish I knew to make an appointment with her before I was done with the antibiotics.  I called the surgeons office right when the infectious Disease Doctor told me to stop the medicine, but I am told there isn't an appointment for more than 2 weeks.  That was almost beyond my endurance. 

I am awful when the end is near of anything, but especially when it is something that I don't like.  I will do what is required of me, but perceived freedom from other peoples demands is my Achilles heel.(weakness)  I get really grumpy.  In fact, I kicked a nurse out of my home, but she deserved it.  I don't understand her version of care.  I was in a pain that the hydrocodone wasn't touching.  I don't want to take too much of that so I only allow myself one a day.  I couldn't get out of bed and I was unable to do the laundry list of things that are required of me.  Instead of helping, this nurse proceeded to berate me on not taking care of myself.  I flipped and instead of taking the abuse, I fought back.  Nothing I said mattered to her.  I believed the pain was from pre-menstrual stuff.  I had felt the pain before, just not so intensely.  She was going on and on about how I should do this and how I should do that.  I couldn't stand it.  I asked her to finish what she needed and leave.  I also told the home care agency I did not want her to come back.  I mean, yes, I wouldn't do something or I would forget, but I always tried to tell the truth if I did that.  My usual nurse, Dee was so nice about it.  She would admonish me, but in a gentle manner.  I really needed the kindness.

I got into the surgeons office thinking she was going to pull the central line out.  I had asked the nurses and they said that was common.  Not me.  The surgeon remembered what a horrible experience putting it in was and made me go into surgery to take it out. Thankfully I got an anesthesiologist that knew what he was doing.  He put me to sleep before going into the OR and I woke with no side effects and felt well enough to walk out the door some hours later. I am going to ask for him again.  I only have a small scar now and I think that will disappear over time.

My life was filled with Doctors appointments.  I had one, sometimes two a week.  I couldn't handle it, but I knew I had to handle it.  I have to do the regiment to get better.  The problem is I backlash.  I hide inside myself.  I have nothing personal against the Doctors and Nurses, I don't know them, but it is what they represent to me.  Pain.  I am in pain, so I need their help and their help gives me pain.

So how am I doing mentally.  Poor.  I feel like a bag of rotting meat.  I can't do anything.  I watch TV and play computer games.  I still have the open wound on my foot from last Thanksgiving's surgery and my other foot is developing sores.  Thankfully I have medicine to help with both.  Life is going on around me.  People care about things.  They want things for themselves and their children.  I don't.  I am fighting for food.  I am fighting for sleep and I am fighting to live.  And honestly I don't know why.  I know what for.  I made a promise a long time ago that I would not take my own life, but it just seems  dumb to do all of this work  and not have a clear picture.  That is new for me.  I have always had a hope of something more or something was going to happen and it has.  I have met some amazing people that have given me understanding.  I just feel like their is nothing ahead of me.  I am not getting better.  I am worthless as a working member of society, so what does that mean for me.  I worry about my future.  I worry my brain is atrophying from disuse. 

But at least I can say that I do feel better than I did in the beginning of fall, so maybe the Holidays won't be so bad.

Back in the Hospital...Take Two

This is what I call "The Hospital Haircut."  The nurses washed my hair with a no rinse shampoo and left it.  I did not have a brush and by the time I got one I couldn't get it through the tangled mess.  I had to go to the hair salon to get out the 2 weeks of bed knots.  It was bad, very bad.  She had to cut to get the snarls out.  I said go for it I wanted my hair short anyway, I knew I could not take care of it long.

Ugh!  This is crazy.  I have been in the hospital every year that I have lived in Virginia.  I am coming up on 4 years.  That's 4 times in the Hospital for a week or more.

This has ended up a long post, so I have separated the events into sections.

The Symptoms
Their were clues that my body was failing.   I went and looked up the symptoms for Kidney failure and almost everything I was suffering from was on the list.  I called up the kidney doctor's office for an appointment, but that ended up being almost a month away, so I suffered.

One of my clues was another eye bleed.  That seems to happen when my body is failing.  I got myself to Dr. Vogel and had to endure a shot in my eye and the awful laser surgery.  I think the laser is getting worse each time I do it.  This was my third trip to the torture chair.  The pain was so bad I was on the edge of crying even though I had the lens that forces my eye open.  Dr Vogel was amazing and actually sang me a sweet song as he tortured me.  It proved to be enough for me to get through.  I am suppose to go back for a 4 weeks check up and I need it, my eye isn't doing too well, but I just can't make the hour drive to Lynchburg.

Then I was experiencing terrible pain in my belly.  One of the symptoms on the list is the monthly period becoming extremely painful.  I knew I was starting mine and I thought the pain was from that monthly joke.  Plus peeing has become an issue with the kidney failure, so again I thought that symptom was from my kidney's. 

Then the fever came.  I really felt I was going to die.  I have been in severe pain.  I was prepared to lose a limb.  I am facing kidney failure on a daily bases, but this was the first time I thought my life was over.  I was so hot and cold at the same time.  I couldn't control my temperature.  I couldn't eat or drink.  My mother heard me moaning, which I don't remember doing.  She called my Doctor and of course he said to go to the E.R.

I did not want to.  Most of the time it is nothing and you have to wait for hours to hear it is nothing, but my mother wanted me to go.  I could barely move.  She threaten me with calling an ambulance.  I did not think I was that bad, so I took a shower, took an Advil to get my fever down, even though I am not suppose to because of my kidney's and waddled to the car. 

The Emergency Room
I was very sick and didn't know it.  I hurt all over and I could not lie down on the bed because then I could not breath.  It felt excruciating.  Even the simple task of taking my blood pressure with the machine hurt.  I screamed at the nurse to take it off.  The pressure was killing my veins.  My kidney's were falling apart along with my bladder.  Oh, my poor bladder.  It is only meant to hold 400ml, but mine was holding 800ml.  I ended up with a catheter.  That was a great experience. NOT!  So after hours of tests and blood taking, I end up in a back room of the ER with a blood pressure monitor, an IV line and a nice dose of morphine.

After all the test they found out I had an infection.  I had another spot on the right foot and that leg was hot and swollen and red.  The ER Doctor Dr, Durr said I had cellulitis in my leg and had to be admitted to the hospital. (Cellulitis is a common skin infection that happens when bacteria spread through the skin to deeper tissues. Most cases are mild and last several days to a couple of weeks. But cellulitis can sometimes progress to a more serious infection, causing severe illness that affects the whole body (sepsis) or other dangerous problems.)  I had no idea anything was wrong in my right leg because it always swells with the heat of summer.  It is so bad that the skin actually rips from the inside out and I have scabs on the shin of my right leg.  But the Doctors were concerned with a spot on the bottom of my foot in nearly the same place as the left foot. Of course in an area that I can't see and check.  It was the fever that told me something was really wrong.    

