Today wasn't bad. Went out, got some nice pictures. Except now I'm overwhelmed with this crushing sensation that something horrible and heartbreaking is going to happen. Soon. I can't shake it off and I feel totally alone. I just want to go to bed and cry.
Thursday, July 21, 2016
Monday, July 18, 2016
Sigh...
I'm going to the denturist today. I really hope I don't vomit on the guy. Not only because it would be gross for him, but because it would be gross and embarrassing for me - and I'd have to try again. I've been so nervous I've been watching the Ice Age series since the early morning of the 17th. First, pretty lame; second, a bit better; third, best one yet; fourth, not crazy about it. Now they have two new ones. The Egg-scapade whatever is better than the Collision Course one, of which I could only watch five minutes before clicking away. I knew from the moment I first read the Wikipedia des-cription last year it was going to suck; and boy, was I right. Maybe it's better in high quality, but I have a strong feeling it'll be the worst in the series.
Well, I only have about an hour before I have to go and puke all over the nice guy who's trying to help me; so if you'll excuse me, I need to comb out my wet mop of hair and read another chapter of Divine By Mistake. And hopefully, the doctor will see my stitches (and the nasty red, and white, spots) and say, nope, we can't do this today.
Anyway, I could get used to eating nothing but chocolate-flavored things.
Addendum: Due to the severe sensitivity of my gums, the molding has been postponed. Woohoo!
Well, I only have about an hour before I have to go and puke all over the nice guy who's trying to help me; so if you'll excuse me, I need to comb out my wet mop of hair and read another chapter of Divine By Mistake. And hopefully, the doctor will see my stitches (and the nasty red, and white, spots) and say, nope, we can't do this today.
Anyway, I could get used to eating nothing but chocolate-flavored things.
Addendum: Due to the severe sensitivity of my gums, the molding has been postponed. Woohoo!
Saturday, July 9, 2016
Could Be Better
I was doing well. Now I don't even care anymore if I'm alive tomorrow. My life has become all about Tylenol pudding, saltwater rinses, banana-vomit medicine, and more Tylenol pudding. My gums are uneven, dark, and held together with stitches; and here are my loved ones, insisting I eat blueberry muffins. My brother said he would try to do a number on them, so I don't have the temptation, but they're thinking of what I want, not what I need.
It doesn't even matter if I'm asleep or awake. AM and PM are the same; boring and painful. I want to sleep, I'm tired, but I can't, because I hurt too much. I can feel my heartbeat in my gums. I don't think it's a good idea to eat mashed potatoes, but a muffin taller than my fist...Impossible. They want to tell me when I'm ready to eat, and it doesn't work like that. I haven't even washed my hair yet, because bending over is a fresh hell; all the blood rushes to my head and makes my gums hurt even more. Maybe I'll do it tonight, maybe not, one way or another I care very little.
Not even music has been lifting my spirits. It only makes me aware of exactly how long the song is. How many minutes, how many seconds. I drift in and out of consciousness in a hot, hot, hot room, wondering why I'm sweating with my fan turned on and pointed at me; and then I get up and realize that sometime during my medicated sleep, my mother came in and turned my fan away from me, leaving me to sweat to death. She says it's bad for me, but what's worse is melting into my sheets.
I can't speak properly, either. I keep slurring my words like a drunk. Words that have an S, a D, an SH, or a CH in any place-ment just don't want to come out. It's humiliating. I thought I had a lisp before; now I drool, too, like a damn St. Bernard. It's been coming slower and slower. I guess the worst part, worse even than the pain, is that they keep telling me I'm puffy, so I run to the mirror and see...nothing. Nothing at all. Just my face, looking the same way it always looks. I swelled up awhile ago, and every time they tell me I'm swollen, it brings that nightmare back to life. But I'm not swollen. This is just the way I look. And I've been looking in the mirror on and off for my whole life; I think I know the curves of my own face.
My laughing face is the same as my serious face. When I'm laughing, it looks like I'm having a panic attack; so they ask if I'm okay. I just want to scream. And I sure don't want to talk. I want to learn sign language. I want to parachute. I want to run through the cold tide barefoot. I want to stand on a cliff, looking down at the storm clouds as I scream and scream and scream, until there's nothing more to let out. And I want to sleep, until I wake up com-pletely healed and totally ready for my dentures.
And I want to talk to my friend. He's going through surgery stuff, too. I miss his positive attitude. I miss mine, too. This whole thing...better be worth it all.
It doesn't even matter if I'm asleep or awake. AM and PM are the same; boring and painful. I want to sleep, I'm tired, but I can't, because I hurt too much. I can feel my heartbeat in my gums. I don't think it's a good idea to eat mashed potatoes, but a muffin taller than my fist...Impossible. They want to tell me when I'm ready to eat, and it doesn't work like that. I haven't even washed my hair yet, because bending over is a fresh hell; all the blood rushes to my head and makes my gums hurt even more. Maybe I'll do it tonight, maybe not, one way or another I care very little.
