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I am fucking around

I started my day off at around 6am reading an article that has stuck with me since, and consequently resulted in my saying fuck in my head and outloud more than I thought possible – even for me. The point of it was about measuring your preferences and focus by number of “fucks given” and how what you give a fuck about says about you and your real direction, maturity etc. It highlighted for me that I don’t give a fuck about what I should, and give a few fucks about things I probably shouldn’t. Also, that I’m giving less fucks in general all the time.

What do I give a fuck about? Getting fat. I’m getting fat. After being in surgical menopause I’m on hormone replacement shit and it’s bad. Whoever the fuck said this would be easy? No one. Ever.

I give a fuck about the weird scar and swelling I have in my pelvic region now after the abscess and infection. Its fucking weird looking and not attractive. I give a fuck about not being attractive. I hate that.

I give a fuck about the fucking car I drive, and won’t drive a piece of shit Chevy, motherfuckers. I will drive a Subaru, even if it’s got 200,000 miles and is a rust hole. I don’t know what that even is, but I’d drive the shit out of it anyway. No. Fucking. Chevy’s. Bitches.

Why isn’t everyone crazy?

Apparently I’m losing my mind, wits, marbles – whatever.  I lost things, let’s put it that way.  And I can’t seem to find them.   To be quite honest, I’m not sure where to look and I’ve procrastinated a bit.  Okay, I haven’t looked.

My brain isn’t working, I cannot make myself do things I don’t like and I much prefer altered states of consciousness.  Not conducive to my life and it’s not working out well.  I seem to recently have these new rules for myself that are quite limiting.  For example, I’m not allowed to leave the house after dark on a weeknight.  It’s bad.  This restricts movie watching at a theatre.  And I must have the option of being in bed by 9:30, never mind the fact that rarely happens.  No phone conversations after work.  Or at work.  They’re exhausting.  Absolutely no doing anything different.  Nope, not me.  I will do the same goddamn things until my tracks are so ingrained I can’t see out of them.  Ask me why?  I have no idea.  I know better, and chose less.  Maybe removing body parts will make things different.  Maybe they’ll find my wits in there, and they’ve just been hiding in my uterus.  I wouldn’t blame them, it’s nice, dark and warm.

Oh god, it’s only 4:25.

What do you wear to a Willie Nelson concert?

Dolly Parton in the 1970s

I’m on a mission.  Mostly to do things I wouldn’t normally.  You see, though I’m really honest here, in the non-internet/cloud world I try to fit in and refrain from boat rocking for the most part.  Thoughts stay in my head if I’m in control, and had enough sleep (or not if I’m in the car alone).  I’m now seeking a middle ground.  If I find someone attractive, I’ll tell them.  If I want to go up to a stranger and strike up a conversation about their belt buckle because I’m shocked that their able to walk around with the weight, well then I will.  And what better place to kick it into high gear than tonight at a Willie Nelson concert!

I’ve been debating on what to wear all day.  A t-shirt with another band’s graphic? A cowboy hat?  Jeans, cut offs, shorts, tank top… the list goes on.  You may be wondering why I’m even wasting my time because, who gives a fuck what you wear, no one cares, right?!  Wrong.  I do.  So I’m walking over to Urban Outfitters now to buy a way over priced Dolly Parton t-shirt because it’s fucking awesome and quite possibly the most perfect thing to wear to a Willie Nelson show.  HA!

 

13 days folks.

Ovaryacting

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I wish I had something really smart to say about all this.  I got nothin’.  It’s been around 6 months since I’ve written anything on this blog, mostly because I forgot about it.  Today I remembered, wishing I had someone to talk at, that would just listen and nod in agreement.  Here we are, you and I, go ahead and nod away.

Many endings and changes since December: my relationship ending, kids moving out,  sanity gone.  Not much would ever surprise me , or so I thought.  Then I found a cyst and my right ovary, had it removed in April.   Doctors determined it was ovarian cancer, stage 1.  I’ll be going back in two weeks from today to have all the rest taken out, including my appendix.  Then chemo for a bit. I’ll be in menopause and require HRT.

It’s an odd thing, having cancer.  It’s exactly what you think it would be like – full of denial, resistance, disbelief and all that, and I don’t have anything major, really.  Just need to do a clean sweep and I should be okay…fingers crossed.  It makes you ask a lot of existential questions; tease the unimportant from the truly valuable, and examine what control you do or don’t have.  It’s exhausting.  And enlightening.  I’ve decided I really want to be happy.  I REALLY WANT TO BE HAPPY!  Did you hear me?  And I’m not.  I don’t think I ever have been.  Most of what I do, most of the time, is not making me happy.  I know all the bull shit about choices, and focus and gratitude – I’m a fucking therapist for Christ’s sake.  But really, it takes doing something different, not just changing your self talk.  That’s where I am now, anyway.  I’m sure it will change.  My intent is to write about it for a while and see where I go.

Two weeks and counting…

Too Much Office

Um, this office may be killing me.  I believe all the fun life has been sucked out of me and I’m turning into a non-person.  Which is what HR people become: non-people.  My clothes are becoming more bland, lipstick a shade more neutral and earrings just a bit smaller.  Less attention grabbing.  Mmmmm, that’s fun.

Did I mention the Halloween costume conversation around the kitchen microwave today? Some stupid little shit is going as a princess – imagine that.  Never happened before.  Ever.  You might as well go ahead and give her the “you’re worthless unless men love you, and by the way your boobs are small” talk, because that’s where the princess outfits ultimately get you.  Get her boobs done now, why don’t ya! Get it over with.  God forbid we come up with another kind of ultimate dream for little girls.

Ahhhh, that’s better.  Just enough and now I can get through traffic.  It’s Friday!  My kids are 18 and NOT in jail!  No one is going to starve if I don’t cook and I may just read the night away with a bottle of wine.  Not. Too. Shabby.

Respect the Heart Shell

I returned from vacation at 2 am Tuesday morning.  What a shock to go back to work Wednesday – the contrast of being outside hiking in the woods daily in North Carolina, with now being in my windowless office – is deep.

rocks

During the trip, and a short time prior, I was beginning to work on my opening my heart.  Sounds cheesy, trust me I know.  I have been emotionally numb and stuck for a long time and have recently wanted that to change for various reasons.  I started looking for something – a book, a group – anything to help.  What showed up was a class on opening the heart, which I signed up for and attended a few days before my trip.  Nothing striking there, but it began a slightly different thought process.  Since returning I have noticed that perhaps focusing on my heart has moved something, just a little.  Being in the green lush mountains has healed, perhaps a smidge.  The thing I’ve really come to understand is that my heart is encased in a hard shell for a reason – when it’s ready to crack it will.  When I heal and am ready to move forward, I will.

I haven’t talked to my kids for awhile – and really don’t feel a thing about that.  I have not made any attempt to repair my relationship with my mother – and am not sure it’s my job.  I do not have any contact with my family right now – feels fine.  Nice actually – no guilt trips.  I believe I’ll  just sit here awhile.