It is common in the for my leg to swell in the summer causing scabs.  But the infection is in my Heel!

The Hospital Stay
They admitted me to the hospital that night.  You know how truly sick you are when you are grateful for the nurses care.  I could not move.  I could not make it to the bathroom.  Those working their took care of me.  They cleaned me off when I messed myself.  I was so bad off that I didn't feel embarrassed being naked in front of a stranger.  I knew I was getting better when I did mind them barging in when I was on the toilet.

I was bombarded with Doctor after Doctor coming into my room.  I had the kidney Doctor to stabilize my kidney's, a foot Doctor to look at the spot on my right foot, the Doctor who admitted me and his assistance, who were in charge of my over all care.  I had a bladder doctor because of my problem in the ER, an infectious disease Doctor because of the fever which meant infection and a surgeon.  I made sure to know almost every Doctor's name and which Doctor decided on which care.  It is so hard when you are sick to concentrate on those details, but I was alone.  I am almost always alone and I am the one who has to tell each Doctor what the others are doing.  It is nuts.

The foot Dr. looked at me and said that it was a blister and their shouldn't be any problems with the foot.  The infectious Disease Dr, asked for a bone scan.  I thought it was a little much since I had a bone scan with Dr. Bajwa  in Dec.  Well the scan came back positive.  I have a bone infection in the heel of my right foot.  I was shocked.  A bone infection!  What does that mean for me?  Well, It meant 6 weeks of strong IV antibiotics.  I protested. 

The Doctor's were talking about me coming back to the hospital each day, which I can not stand doing.  It was so hard when Bajwa said I had to do it from December through February.  I just don't want to leave the house because I have terrible tummy problems, my body reacts to the trauma of getting into the car by swelling up.  I can do it once a week, but not everyday.  Plus the hospital furniture is so uncomfortable.  The very worst is getting stuck for the IV.  I am really difficult to find a vein on.  The majority of nurses would have to try 2 or 3 times to get the needle in.  I would go home looking like a pin cushion I had so many needle marks on me. I protested.

There had to be another option.  I mention the PICC line (A PICC line is, by definition and per its acronym, a peripherally inserted central catheter. It is long, slender, small, flexible tube that is inserted into a peripheral vein, typically in the upper arm, and advanced until the catheter tip terminates in a large vein in the chest near the heart to obtain intravenous access. It is similar to other central lines as it terminates into a large vessel near the heart. However, unlike other central lines, its point of entry is from the periphery of the body the extremities. And typically the upper arm is the area of choice.) The nurses had suggested it when I was getting the IV antibiotics under Bajwa, but he had said no to that option.  Now, they were seeing if my insurance would cover home nursing, they would be in charge of the IV antibiotic being administered to me.

Meanwhile, Back at Home
I was alone on this particular visit to the hospital because my poor, poor mother was and still is suffering with Shingles. (Shingles is a viral infection that causes a painful rash. Although shingles can occur anywhere on your body, it most often appears as a single stripe of blisters that wraps around either the left or the right side of your torso. Shingles is caused by the varicella-zoster virus — the same virus that causes chickenpox. After you've had chickenpox, the virus lies inactive in nerve tissue near your spinal cord and brain. Years later, the virus may reactivate as shingles as your immune system weakens.)  She figured out what the pain was after the rash appeared.  I was feeling Okay at this point and feeling terrible for her.  She went to the Doctor and got the treatment, but the diabetes made it hard to beat and she had to get another round of meds.  She was suffering from it when she convinced me to go to the ER. 

On my 2 day in the hospital my Mother calls me to say that her right side was drooping.  The Doctor said it was Bell's Palsy (Bell's palsy is a paralysis or weakness of the muscles on one side of your face. Damage to the facial nerve that controls muscles on one side of the face causes that side of your face to droop . The nerve damage may also affect your sense of taste and how you make tears and saliva. This condition comes on suddenly, often overnight, and usually gets better on its own within a few weeks.) brought on by the shingles.   It is bad.  I know Mom is suffering.  She will sleep for hours in the day just to escape the pain.  The bell's palsy makes it hard for Mom to talk on the phone and she loves to do that.  It is getting better, but it is a slow process.  I forgave Mom for not being at the hospital.  I think she stresses herself out when I am in the hospital and each time she has managed to get herself sick.

The Surgery
You may be wondering why a surgeon.  I still have my leg for now.  I had a Groshong Catheter put in. (A Groshong® catheter is a small hollow tube that is inserted into a large vein just below the collarbone. This type of catheter may used for long-term intravenous therapy and infusions. This intravenous catheter can also be used for blood draws.)  The tubing has to be placed into a large vein and so that requires an Orperating Room and a surgeon. 

This surgery was one of the worst experiences of my life.  And things have been on the edge of excruciating.

First I had to stay in the hospital an extra day because the operating rooms were full.  I just can't stand the hospital when I am well.  I am like a kid waiting to go to Disneyland, when I hear I can get out.  I get very impatient.  So the day of the surgery comes and it was explained to me that I would be put into a state know as Twilight sleep.  I wouldn't be fully under, but I wouldn't feel anything.

I don't worry about the surgeries I have had because events are outside of my control, but this was a complete "eff up" in my opinion.  The Twilight sleep did not work on me.  I realize now that it only paralyed me.  The whole surgery was like a nightmare scene in a horror movie.  I heard and felt everything.  I felt the surgeons body resting on my right side.  I felt the towels put on my face, (I thought it was a bag),  I felt the needle going into my chest and I heard the anesthesiologist ask if I needed more medicine in his very broken English.  I couldn't answer back, not only because of the towels covering my face, but because I was unable to move.  I tried desperately to tell him I needed more medicine.

I told myself I can endure this.  I only have to do it once.  I can endure this and it will be done.  Finally they finished.  I was wheeled out, but before I left they needed to take an x-ray to be sure it was in the right place.  I was roughly lifted up so a plate could be put under my back.  That's when I heard the tubing had been ripped out.

Enough of the drug had passed that I could speak.  They asked for someone who could give permission for me to go back in the OR.  I was  too drugged up for my permission to work..  No one was at the hospital because it was early, but I told them to call my Dad's cell.  I gave them a number. but realized I a number off.  I of course had his number in my cell up in my room.  The time was up.  The OR were taken and I would have to wait until later that day.  If I could cry I would.  I was taken back to my room the surgery unsuccessful.  I lay huddled in my bed, very angry and not very nice to the nurses.

