...

       The problem with my back is persisting. I've tried different positions, different places. Lately I just crash on the couch; if I don't sleep at night, I take a really long nap there. Sort of puts a damper on the living room, but I really need rest, and that's the only way to get it. So...now, it's been suggested that I get rid of my bed and put a couch in my bedroom.

      I loathe sleeping on couches. I want the ability to sprawl out and turn over once in awhile. I want to be comfortable. Though I can still fall asleep in my bed, I wake up in so much pain, I can barely breathe. The slightest spasm hurts like hell. I just want to cry and scream. So I'm considering it, definitely. I went to the hospital again and waited for eight hours and 45 minutes, all so a doctor could prescribe me with muscle relaxers and send me home without a single goddamn test. Spoiler alert; I knew the muscle relaxers wouldn't work. I said it before the prescription even got filled and I was right. Of course I was right about my body.

      I'm taking the meds anyway. Of course. I just want to feel normal again; I just want my life to go back to its usual level of shittiness.

      Speaking of shittiness, while I was at the hospital, there was a patient there who had―what else?―kidney stones. So what did the doctors do? They started singing to him about kidney stones. Then they laughed and said he had quality entertainment. So, yeah, you think you're sad about people not respecting your desire to change genders, imagine reaching a million on the pain scale and having your caretakers laugh and sing about it. Gosh, you really don't know anything. That poor patient sounded just like me. He wanted to die, too. I really wanted to go over there and actually say something comforting. But by now I'm sure he's fine. I hope so, even if his doctors didn't give a damn.

      I am trying so hard to forget about my whole "journey," but it's hard! Every time I haven't thought about it in awhile, someone at the next table in a restaurant starts yammering about kidney stones. Today at Tim's (Horton's again, not Bradford's like I wish), three ambulances came out of nowhere. Could have been an OD, could have been something to do with the heart, but all I could think about was myself.

      I have been over the hump for six months already, and I still want to die. My life right now is literally a combination of The Toilet Won't Flush, I've Had A Headache For Four Weeks, My Back Fucking Hurts, What Color Is My Tongue?, and What Color Is My Urine? coupled with My Period's Here and I'm 32 And Don't Know What Friendship Is.

      This is pointless. Worse than pointless, it's a fucking joke.
      I wonder if my family would stop celebrating Christmas if I were to die, say, right after. That's an interesting thought.

Change: Everything SUCKS!!!

       Turns out my new bed doesn't help at all. Or maybe, since I wake up feeling broken on the loveseat, my back is the problem. Either way I'm literally not a happy camper. When I slept on the big couch with a pillow under my back, I woke up feeling alright.
      I'm just going to take Tylenol and not move for awhile; now that helps. I just hope if I have to go to the chiropractor that I come out taller. Worked on my brother, I kid you not. Well, I want that, and for him to not mention the insecurity I have about my back. I wonder if it's custom to take off your shirt? Probably not. Hopefully not. But since the world thinks I'm stupid, he might ask it of me, and at that point I'll just find another chiropractor. I'm done being kind to people who treat me like a moron...which basically will make me very rude. Reap what you sow, right?

      I guess until I know the chiropractor has helped me or not, I'm just going to not sleep on my bed anymore. It's really not worth the agony. It feels maybe 45% of my July hell, and that's too high for me!

      Doesn't mean I want someone looking at my back. What I need is to grow another pair of legs out of my stomach and sleep standing up!

Change: It's Not All Good

       So my new bed is shorter than my old one, which was shorter than I preferred. My feet just hang right off. It's also very wide. And, unfortunately, not very soft――also not really a bed bed. It's just a mattress, and my computer desk drawers have more depth. I'm told it will slowly inflate over the course over the course of three days.

      Let's see. I got $20 and a hug from my mother's boyfriend, and a high-tech camera from my mother that she bought from her boy-friend, two free pizzas, an amazing Shake 'N Bake chicken dinner, a cheesecake, and from a past neighbor, I got a chocolate bar, guitar picks, and a guitar song book.
      I'd have liked to have a handyman look at the toilet, but maybe for Christmas. Even though I am still the only one having problems. When I last mentioned it, my mother said she "didn't see the point of calling until she noticed an issue," so I told her that I was kind of mentioning the issue. "Nope, nope, nope, until your brother or I have problems, we won't get a handyman." Well, we're not exactly wealthy, so I've just been living with it. And, yes, adding that none of my problems matter and nobody hears me, and she said they do matter and they do hear me. But still won't consider the problem I keep having.

