WHEE!!!
( Oct. 5th, 2009 02:03 pm)
Once again, I find myself wrestling with some sort of mystery UTI. Luckily (if one can call it that), I had already made an appointment with a urologist for the same day my symptoms began to manifest. I say "mystery" because I have the pain & urgency etc, but my labwork all came back showing no bacteria. Naturally, I accuse my thyroid. That fucker is always causing trouble!

The pain is excruciating. It is reminiscent of my fallopian cyst from back in 1998. I spent a large portion of this morning sobbing, and I nearly passed out at work. Cystex brings no relief, nor does Vesicare. Tylenol worked okeh, but right now I'm on Advil. I'm also giving Uva Ursi another go, this time with the cranberry supplements. Because goddamn, why the hell not.

Us fatties are supposed to hate our bodies -- we've been conditioned as such by today's society. I used to, and I don't anymore. I grew out of that right around the time when most girls grow out of it and grow into womanhood. It was a challenge, sure, but I did it.

I don't hate my body. I love my body. I hate the illness and the pain and the embarrassment of trying to explain to people what's "wrong" with me. I fucking hate that this body, which I struggled so fucking hard to learn to love, constantly betrays me in new ways. This shit...this fucking bullshit pain in my gut...this is why I hate my body.
I learned from this post on definatalie.com this week is National Invisible Illness Awareness Week in America. I'm inspired by Natalie's post to fill out my own questionnaire here. I invite you to fill out your own in your blog & link me in the comments.

1. The illness(es) I live with are:
Hashimoto's Thyroiditis (aka hypothyroidism), Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (aka PCOS), and Seasonal Affective Disorder (aka SAD) manifesting as depression.

2. I was diagnosed with it/them in the year:
thyroid: 1989 (age 11)
PCOS: 1998 (age 20)
depression: 1990 (age 12)

3. But I had symptoms since:
thyroid: age 9
PCOS: age 12
depression: age 8

4. The biggest adjustment I've had to make is:
I've been sick since I was a child, so I don't really know what it's like to NOT be. There's not really any adjustment to make, as this is normal to me.

5. Most people assume:
I don't know what people think, really. I'm very headstrong, willful, and impatient, so I tend to not listen to them. I'm afraid people think I'm a hypochondriac for always saying I'm sick, or that I'm weak for complaining about pain. I *do* know that when I'm depressed, whoever I'm with often assumes that I'm upset with them.

6. The hardest part about mornings is:
Lately, I've been battling some sort of anemia, so my energy levels have been lower than usual. If I don't remember to take my thyroid pills as SOON as I wake up, I'll feel like I'm swimming underwater or floating in a fog the whole rest of the day.

7. My favorite medical TV show is:
M*A*S*H

8. A gadget I couldn't live without is:
My lightbox for cloudy & overcast days.

9. The hardest part about nights is:
Sometimes I get really painful leg cramps from wonky thyroid hormones.

When I menstruate or have PMS, overnights are the WORST. Even though for over ten years I've been on birth control pills to diminish ovarian cysts that caused me seven-ten nights of heavy flow, I loose sleep because I'm still scared I might bleed through and make a huge mess on my bed.

If I'm having a bout of depression, I have trouble sleeping. Since I purchased a lightbox two years ago, my insomnia has all but disappeared. It was TERRIBLE when I was a kid. I lost almost all of my junior year of high school -- I seriously don't remember what happened.

10. Each day I take [?] pills & vitamins.

That there is only half of 'em. Not shown: three before-I-wake-fully 60mg of Armour thyroid hormone, after-lunch glucophage, and after-dinner glucophage, cranberry supplements, multi-vitamin, and birth control pill.

11. Regarding alternative treatments, I:
I've tried chiropractic & therapeutic massage treatments for my chronic pain, but I ended up feeling WORSE, not better. Supposedly, if I had stuck to them for months/years/whatever/forever, I'd be MIRACLE CURED OMG. I don't have the money or the time for that, sorry.

As pictured, I take several herbal supplements in addition to chemical pills. When I hear about something that could help (i.e. cranberry for UTIs), I try it. If it helps, it stays. If not, I toss the bottle and eat the cost. Sometimes I suffer from terrible side effects (iron pills, I'm looking at YOU), and that fucks my shit up for days...even weeks.