My Dad said he got a call from everyone.  The nurse said the device ripped out.  He could not understand the anesthesiologist at all and the surgeon explained that she "didn't like the placement and thought it would leak causing problems"  She used that line on me when I saw her again that afternoon to try putting it in for a second time.  I knew it had ripped out, but I didn't say anything.

The second time the anesthesiologist was the same woman who had taken care of me in December.  I asked for what she had done then and she  said that we couldn't because the mask used would  block the movement of my neck.  My choice was Twilight sleep or full sleep.  They wanted to know NOW.  I felt pressured to make a choice and neither was very good.  I can't wake from full sleep.  The last full sleep surgery I vomited and had to stay the night in the hospital.  Meanwhile the IV in my hand failed causing my hand to swell 3x's its size because no one caught it.  Proving why I need the central line.  I thought of what I had endured that morning and knew I couldn't do it again.  I pictured myself screaming in the middle of the surgery.  I chose full sleep.

Trying to wake from the full sleep was torturous because I didn't want to feel the pain.  My whole body hurt for days after.  I did not know that the slice in my neck was from the mistake.  I thought it was the tip of the tubing.  It was put into the center of my chest the second time.  I thought she was trying to put it in my neck.  I like my chest better, much easier to hide.  The surgeon also put stitches into my chest to hold the central line in place and another stitch for the mistake.  My chest and neck hurt beyond what I can describe.  You know when you feel pain and you think it is the worst you have ever felt, well add to that pain and add some more and maybe a little more.  I couldn't talk because of the what the tube in my throat during surgery had done to me and I wasn't able to make any spit for 2 days.  My parents came to visit and they said my hands were so swollen it looked like I had boxing gloves on.  Earlier that day. but after the surgery a nurse came in to give me the antibiotic in my new line started the thumb of my other hand for the surgery.  She hooked it up, started it and I began screaming even in my drugged up state.  It felt like she was putting liquid fire into my hand.  She asked what was wrong.  I could have killed her right then.  I couldn't form words at that moment.  The only thing she had done was start the meds.  Why couldn't she figure out that was the problem?   Finally I cried out.  The IV feels like fire.  She had to give me my meds.  I pleaded not to be stuck again.  Guess what?  She used the Groshong  only hours after it was put in.  I felt the effect of those needle sticks for weeks after, especially the thumb one.  The strip of muscle in my arm would feel pain each time I moved it.  I even had to hold my arm at my waist because when I let it drop the pressure made it feel as if it would explode.  I was silent about the pain.  I don't like to complain.

My Dad went to get me some water, since I could not stand the hospital water due to the meds I was getting.  Mom and I cried together.  It was too much for me.  That day had pushed me over my limit.  I had to stop though because it hurt to cry.  You use the muscles in your chest and I had just had that area cut into twice.  I knew the full sleep would kept me in the hospital another day.

I was released the next day with all kinds of orders and medicine and Doctors appointments.  I was willing to endure all of it if I could go home.  I knew I was going to have to take care of myself because of my mother's illness.  After 8 days in the hospital they let me go.  I felt like a prisoner freed from jail.

The mark doesn't look to bad, but it feels huge.  It grosses me out because it feels like something is in it.  I think this is where the tub was originally going to go.

The Treatment
I have to say up front that despite the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad surgery to get the central line.  The device itself has been a dream.  I am so grateful that I can sit in my recliner and go to sleep or play on the kindle and listen to music in the comfort of my own home.  The medical buildings are cold and white.  I do not feel comfortable in them especially with my history.

This is the Groshong or I hear everyone call it a central line.  I Love It!   My life is so much easier now.  It ended up in my chest instead of my neck.

I give myself the antibiotics.  In the picture you see two tubes hanging down.  One is to administer the medicine through and the other is to draw blood.  I have to get up at 9 am everyday to take out the balls of medicine, so they can warm up to room temp.  Then I have to start the process at 10 o'clock.  It isn't important for the Rocephin that I take everyday, but a big deal is made about the Vancomycin.  That antibiotic can be harsh to the system.  When I was taking it with Bajwa it managed to tank my kidney's.  I warned the Doctor's of that event and so they have been taking that part of the treatment slower.  I take the Vanc every 3 days.  I feel fatigued and under the weather when I give myself that drug, so I try to plan for it.

 This is everything I use.  Cloth wipes to clean my hands.  Plungers full of saline to flush or clean the line of lingering medicine.  I now have a blue one full of heparin for the blood line.  I have alcohol wipes to wash each connect thoroughly.  And the balls are my medicine.  I have to keep a big bag of the supplies, that is the bag next to my ottoman.  Great present from my Dad.  Bet he didn't guess that it would be used for this!

In this next picture is the set of tools for the treatment I give myself.  I have to flush the tube before and after I put the antibiotic in.  The medicine is in these amazing balloon like balls.  I just hook it up to my line, undo the clamp and the pressure pushes the liquid out.  It doesn't matter if it is hung up or laying on my lap.  The Rocephin takes a half hour and the Vancomycin runs about two hours. 

A nurse comes over once a week and takes blood out of the other tube to test my kidney function and other levels, its called a trough.  I was doing what the nurses told me to do and they still had trouble getting blood out of the tube.  I tried not to freak because that was one of the main reasons for putting in the central line.  It turns out that the body wants to close the hole the tube is making and it will form a membrane.  I now have to flush using a blue plunger with Heparin, a blood thinner, in it.  Thankfully that works and the nurse can get blood easily now.

Along with the antibiotics, I have to take care of my feet.  I followed up with a pediatrics, a foot doctor.  I really liked him, but he doesn't take my insurance.  That visit alone cost me over $200.  He looked at my right foot and said that it was a blister and it would heal.  We had caught it in time.  Then he looked at my left foot, the one with the scab.  He actually took the scab off, which hurt quite a bit, and said that this could become a problem again.  The scab gets a callus that pushes the hard skin back into the flesh causing it to go bad.  He said it didn't look to good.  Because of that visit  I have a daily foot regime.  I have to spray my right foot with disinfectant and rub on a protective, thick kind of ointment.  Turn around in the bed because that is the only place I can bend my knee and reach my foot.  Then spray my left foot to work off the bandage.  Take that off, get my new bandage ready with medicine I slather on with a tongue depressor and place it over my wound.

I still have an appointment with the bladder Doctor and the infectious disease Doctor.  But I did meet with Kidney Doctor.  He isn't giving me any more meds, thank goodness, but since I am in stage 4 failure I was introduce to the nurse who knows about treatment options.  They mentioned doing dialysis at home.  I like that idea because I was watching the dialysis patient in the waiting room and I did not want to be one of them.