      My brother said, "Maybe it's because you use too much toilet paper?"

      Helloooo?! That would never affect the toilet handle. Weirdo. But of course I can't "give him lip," because I'm "just a female." Gosh, maybe my sister had the right idea when she took off. You know he thinks doing dishes is women's work? That we should stick to quilting and childbearing? I mean, he may have said those things in jest, but he does condescend to me a lot, especially.

      Too much toilet paper. Now that's fucked up. Of course they asked me if I know how to flush, as if I've been having this problem my entire life. No... Just recently. But maybe I'm too stupid to tell.

      You know, they keep saying I need to stop being hard on myself, and then they go and treat me like I'm a complete retard. And how dare I get angry, stand up for myself, and "sass" them? What is this, the '40s? Why am I treated so differently? Is it my face, my shoulders, my voice, my height that makes everybody dislike me?

      Maybe I'm average, and everybody just sucks. I bet my life that if either one of them was having the issue with the toilet handle, they would have called the handyman right away. It's like when I sleep, they make all the noise they want, but when they sleep, the entire world had just better shut up. And my brother can do whatever he wants when he wants. Go for a walk in the dark, take a taxi twice in a day, but god forbid I even think of it.

      I'm just less. And after 32 years of knowing it, you'd think I could just shrug it off, but no. It fucking hurts. And yes, I still live with my family; if one of us moves out, the other two can't afford rent, becomes homeless, gets eaten by a bear or maybe the wolf that's hanging around now, so I just...stay. No matter how much I want to just disappear.

      Ugh, fuck. Damn Christmas parade. If they really want to give, how about they don't come down our street and give the First Responders a clear path?

     They just want to feel good about themselves, that's all Christmas is. And birthdays, too. Just a handyman would have been wonderful, a handyman, like I've been saying, and saying, and saying. I mean, a guitar song book when I don't even know the chords, a bunch of sugar now that I've finally gotten my skin under control... I know they think I appreciate it, but am I really supposed to? After all this time of being ignored and condescended, am I really supposed to appreciate all this extra stuff? Or is it about them? Give the birthday girl some presents, follow the tradition and fulfill your duty. Pat yourself on the back maybe. Just congratulate me on being closer to dying, thank you.

     Birthdays are always the worst. I always wake up with a head-ache, have a seizure, haven't slept. I could probably never look at a calendar again in my life, completely lose track of what day it is, and I could tell by how bad my day is going, on a chilly day, that it's December 6th.

      Oh, whatever. I'll eat the pizza and still be hungry, I'll eat the snacks and get zits. Then I'll eat something else, and something else, and never be full while I try desperately for at least a month to get my skin back under control because, oh no, I had a chocolate bar the month before.

      Why are they so hard to get rid of?

     But the good news is, I may have started something in my petite inner circle. Whenever my mother tells me "Happy birthday," I say "Happy Mother's Day." Because it should only, always, fall on your kid's birthday. It should be personal. Putting it on "the second Sunday" in May is so random. And why should somebody say Happy Mother's Day to me, if I've never had a kid? Abolish the second Sunday nonsense, say it falls on whatever your kid's birthday is, if you have multiple children, you get multiple Mother's Days. It's sweeter. It's kinder. It's about both of you.

      I should make a poll, see what the world thinks. Rather the two, three people who bother talking to me, but maybe they'll share it and get more responses. Worth it.

Change

       After a minimum of 20 years with the same damn bed, rotating and rotating like a damn rotisserie chicken, I'm finally getting a new bed. A birthday bed. And I am super thrilled that my nearly knee-length hair is now chest-length. It's actually a little shorter than I wanted, but I don't even care. I'm not sitting on it, I don't have to sweep it all over my shoulder to go to the bathroom, and my body can breathe again! Looks a hell of a lot nicer, too. It's got bounce.

      I'm not telling the locals we know. I want to see their faces.