Not even music has been lifting my spirits. It only makes me aware of exactly how long the song is. How many minutes, how many seconds. I drift in and out of consciousness in a hot, hot, hot room, wondering why I'm sweating with my fan turned on and pointed at me; and then I get up and realize that sometime during my medicated sleep, my mother came in and turned my fan away from me, leaving me to sweat to death. She says it's bad for me, but what's worse is melting into my sheets.
I can't speak properly, either. I keep slurring my words like a drunk. Words that have an S, a D, an SH, or a CH in any place-ment just don't want to come out. It's humiliating. I thought I had a lisp before; now I drool, too, like a damn St. Bernard. It's been coming slower and slower. I guess the worst part, worse even than the pain, is that they keep telling me I'm puffy, so I run to the mirror and see...nothing. Nothing at all. Just my face, looking the same way it always looks. I swelled up awhile ago, and every time they tell me I'm swollen, it brings that nightmare back to life. But I'm not swollen. This is just the way I look. And I've been looking in the mirror on and off for my whole life; I think I know the curves of my own face.
My laughing face is the same as my serious face. When I'm laughing, it looks like I'm having a panic attack; so they ask if I'm okay. I just want to scream. And I sure don't want to talk. I want to learn sign language. I want to parachute. I want to run through the cold tide barefoot. I want to stand on a cliff, looking down at the storm clouds as I scream and scream and scream, until there's nothing more to let out. And I want to sleep, until I wake up com-pletely healed and totally ready for my dentures.
And I want to talk to my friend. He's going through surgery stuff, too. I miss his positive attitude. I miss mine, too. This whole thing...better be worth it all.
Wednesday, July 6, 2016
...
The fifth was a good day. My aunt, two cousins, and two second cousins came by; this time we had weeks to prepare. We laughed a lot and played games until late. I now know how to play the Victorian game, Old Maid; but since there were children involved, we didn't drink alcohol. (Well, Mom did. Thankfully it didn't mess with her too much.) I was even on a roll, telling jokes and being entertaining. When my brother lost the round of Old Maid, that's what I nicknamed him. I might not have, if he hadn't proclaimed, "I'm the old maid!"
I lost both matches of Sorry, one round of war, and I won all Old Maids. It was beautiful revenge.
Now I'm sitting here, stressed to the bone; wishing the good times could last...We have to get up much too soon to go shopping for soft food and Boost, in preparation of my surgery tomorrow. I tried to back out, but yet again they threatened to put me in a home. I think after I've recovered from my surgery I'll ship on out of here. I see no other way to prove to them that I don't need them fussing over me if I'm not heavily medicated. Yes, yes, I get lost and I'm scared of that; but who isn't? I at least know how to ask for directions, and if a sixteen-year-old, a minor, can do it, then I don't see why I need to put up with this. I intend on getting a job and taking care of myself; and if I really strike gold, then I can still help them keep a roof over their heads and a car in their driveway.
I know I'm not a strong speaker. But I have other strengths. I don't see why I can't make it, if others can.
The molding is the biggest reason I fear tomorrow. You have no idea what it's like. Allow me to aid you with that. You're instructed to open your mouth as wide as you can, and the denturist puts this fat, round, colored gob into your mouth and it tastes like vomit, and it's about half the size of your fist. And as you sit there, squeezing the arm rests and try to keep your lunch down, you bite the little ball of barf, and it molds itself over your teeth and into every gap and crevice in your mouth. The doctor is panicking, because you're gagging and there's a good chance you'll vomit; and finally he can't take it anymore and takes it out of your mouth, leaving behind little balls of vomit-tasting gob all over your tongue. You rush to the sink to rinse, feeling like a damn coward as he tells you, "We'll try this again. How's later today?"
That's how mine always works. So, to try and do us all a favor, I'm going to request they do the molding while I'm sedated.
Know what the worst part is? All this worrying makes sleep impossible. I'm definitely tired enough, but I don't even want to go to bed. I want to stay awake until the seventh, and try to enjoy myself.
A long, long, long, long, long time ago, I bought a reddish-purple piece of silk. It's fairly big, and I have a reddish-purple dress with no sleeves. I hate showing my arms, and finally I requested we go to a seamstress and attach this silk to fashion sleeves. I love this dress. It's got a tapered waist, which makes me look about thirty pounds lighter; and when I wear it I feel...gorgeous, and strong. It's such an amazing feeling that it inspires me to work out. I don't know why I haven't been doing it religiously; it does feel pretty good. I think tonight I'm going to work out like I've never worked out before - put in my newly charged MP3, and don't stop until I'm sweating and I've heard everything. It might serve as a distraction, although lately not even listening to my favorites can really take my mind off my surgery. Talking about it sure doesn't do much good; according to my mother, brother, and my aunt I'm going to be "extremely sore", which is definitely not what I wanted to hear.
But, I've vomited before. Though it's unpleasant and disgusting, I'm pretty sure the denturist provides mouthwash and such. I'll recover. I always do.
Before I go begin my workout, I just want to stall for one moment more. I've been researching my ancestors, and while I only accomplished running in the same circles as I have been for over a decade, I did rediscover a quote from one of my possible ancestors. I couldn't really find the page to get the words exactly correct, but what he basically said is, "There is so much crap art out there. And what's the point of being an amateur artist?"