I am only 38 when I write to you about this.  Others my age are dealing with their teenage children  They have problems and wants that I don't understand.  I know there are people out there dealing with Cancer or some other awful disease.  When I was sitting in the Emergency room for hours after coming home because my nurse though I had the symptoms of a blood clot in my leg and wanted me to go to the ER. I went even though I did not think that was true, but I went anyway  because I might be wrong and I did not want to lose my leg when I could prevent it.,  I sat by myself for 4 hours and I pondered on the question.  Am I brave?

I do no think it is bravery I am exhibiting.  I think it is survival.  Everything out of a Doctor's mouth has been bad news.  Do I blame the Doctor?  Some I don't believe, but in the hospital I know that everyone is working to get me better, even if that can't be done.  Do I blame God?  Why?  I have come to realize that God is not a magical genie in lamp who will grant my every wish.  He is a comforter.  I do not blame Him for my sickness.  The sickness is my trial.  I do not have a family to teach me.  I have this mess, which I am freely telling you I do not know how to use this to make me better.  No, I am in survival mode and I do it for my family.  I am not afraid of death.  Even if it is just darkness at least it will be rest. But, I do not believe it will be darkness.  I believe with all my heart that I will see my family that has passed on and most importantly I will see Jesus Christ. I will hug Him and tell Him how much I love Him. I am trying to push my death back as much as I can for my family and especially my parents, since I live with them.  I know my mother would enter a deep depression.  She has been depressed with me here and I don't blame her.  The sickness she has is physically very painful.

So, I hear the Doctor's orders and I hear what I have to do and it doesn't matter how much I hate it.  It doesn't matter how tired I am, I still do it.
That is not bravery.  That is survival

I am One of the Forgotten

I feel that I am one of the Forgotten, a lonely lost boy.

But it's Okay.  I find it is a mutual dislike.

I never found my place in the world.  I never found the group I belong too and now as sick as I am I don't have the energy that is needed to interact with others.  I don't care.  I really don't care.  And I have no idea how to fix my attitude.  I realize that the deep loneliness I feel is my fault, but I tried, I really, really did.

I grew up fat and ugly.  I find it doesn't matter much any more, but when we were young it was very important how you looked.  I grew up seeing the look of disgust on a persons face when I was told to sit next to someone by the teacher.  I didn't blame that person for their reaction, I looked in the mirror, I understood what that person was being subjected too.  I felt bad for them.

I am very conscious of negative body language.  I shrink from it.  I avoid that person because I feel that I am the cause of their discomfort and I feel it come at me in waves and I don't like it.  I have avoided people as much as I could in social situations.  I did not learn the positive signs from others.  I can not tell if a person likes me.  I am sure there were many missed opportunities.

Band was the first group I fell into.  The Jr. High band teacher found me because my brother had been in band and asked me to join.  I knew how to read music from piano lessons and I found myself in beginning band and concert band playing the clarinet. Then I heard the High School needed help with players for graduation and I got on the High School teacher radar.  In eight grade I found myself getting up at 6 o'clock to practice on the field for Marching band, then driving back to the Jr. High for school and concert band then driving back to the High School for another practice til 6 o'clock at night.  I got a great education in music, but I realized that I was not a musician.  I could not relate to anyone in band.  I was a very big girl at this time and I seemed older then I really was, plus with the influx of hormones the hair on my face started.   I did not know how to deal with any of the personal things that were happen to me.  I tried ripping the hair out with wax, but it was so tough it stayed.  I used Nair to chemically remove the hair, but that irritated my skin.  I had hair on my face and I was a big girl and every day I walked into band the trumpet players would say under their breaths. "Sasquatch!"  I wish so much that it didn't bother me.  I wish so much that the name just rolled off my back like water on a  duck's back, but it didn't.  I knew they were going to say it to me everyday, when ever the group saw me and yet it was still a surprise. My face blushing and a bright feeling exploding in my body every time "Sasquatch" was whispered to me in the middle of practice.  I felt terrible and alone.  I was different and it was easy to pick on me.  I shrank into myself.  I rather be alone than stand up to the abuse.  I didn't want to be reminded of how I looked to other people.  I imagined running away to a freak show, they always could use a bearded lady.  I just couldn't deal with that and deal with the medical problems that were affecting my every day life, so the people got pushed to the side.  Everyone, mean and kind, it didn't matter.  I was a member of band, but I was not apart of the group. 

I left band and turned to theatre.  Now I had real hope for acting.  I found that there are multiple levels in Drama.  There are the cocky, beautiful leading roles, something that I learned pretty quickly hat I was not going to get, but then there is everybody else.  More than beautiful people are needed to put a play together.  I could be an actor. 

The drama group was struggling when I found it and nobody was trying out for the plays.  That is why I got a speaking role, a man's part because they just didn't have the people.  I threw myself into every part of making a production.  I learned how to set up the lights and the filters.  I learned how to operated the light board.  I brought my father in, who works for the movie and TV industry painting sets, with his help we came up with how to do complicated sets.  I picked out the costumes we rented.  And put a lot of work into upping the level of the productions we produced.   In my senior year I had built up the program so much that we were able to do our first musical in 10 years.  We had an over abundance of people trying out for parts.  I had the choir involved and the band involved.  It was quite a triumph from when I first started the program and there was only one boy in the class.  I loved it.  I loved being on stage.  I loved getting to know the people.  I found in theatre that everyone involved was screwed up in some way.  I kind of fit in that world, but it is fleeting.  The love and comradery only lasts as long as the play.  It kills me every time.  People I thought were my friend, some one I could see outside of the play were gone.  I also didn't fit in that world because I was LDS (Mormon).  I did not fill the hole in my soul with alcohol, drugs and sex, like the individuals in the production.

My Senior year I went to the Drama awards ceremony and was so heart broken when I received nothing.  Do you get that?  NOTHING.  I had given so much to the program and I was forgotten once again.  I did not go to award ceremonies very often because I was usually forgotten.  I went to the teacher and asked what had happened.  Why was I dissed like that?  She apologized and had me write down everything I had done for the program.  The list filled 2 pages front and back.  It turned out that I had lettered 4 times over in Drama in only two years.  But it didn't matter because nobody knew.  I got the medals in the mail.  All my work forgotten again.  It happens all the time.  It is good that I do things because I like it and not for the recognition, but since people don't seemed to remember me it has hurt my career.  I have found that it really is who you know that gets you a job in this world. 