I hear TCM, such as acupuncture & nasty-tasting teas, could help, but once again, I can't afford the time or the cost. And I am one of the few who have access to EXCELLENT health care & insurance, fortunately. Ironic, isn't it?

12. If I had to choose between an invisible illness and a visible one, I would choose:
AS IF! anyone can choose their lot in life. What a foolish question.

13. Regarding working and career:
I get in trouble for calling out sick as often as I do. I am very lucky my boss let's me work extra days to make up time when I've used up my allocated sick days. However, that means I work more than many. Well, in this economy, I suppose I should be grateful to even HAVE a job.

14. People would be surprised to know:
Some days I feel fanFUCKENtastic! I can muster up the energy to walk or bike all over town, working out is a pleasure, and I'm a thousand smiles. And then SURPRISE! a week later, I'm crumpled up in the doorway, crying in pain.

15. The hardest thing to accept about my new reality is:
There's nothing NEW about my reality...but the hardest thing for me to accept is that sometimes, I am simply TOO SICK to attend a social function or fun event. I try to not take the flaky way out & call my friends to let them know what's up, but I'm afraid I appear like a selfish shut-in.

16. Something I never thought I could do with my illness was:
Shop for straight sized clothes. I've worn plus sizes since I was in middle school, so I just have to MAKE IT WORK. /tim gunn

17. The commercials about my illness:
*What* commercials would that be, exactly? Motherfuckers, WHERE IS MY FUNDRAISER?! I want a Thyroid Three-Day, a Polycystic Purple Ribbon, and a SAD Telethon.

18. Something I really miss doing since I was diagnosed:
Uh, recess? Once again, I was diagnosed as a kid, so there's really nothing I miss that's not related to childhood.

19. It was really hard to give up:
Believing that one day I'd be tall and thin. That was a hard fantasy to surrender. Let me tell you, I still succumb to that bad habit. It can be tough accepting myself for who I am.

20. A new hobby I've taken up since my diagnosis is:
See #18

21. If I could have one day of feeling normal again, I would:
I would ride my scooter to NYC, ride all over the five boroughs, and then ride home again that night. Sure, I'd be a bit tired, but as I am NOW, it's impossible.

22. My illness has taught me:
How to be a control freak. (same answer as Natalie!)

23. Want to know a secret? One thing people say (about my illness) that gets under my skin is:
"I have this relative/friend/coworker who has a thyroid disorder, and she's JUST FINE." WELL GOOD FOR THE BOTH OF YOU.

24. But I love it when people:
...are understanding and kind when I explain my limitations.

25. My favorite motto, scripture, quote that gets me through tough times is:
"Everything is going to be okeh."

26. When someone is diagnosed I like to tell them:
"Everything is going to be okeh."

27. Something that has surprised me about living with an illness is:
I am jealous at how some people are so cavalier about their activities. Fucking eh, if *I* had a normal body instead of this fixer-upper, I'd be out and about every day! Instead, most folk sit around and watch television or post crap online.

28. The nicest thing someone did for me when I wasn't feeling well was:
My boyfriend takes such wonderful care of me when I'm sick. He's constantly doing the nicest things, from driving me all over town to multiple pharmacies when my meds are out of stock, to sitting with me to keep me company when I'm blue.

29. I'm involved with Invisible Illness Week because:
I was inspired by Natalie's post on http://www.definatalie.com

30. The fact that you read this list makes me feel:
Pleased that you are now better informed.
Tagged:
WHEE!!!
( Jun. 2nd, 2009 04:02 pm)
Summer rapidly approaches here in the Northern Hemisphere. To me, spring marks the beginning of scooter season. I'm a four-season rider, but I start riding in earnest for fun and rally practice at about mid-May. Riding scooters rules, y'all. It has changed my life.

One of the only things I dislike about riding scooters is helmet hair. You see, I have thick curly hair, and, for want of anything else to do with it, I'm growing it out. I've been growing it out for five years now, and it's just beyond my shoulders. Yes, my hair is that curly. It's been this curly since the advent of my puberty. You think being a kid is rough? Try being a fat, brown, poor kid with big hair.

I may not have been thin or white or feminine, but I could at least have awesome accessories, right? I always wore the coolest earrings and funnest socks. I saved up an entire summer's babysitting money to buy myself Doc Marten boots. I spent hours at thrift stores flipping through racks of tee-shirts, searching, always searching. And my crowning glory? No matter what I did, it never looked right.