That quote has never left my mind; and sadly, it inspires me to delete all my drawings, new and old, off of deviantART. It's always plain and justifiably unappreciated. I think I'll stick to what I do best - writing poetry, and uploading pictures my mom and brother take and allow me to upload. I'll still be a member, and I'll still have almost everything; but the pictures I drew that I hate so much... Nobody cares for them, not even me. Why should I keep them?
Hell, even my poetry and photography go unappreciated. Truth be told I don't know why I didn't delete my account. I guess because I've had it for more than half a decade...I tend to get sentimental.
Okay! That's enough stalling for me. I've spent about 13 interspersed years behind my computer screen. Pathetic, right? Time to work out. Or pass out trying. I'm not obese; I'm just not fit. I want to change that. Again, if anybody can do it, so can I.
Addendum: Whoa! Sorry this is so long. If you've made it to the end, thank you so so much for sticking around!
I lost both matches of Sorry, one round of war, and I won all Old Maids. It was beautiful revenge.
Now I'm sitting here, stressed to the bone; wishing the good times could last...We have to get up much too soon to go shopping for soft food and Boost, in preparation of my surgery tomorrow. I tried to back out, but yet again they threatened to put me in a home. I think after I've recovered from my surgery I'll ship on out of here. I see no other way to prove to them that I don't need them fussing over me if I'm not heavily medicated. Yes, yes, I get lost and I'm scared of that; but who isn't? I at least know how to ask for directions, and if a sixteen-year-old, a minor, can do it, then I don't see why I need to put up with this. I intend on getting a job and taking care of myself; and if I really strike gold, then I can still help them keep a roof over their heads and a car in their driveway.
I know I'm not a strong speaker. But I have other strengths. I don't see why I can't make it, if others can.
The molding is the biggest reason I fear tomorrow. You have no idea what it's like. Allow me to aid you with that. You're instructed to open your mouth as wide as you can, and the denturist puts this fat, round, colored gob into your mouth and it tastes like vomit, and it's about half the size of your fist. And as you sit there, squeezing the arm rests and try to keep your lunch down, you bite the little ball of barf, and it molds itself over your teeth and into every gap and crevice in your mouth. The doctor is panicking, because you're gagging and there's a good chance you'll vomit; and finally he can't take it anymore and takes it out of your mouth, leaving behind little balls of vomit-tasting gob all over your tongue. You rush to the sink to rinse, feeling like a damn coward as he tells you, "We'll try this again. How's later today?"
That's how mine always works. So, to try and do us all a favor, I'm going to request they do the molding while I'm sedated.
Know what the worst part is? All this worrying makes sleep impossible. I'm definitely tired enough, but I don't even want to go to bed. I want to stay awake until the seventh, and try to enjoy myself.
A long, long, long, long, long time ago, I bought a reddish-purple piece of silk. It's fairly big, and I have a reddish-purple dress with no sleeves. I hate showing my arms, and finally I requested we go to a seamstress and attach this silk to fashion sleeves. I love this dress. It's got a tapered waist, which makes me look about thirty pounds lighter; and when I wear it I feel...gorgeous, and strong. It's such an amazing feeling that it inspires me to work out. I don't know why I haven't been doing it religiously; it does feel pretty good. I think tonight I'm going to work out like I've never worked out before - put in my newly charged MP3, and don't stop until I'm sweating and I've heard everything. It might serve as a distraction, although lately not even listening to my favorites can really take my mind off my surgery. Talking about it sure doesn't do much good; according to my mother, brother, and my aunt I'm going to be "extremely sore", which is definitely not what I wanted to hear.
But, I've vomited before. Though it's unpleasant and disgusting, I'm pretty sure the denturist provides mouthwash and such. I'll recover. I always do.
Before I go begin my workout, I just want to stall for one moment more. I've been researching my ancestors, and while I only accomplished running in the same circles as I have been for over a decade, I did rediscover a quote from one of my possible ancestors. I couldn't really find the page to get the words exactly correct, but what he basically said is, "There is so much crap art out there. And what's the point of being an amateur artist?"
That quote has never left my mind; and sadly, it inspires me to delete all my drawings, new and old, off of deviantART. It's always plain and justifiably unappreciated. I think I'll stick to what I do best - writing poetry, and uploading pictures my mom and brother take and allow me to upload. I'll still be a member, and I'll still have almost everything; but the pictures I drew that I hate so much... Nobody cares for them, not even me. Why should I keep them?
Hell, even my poetry and photography go unappreciated. Truth be told I don't know why I didn't delete my account. I guess because I've had it for more than half a decade...I tend to get sentimental.
Okay! That's enough stalling for me. I've spent about 13 interspersed years behind my computer screen. Pathetic, right? Time to work out. Or pass out trying. I'm not obese; I'm just not fit. I want to change that. Again, if anybody can do it, so can I.
Addendum: Whoa! Sorry this is so long. If you've made it to the end, thank you so so much for sticking around!
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