I thought I would find my place at church, but even there I found myself forgotten.  People knew who I was, but not much interaction with others on the level I wanted.  I have had to learn that people are at different levels of understanding.  I had a profound, perception changing set of events happen to me on my mission and after.  Nobody showed me how to have a relationship with Jesus Christ I figured it out on my own using the teaching of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.  I was lucky to have an amazing soundboard in my friend Shannon.  Oh, I thank Heavenly Father for letting her come into my life.

I came home from my mission dying under the weight of what I had learned and seen and done.  I wanted so badly to tell others what I had experienced, but it sounded crazy.  I knew that Shannon had been on a mission before me and had been very honest about her experiences, some were not that great.  I opened up to her and to have someone actually follow me down the rabbit hole to the deeper levels where I am comfortable was beyond amazing.  I did not know how to speak appropriately in social situations.  She was brave enough to tell me that what I had said as an observation, not meaning any malice actually hurt her feelings.  I knew that I had a problem with offending others and during this time Shannon helped me understand what I was doing.  I found it took so much work and was boring to stay in the shallow zone when talking to someone.  But I learned how important that is if you want to be apart of a group.  I was more successful navigating the workplace which happened to be in the Theatre

She let me apart of her life.  I was there when she became pregnant with her second child.  She told me the truth of what it was like to carry a child and give birth.  I was there with the little baby and saw what it took to take care of that little thing.  It is through her that I learn of the sacrifice that women give to their children.  I admire any woman who is able to stay home.  I saw through her eyes how much work it was to have anything to do with a person outside of your little family.  I saw that people were not forgetting me on purpose.  They were just busy with their own live, which made the situation worse.  I am single without children and right now I don't fit in with my peers once again.

Shannon let me come over after spending the week in college earning my Fashion Design degree.   I found myself apart of the homosexual group and I was trying to figure out why I kind of fit with them.  Shannon was there to hear my question and ponderings.  She was there to hear me, which I am so gratefully for.  I felt forgotten by everybody else.  My peers were busy with their babies.  I am outside the box.  I am a square peg that is being pushed into a round hole.   A person can only stand me for so long and unfortunately that is true vice versa. 

I don't mind being forgotten.  I figured out a while ago that I like to swim at the very bottom of the pool.  I like to be deep and think of the greater meanings of life.  I like to question and I like to understand.  Most of the people I have meet like to live in the shallow end.  They like the basics in life, find success in having a big house and a new car.  I am bored by those people.

And then the people that have trauma, who are fighting against the social norm by body modification or are doing destructive behaviors like drugs or sleeping around.  They tell me they are happy and I want to see if they really are, but I find that they are lying to themselves.  I really do feel for them and want to help, but it never seems to work out that way.  Instead of them wanting to be better they want me to start the drugs.  When that happens I have to distance myself.

With this move to Virginia I really am forgotten.  I didn't want to move here.  When I visited my parents I knew that moving would be the death of me. I put it off as long as I could, but my Kidney Doctor at the time was honest and told me I wouldn't get better.  And I was doing fantastic compared to now.  I remember in Simi a woman asked if I was excited to move back with my parents and I flat out replied no.  I am a city girl.  I am used to large amounts of people.  I am used to civilization.  We are lucky to have a Wal-Mart in town, other people have to drive for miles to get grocery's.  I miss Baja Fresh and Pick up Stick.  I miss getting a Red's salad delivered.  Nothing is delivered here.  It is awful to be starving and having to depend on your parents to get food..  I never ate McDonald's in California, but here it is the best quality fast food.,  I am not used to this.  I am used to having the best meat and produce from Costco up the block.  To find anything here you have to drive an hour.  An hour!  I physically can't do that, so I feel trapped.  I feel like I am in a cage. 

It was hard enough being different when I had a bunch of people to pick through.  I am too sick to leave the house and very few people know that I exist.  I feel like all the skills I learned with Shannon are being lost.  Why would I keep them when some days I don't talk to anyone.  Nothing leaves my throat.  I am to blame for being forgotten.  Not only can I not physically go to anyone's house.  I can not talk on the phone.  I refuse to answer it.  It is bad.  I don't know if it has become a phobia.  I just have nothing to talk about.  Some days I am lucky if the pain will let me get out of bed. I don't want to talk about my sickness.  I don't want to talk about the Doctor visits, but that is all that happens to me.  I am not defined by my pain, but that is all I have at times.

I want this phase of my life over.  I don't know what will happen next.  What is interesting for me is that of course it wasn't going to change.  I laugh at myself now thinking that I would find a friend to stay with me.  I learned in childhood how to entertain myself.  I know how to be alone.  I don't have any interest in being apart of a group.  I see myself living in a nursing home because I can't take care of myself.  I guess when I am forgotten sitting in my room I will be used to it.

My Dream- The Devil's in the Details

I am in a funk.  I don't want to sew.  I don't want to create. I just feel like I can only watch TV for hours on end.  Ever since my foot went bad.  It was so much energy to do what was necessary after a chuck was taken out of my foot leaving a hole.  Why are the sick asked to get in a car and travel to the Doctor?  I was getting an antibiotic every other day to stop the infection and I knew for me the journey to the hospital would be over (at least I hoped), but I was amazed at those getting chemo in the chairs next to me.  I know from family members that they were getting poison and it made them feel awful.  I kept saying to myself that it could always be worse.  I could have lost my foot and I was determine to do what was necessary to kept it, but I was breaking under the list of demands.

I have been able to climb out of my funks in the past, but I have no desire to change how I feel.  I used to figured there was hope to cling to.  I would meet someone that I could trust.  I would find a job that I loved or even felt comfortable in.  I had hope in these things, but there is no hope anymore, only harsh, cold reality.  I haven't wanted to write on this form either because  if I try to write a new post off of the top of my head it will be negative.  I just don't need that in print.

As for my foot it is still healing.  I can't see it. but the chunk that was missing has filled in.  I still have an open wound, but it only needs a Band-Aid to cover it.  This all started the week before Thanksgiving, now we are going into May and I see no end in sight.

So I thought I would write another dream.  I actually have been going through a dream journal that I started in 1997.  I wish I was a better writer, but the dreams are filled with such feeling and detail.  It amazes me because I haven't ever studied Martial Arts and yet I am an expert.  No person can fly, but in my dreams I could.  I endured the fear of falling off a building and the vertigo that goes with it.  I would startle awake grabbing the bed to stop the falling in my head.  I haven't ever had a child and yet I had a dream that I was pregnant and felt the baby move.  How?  Where is that coming from?  And soon after I had a tiny baby girl in a baby carrier, knowing that I had named her blueberry.  So very strange.  I had a hard time choosing a dream, so I decided to write this one because it happened while I was living here in Virginia.  I haven't written it down and it has been more than a year, but I still remember the details.  I also decide on this dream because it was so much like an episode of the "Twilight Zone", complete with an ending, so many of my dreams are scenes in the middle of the story.  They become complicated to write.  Know that I wrote this one so it would be a nice story.  This was a dream and not so nicely structured.