I remember when the leader of my Girl Scout troop was preparing us for photos. She kept brushing my curls, and my hair got bigger and bigger. Of course, she pulled out plenty of my hair in the process and that hurt. I don't understand...I guess I'll use hairspray, muttering to herself. Finally, we pinned a too-tight beanie over my crisply-sprayed and poufy locks.

I remember my best friend playing dress up. She used nearly an entire bottle of her fancy hair-stuff on my head. It...it's just soaking in. Why isn't this working? Your hair is weird.

I remember my sophomore year at college, and getting turned away by the campus Chop Shop by a woman who refused to cut my hair for $10. But the sign says! Ten bucks! I can't leave here with half a haircut! Crying, cursing my curls and her ignorance.

I saw other fat girls, sure. The ones I knew had interested older sisters or mothers or some other seamstress in their life who helped dress their bodies in pretty, even trendy outfits. I wanted that for myself so badly, but cute clothes were not in mi familia's budget. I saw other brown girls, sure. Their hair hung shiny and straight down to their small waists, because, as Justice Santomayor reminds us, "each of our Carribean and Latin American communities has their own unique...and different traditions."

O, I wish I had curls like yours! Their arms stretch out, hands reaching to pat, maybe even pull, my hair. But then I watched them at gym class. And I saw them with their hot irons of varying girths. It took ten, fifteen, twenty, sometimes even thirty minutes to straighten their hair. Your hair is so pretty. I bet you hear that all the time. People pay lots of money to have hair like yours. I wish my [flat-ironed, gelled, stick-straight blonde sheen] hair did that.

My hair was one of the many indicators that I was not not white, not pretty, not normal. Normal girls tried to look like the magazines. Pretty girls bought clothes from the Junior Missy department. White girls had deep orange tans and bright white frosted tips. And Mexicans? I would watch the Chicanas in my classroom, wondering why I didn't feel like I could sit with them. Ah, to be Boricua en Tejas.

Now, I have a few Chicana and Mexican friends. Now, I ride scooters with a group as mutli-hued as a Pantone set. Now, I shake loose the mass of curls on my head out of my helmet, rosy-cheeked and sweaty from a good long scooter ride. My bangs matted, my curls tangled, my smile bigger than my hair helmet.
accomplished
( May. 28th, 2009 02:23 pm)
Welcome.

Welcome home.

Welcome, third culture kids, born in one place, raised in another. One world has an Abuela, the other has a Grandmother. Fresh off the boat. Hot off the presses. Translating American for your father. Explaining Eddie Murphy to your mother. Listening to your classmates ask you, why do they talk like that? No one else's parents roll their RRs.

And why does she look like that? Mami is round every place your teacher is sharp. Teacher is tall, thin, blonde, but Mami is short, round, and dark. No, not dark...olive. It's an olive complexion. It's complicated.

Look at your tan! You must never burn. I'm so jealous. Why does your daddy talk like that? Why does he say 'tree' for 'three'? Does he speak English? Can't he count? It's complicated.

Why does your mommy look like that? Why is her hair so short? She looks like a man. You're so lucky she let you pierce your ears. It's not fair.

Momma, why are they so weird? They eat weird foods. Maybe that's why they're so weird. If I eat beans, will I look like *that*? I don't want her to use my hairbrush. Clean it out, look at her hair in there! I don't want dark hair like that. Crying, crying, it's not fair.

And I cried and cried too, but I was angry, not afraid. Twenty-five years later, I'm still angry, but I've stopped crying. Now I'm the one who's afraid. So, welcome.

Welcome to my new blog where I write publicly and politically about my experiences. I hope you'll share in my discussion about topics such as your hair falling out because of your thyroid disorder, your mother following you into the yard yelling and ready to hit you again with her chancla, your dad's accounting job relocating your family every seven years, wearing men's clothes when your hips spread and your breasts arrive because plus-size wasn't an option, and feeling like no matter what you did or said you'd never fit in.

I'm a fat (yes, FAT. I don't sugarcoat it (unless the recipe calls)) woman with a host of autoimmune disorders, born in Puerto Rico to Puerto Ricans (whatever THAT means) but raised in Texas, living in a segregated "city of neighborhoods" (uh HUH), punk rock anti-capitalist, librarian scooterist.

Who are you? Why are you here? Thank you. You are welcome.
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