The Devil's in the Details

I was flying with my family on a much anticipated vacation.  We were able to get a deal on the plane tickets, so everyone in the family was there including wives and children of my brothers.  We were able to get such a good price on the plane tickets because it was a trial of a new set of planes from a new airline.  We got the discount if we filled out a survey on how the trip compared to others. 

The plane was amazing.  Instead of the small seats and no leg room the cabin had a section of desks that you could get up and use with every kind of electrical device at one's fingertips.  I remember clearly my nephew playing the Nintendo DS and my niece enjoying her favorite cartoons.  I was very impressed with the service and as I laid back in a comfy chair I thought all was right with the world and how lucky we were to find this deal.

Suddenly all the electrical devices shut off at the same time.  Everyone moaned and my nephew was very upset starting to cry.  The flight attendants came in with pens and clipboards.  One of them stood in front of the group and explained that in order to continue the electrical services for the phones, computers and other devices they were going to need every person to sign a contract, even the children.  The airline needed to be the provider in the sky.  I heard a bunch of mumbling as people complained under there breath, but no one protested.

I passed the clipboard on to the others, but did not sign myself.  I knew I could handle the hours long trip with the full backpack under my seat.  I find airlines are lacking in food, water and entertainment, so I brought my own.  (Before the ban on liquids I brought huge bottles of water on board, after the ban I had to buy multiple bottles in the airport.  I figured it was a huge scam since the water was three times the price, but I digress.)  I wasn't interested in anything the expensive airline put out.  I figure if I signed the contract I would find myself with a huge bill later.

So everyone signs, even my family members.  I relax into my seat again when a very pretty flight attendant walks over to talk to me.
"Excuse me, Miss"  I look in her eyes to acknowledge I hear her. "You didn't sign the contract."
"No, I don't plan on using any of the technology from the airline."
"Are you sure?  There are movies and music.  How about some exciting video games?  They help to make the time fly by.  You can't do any of those thing if you don't sign the contract."
"No, I'm not interested.  I don't need to sign the contract."  I was getting annoyed.  I had already said no multiple times.
"Please, my boss will be angry with me."  She had a funny look in her eyes so I said back with a sigh.
"Get the contract."
I planned on reading it to see what I was agreeing to.  She handed it to me and it was that horrible contract jargon.  I slogged through it finding nothing wrong until the bottom.  The print was so small I couldn't read what it said.  The flight attendant came back to see if I had signed it yet, but I had a question for her.
"I need a copy of this section made bigger, so I can read it."
Then to my surprise she blanched to a sickly white.
"I...I can't do that."
"Then I'm not signing." She looked on the verge of despair.  "Okay, I'll get you what you want."  This time I watched as she went to the front of the plane and drew that curtain that I always see blocking out first class.

I got up to follow her.  Why did she want me to sign the contract so much?   I peek through the curtain and was caught off guard to see rows and rows of filing cabinets instead of the usual storage for drinks and food.  All of the flight attendants were searching through the filing cabinets.  I assumed they were looking for another copy of the contract.
"Tell her we can't find another copy", said another flight attendant.   "She needs to sign.  She is the only one that hasn't"
"Really," I thought to myself.  "The only person on this whole plane that hasn't signed that piece of paper.  That is quite amazing."
I backed off down the aisle since I knew she was coming back, when I was boxed in from he other side by another flight attendant.  I felt a ridiculous twinge of fear.
"Listen, just sign."  The new flight attendant commented with a bit of an order.
"I will when you show me the whole contract."  She step into me and grabbed my wrist.  The pain shot through my arm and I fell to my knees.  I almost missed her threat the pain was taking all my attention.  This wasn't happening, not over a phone contract, surely not over a phone contract.  The other passengers seemed frozen.  They were not helping me.  My own family wasn't helping me.  The flight attendant let go and I stood rubbing my arm.  She had backed away, but as I looked around all the flight attendants were standing in the aisles looking at me.  I heard a male voice behind me and turn around.  He was dressed in a pilot's uniform.  "Finally", I thought, "Someone to bring some order to this mad house."

He spoke, "She wants to know.  She wants to know the truth."  He handed me the full contract and I read the part that was tiny with a growing horror.
"No." I whispered at first. "No. No, not for some cell phone service.  You can't do this!", I scream. 
"I can."  He said with a snarl. "I can and I did."
"I won't sign!"  I yell in defiance.  If I don't sign then he can't take the plane. He can't take my family.

If I don't sign he can't take the plane to hell.  It is all or nothing.

"We have our ways to get what we want.  We always get what we want."   And he pointed at the flight attendants who morphed into minions of hell, red with wings and cloven hooves.  I feel an overwhelming revulsion.  Then the man behind me begins to laugh.  It chills me to the marrow of my bones and I turn to see the devil himself standing before me.

"They sold their souls all to be without technology for a couple of hours." I stammer to myself as I wonder how long I will last.

Boys: I don't understand




The beginning of my interaction with males on a daily basis in a good way.  Before this time it was a world of verbal abuse. 

I am feeling better, so I thought I would turn back to the book I have been writing off and on for a couple of years.  I think I got it to a point where I can send it to publishers.  The thing is I was having trouble figuring out what category it belonged in.  I really thought when I wrote it that it could be for the adult crowd.  I asked some other people and they all compared it to the same Young Adult books.  I decided to reread it and could barely get past the first chapters because I was so shocked at how it is the whining of a teenage novel.  I realized once again that I know nothing about the realities of courtship.  I don't like the game you have to play, but it seems to work.  I still have the views of a teenager, getting my information from books like "Twilight", which I have realized is not the best source.  That is the problem I have now.  Those over-acted movies.  Those whining teenage books are lost to me.  I can't read or watch them anymore and I thought I was grown-up, when in fact I was just giving up.

I have had a very different interaction with the male sex then I think most girls have.  I never felt sexy.  I wasn't the one you would notice in a crowded room and I felt it very strongly, of course people were actively telling me how ugly I was every day, so what they said stuck.  I kind of  embraced being ugly, in as much as a young adult can, I worked really hard to develop other qualities that someone would like.  I tried to be accomplished in a variety of subjects so I could talk to anyone.  I tried to develop my talents even though I didn't feel much support in that area.  The point is that I figured out that no man would approach me because he wanted to have sex with me.  I have no sex appeal, but I seem to have something else that I am a safe girl to talk too.  It seems to happen privately behind closed doors in a one-on-one situation.  I am usually able to get the guy talking.  You know it is amazing what peer pressure and group dynamics do to a person.  I hate what sheep people can be.  I guard against that because of what I saw.  Males who would rather be caught dead then caught talking to me would opened up in a private environment.  Well, as long as I was like a priest and kept their confessions silent, which I did.  Who did I have to tell? 

My first real hush-hush one-on-one happened with the neighbor boy.  We went to the same schools.  We were the same age, but really we did not hang out with the same crowd.  Last week I talked about the  constant verbal abuse and how it kept me indoors from the end of school.  Well, I began riding my bike at night.  It was a large beach crusier, black with gold rims.  We lived on a cull-de-sax, so I would ride around it in a circle.  Up one sidewalk follow the curve down the other sidewalk.  One night I heard someone yell and since it was so late I figured it was for me.  To my surprise it was the neighbor boy, Josh(all names has been changed)  He wanted a ride on the handlebars of my bike.  For me it was quite a joyful ride and memory that I keep close because it happened when I was the loneliest.  He would see me out in the night through his window and come and join me.  We hung out with the kids on the block and I interacted with Josh for years.  I knew that school and in public were not the place to say, "Hi".  I didn't care about that with Josh, it was a very dog eat dog world and he gave me the most wonderful conversations.  It was when he got his car, a red Ford Mustang.  He was worried about girls and family and everything under the stars.  We spent hours in that car talking.  I was dumbfounded by what my father said when he caught me sneaking into the house one night.  It was really late and I knew I needed to get home, but Josh and I just couldn't stop talking.  My Dad asked if there was going to be a problem, very seriously and I almost burst out laughing.  Here my Dad was concern about the horrible things boys do to girls (from their point of view) and I knew that Josh had no intention of doing any such thing.  I guess he helped groomed me to be a confidant.  The wise friend that knows everything. The problem was that I didn't have any friends, not the type that I would confide in.  I think I was pretty good to talk to considering I had none of the "normal" events of childhood. (I admit.  My knowledge of normal is from TV, movies and books.  I am sure no one had those experiences.)  It was a terrible existence and if my parents had let me homeschool, I would have in a heartbeat.  The thing is because I went to school I found my love of Theatre.  Another place I have been heartbroken by boys more than once

Being apart of the drama department gave me acceptance, even if it was fake most of the time.  I wasn't on top of the totum pole with the main actors.  I was usually on the bottom as a townsperson.  I know.  How many parts are written for a young fat girl.  No one wants to see that.  I didn't mind being on the bottom rung, but we all have bigger dreams.  I would get as close as I could to the group of people that would accept me at first glance, but because of the rehearsals and so much waiting, you tend to get to know everyone and they were from all walks of life..  I was apart of a group that had a purpose.  All of these people were working to make a beautiful product and I wanted that to, so we got close.

That is the thing about me, if there is a purpose, a goal to reach then I will be an extrovert.  I will get to know the people involved.  Boss them around if it is my job.  We will create the Masterpiece.  I think, Wow, I made friends.  These people like me.  But in the end everyone leaves.  Is that just the course of life?  Is everyone alone and floating in a strange universe juice?  I mean what I say.  I become attached to people, but they disappear.  Doesn't anyone else care enough to not let it happen?  I would try with people.  Call them on the phone, but they always started to avoid me and I won't be a burden.  I take a hint and after I call so many times and don't get a return call then I know the almost friendship is over.

It was during the after party of my college play that I was introduced to the new "adult" way of having a party.  Outside were the potheads sucking down the smoke.  We were talking before they started and then out came the pot.  Of course, they wanted me to join in, but I declined and moved into the living room where a bright blue drink was going around.  It must have been powerful because everyone drinking it was three sheets to the wind, I mean falling on the floor drunk.  I wasn't there for the vomiting.  I moved to the front room to get some air.  A couple of people were in there, apparently they had also had the blue drink and I saw that Kurt had needed to lie down.  The other was a girl I did not have any emotions for one way or the other.  I was/am so naïve.  I didn't know about beer-goggles when I went to this party.  I had talked and worked with these people for months.  I did not know that alcohol makes me really attractive.  I mean how confusing.  Kurt was beautiful in a model kind of way.  He had the kind of face you see in fashion magazines.  I talked with him, but since he was very good-looking it was normal for another girl to squeeze me out.  I didn't fight.  So at this party I guess he was feeling sick and this other girl was taking care of him when I came in.  I swear I didn't have any ulterior motive.  I was way too dumb for that.  I just knew a trick for headaches because I got them all the time.  I asked if he wanted me to try it on him.  It is a massage technique which means A) Our bodies were close and B) I was touching him.  Something happens when you invade someone's personal space, at least it does to me, that is one of the reasons for my standoffishness. He told me I was beautiful.  Luckily, I didn't believe it because of his drunkenness, I was cynical enough by that time.  He gave me a sloppy attempt at a kiss.  What do I do?  He is drunk.  We barely know each other and here he is trying to kiss me and telling me how beautiful I am.  It was so out of place.  I laid him back on the couch and went home.  Can you imagine the flack and utter horror he would have felt having a fatty on his list?  The thing is when men are drunk, someone I met very little, they ask me to sleep with them.  And here I am in everyday life unnoticed by the opposite sex.

This is just two examples of my confusing and frustrating interaction with men.  I have a lot more stories.  The reason all of this came up is because I have always had a male to have deep conversations with.  He was close to my age.  He was apart of my church.(except for the neighbor boy) And for reasons I don't understand he let me into his life enough that we could have deep conversations that fed a part of my inner spirit.  I don't have the younger male voice in my life anymore and I am starving for it.

I think like an extinct bird the guys that fill my list are gone.  They all are married.  I watched as all the young men I knew chose these Barbie dolls to marry.  Girls that did not seem to know anything about hardship.  Girls who hung on the man's shoulder afraid to mingle at a reunion.  I couldn't stand it.  The prettiest girls with no life experience were being picked while strong capable woman were being left behind.  I became an old maid in my church by 27, the only men available had been divorced.  I tried to be pretty at the end of those years.  I dressed in beautiful clothes that fit my body and hide my flaws.  I got contacts.  Had my hair professionally done.  I really was beautiful, but I was still fat and I watched as the last of the women got married.  There are still some single women I know even in my middle-age and I guess there always will be.

The thing is now I don't know if I could get married.  I don't know.  It's just that the young men that were my friends stopped when they got married.  With one person his wife seemed to be jealous of me when I came to visit and I never saw him again.  I know the reasons. Time, work, but deep down he should be having the kinds of conversations that he is having with me, a harmless, nonsexual threat and have them with his wife.  I just miss the conversations.  Stolen moments from the rest of the rotten world.

And here is the kicker.  Those males forgot who I was the next day, that's how bad it got or they wouldn't speak to me again.   It was amazing.  I found I would have to practically reintroduce myself after spending hours talking to them.  I poured my heart and soul into the conversations, spent time, asked personal questions, could tell a stranger his mother's favorite flower and I was left holding the bag, wondering what I had done wrong once again.  It always felt like my fault.  It still does.  And each time it happened I found myself getting more and more guarded.  A terrible combination with my looks.  I often think, "If only I was a nice fat person."

Fighting my Agoraphobia or not being able to go Outside

thought I would talk about my messed up childhood, since every one seems to like it. (said with a sarcastic note) No, I think going over it helps a bit and as far as I can tell most think they had a screwed up childhood. I think the difference with mind is that it wasn't my family that caused all the pain.  I mean yea, we had our moments, but I don't look to them as the defining point when I turned whack-a-doodle.  It has been the people outside my door that have affected me so much.  I have tried to forget most of it, but it is ingrained in me even though I don't want it to be.

I said to myself, "I think you are suffering from agoraphobia." That was in 2002.  I had just finished fashion school and despite my flurry of resumes I was unable to get a job.  I couldn't even blame my looks because I never got any interviews.  One job was for a doll company, something that I have been doing all my life.  I figured I would at least get a call, but nothing.  I had plenty to do.  I am able to fill my days without much of a problem, but I started noticing that I couldn't go outside.  I used to go shopping.  I would go to resturants.  I did everything, but slowly that all stopped.  No one asked me out.  Most, if not all of my friends were older or had children they needed to care for, so hanging out had disappeared.  I told myself I would go out if someone asked me to, but no one ever did.  My mother asked me to bring in the groceries from the car, a weekly need, and I remember clearly my rapid heartbeat, not from the work, but from the fear of seeing the blue sky.

I don't really feel fear in certain areas.  I don't worry about being attacked walking down the street.  I know I will fight back.  I have grown up in a home that left its door unlocked all the time and that was in southern California.  My fear is normally people base and to feel it so harshly was debilitating for me.  It was so miserable I was unable to leave my room and go to other rooms of the house.  It even got so bad my mother actually mentioned how I was acting.  I passed it off in front of her, but I knew then that if my mother noticed and said something then my problem was at critical mass.

The strange part was I think the beginning of my problem was when I became a teenager.  7th grade wasn't that bad, but every thing after was so harsh I barely survived.   Everyone watches celebrities.  We know who they marry and about their children.  For that to happen they need to be followed all the time by the paparazzi.  They have people calling their name from every direction.  They have people interrupting their dinners asking for autographs and once in a while we hear about something negative like an egg being smashed or Tom Cruise with the water squirted at him.

Now imagine that same treatment, except instead of the fawning crowds we have nasty, violent teenagers.  It was a trial just to walk home.  I do not know why people feel like they have the right to say what ever they want to another, but I used to get a horn honk and then the shout of some bad word and an attack on my character or looks.  They weren't even that clever.  It was just "Bitch!"  out the window most of the time.  I would count each day how many people would shout something rude out of the car. (I got into the teens on time and that was only after a block of walking home.)  I had babies ask their mother about why I was so fat.  I had mother's laugh at me.  I had people interrupt my dinner with a rude comment.  Every where I went. NONE STOP!  It was killer.  As soon as I got one gang of kids to stop harassing me another would take over.  It really was hours every day and they only way I could be free of the constant attacks was to hide.  I hid in empty class rooms at lunch because I learned not to be an open target.  I hid in closets.  I hid in cars.  I hid in my house and I hid in my room.

It was really tough because I wanted so much to have a "normal" childhood.  I read books.  I watched movies.  Wasn't I meant to go to school dances.  Wasn't I meant to fall for a guy and have him like me back.  I have a memory of trying.  I went to a church dance.  Worst experience of my young life.  I knew the boys weren't going to ask me to dance, they had a hard time with the cute skinny girls.  So with much bravery I asked one of them.  I got a "no."  Okay, I can handle that.  Everyone gets rejected.  Let's try someone else. "no."  I got a "no" from every boy in that room.  Finally one of the male chaperons felt sorry for me and he asked me to dance.  The girl I had come with was busy roaming the halls in a fruitless action that I did not understand and did not want to be a part of.  I spent most of the night on a folding chair.  I remember saying to myself, "Why would you want to do this to yourself again?"  And I never did go to another dance, not even my prom.  What for?

My experiences in public have been excruciating.  I'm surprised I went and did any thing at all.  One of my problems resulting from that point in my life is my tendency to say kind of mean things, but as a term of endearing. I am surprised and hurt when I find out I have hurt the other person's feelings.   I try now that I am older to walk on egg shells around other people and I find it to be totally exhausting, so I don't want to try anymore.  I admit I was harsh when I was young, very, very sarcastic.  It helped me to know who understood what I was feeling.  Nobody could understand what I was going through.  How do you mentally handle being told you are garbage every day and nearly every hour of your life?  I had to set up walls to survive.  Many a celebrity has died in those circumstances and I came very close to it.

I knew in my heart of hearts that I was not what these people called me.  I tried very hard to turn the attention to more positive things, but it really did not work.  So here I am in my mid-twenties feeling the heavy weight of failure.  I think since it was such a transition point in my life, I surcome to the fear.  I had always been able to push it back, but this time I couldn't do it.

It is kind of embarrassing how I got over my fear.  I actually talked myself out of it.  I really do like who I am.  I am impressed with the core of iron I have inside of me.  I guess it was something I was born with.  I told myself I did not want to miss out on anything because a stupid person was unable to keep there mouth shut.  I also told myself that now with everyone I grew up with having babies I did not look so abnormal to the world.  With age I was starting to blend in.   Now here in Virginia it doesn't matter.  I wonder when I look at the mass of humanity who do not bat an eyelash at how they look, I wonder how my childhood would have come out.  Would I have been made fun of as much?  Who knows?

What is sad now is I am unable to leave the house.  It is a colossal effort and one that I am only willing to put forth for my Doctor appointments.  I call myself a shut in and this time it isn't self inflicted.  The funny part is how things have circled around.  I have to stay in the house and thank goodness I know how to live like this.  I can't imagine an active, outgoing person having to face the pain that I am going through every day, physical and mental.  I feel almost like I have been prepared for this crisis.