I didn't finish my....

I don't know that I have anything to say, but I thought I would sit down now and punch something out before it gets to be too late and another week passes with no post from me. What was I doing last week that prevented me from writing? Oh yes, I was nursing my blisters. I learned last Sunday that it's not a good idea to break in a new pair of shoes on a two-hour walk. I walked to the harbor and back with a few friends, wearing the shoes I got at the garage sale I helped out with not long ago. I'd worn them a few times for short periods and they seemed okay, so I put them on and headed off on my jaunt. The blisters became exquisitely painful at about the halfway point. I tried to ignore them as we started walking back, but it was no good, so I did what any reasonable person would do: I took off my shoes and went barefoot. It was fine on the grass and the concrete, but I had to spend the last ten or fifteen minutes of the walk hobbling over gravel-studded asphalt, which was not so much fun. I don't go barefoot very often anymore, so my feet are very tender now, but they used to be tough as leather. I never wore shoes. Often, when I had to go in someplace which required shoes, like a restaurant, I would draw lines on my feet with a Sharpie, so it looked like I was wearing flip flops. People are not very observant. But that was a long time ago, and the gravel was a painful ordeal. Not to mention the blisters.

They've healed now, for the most part, although I don't think they're quite ready for another two-hour walk. I'll give them another week before I go any distance with them.

I just counted on my fingers, and I have fourteen shots left. Gosh, I'm entering the home stretch, which is a damned good thing because I don't think I could take this any longer than that. It's the breathlessness and the depression, mainly, that make things so difficult. Early on in my treatment I read in someone's blog that he had a harder time after he hit the halfway point, not with side effects but simply with the motivation to continue the treatment, and I'm glad I read that because the same thing happened to me. Interferon isn't like an antibiotic, which causes noticeable improvement in the symptoms of whatever problem it's treating. In my case, I wasn't having any symptoms and wouldn't even have known I had the disease if my doctor hadn't insisted that I have another test, so it's more difficult to hold onto the idea that this is helping me. Is it? It doesn't feel like it. All I notice is that it's making me breathless and depressed and lowering my red and white cell counts. And even stranger is the knowledge that if I remain virus-free for the rest of my life and end up dying of something unrelated to the Hep C, I will never know if the treatment was necessary or not. No wonder we patients get burnt out. I can't even imagine what sort of state I would be in if my side effects were worse.

I'm nowhere near ready for Xmas. I don't go all out with it but I do like to get a little something for the people I'm closest to, and this year I don't know if I'll make it before the big day. As usual, I've got stuff for Melissa coming out my ears because I love to buy things for her. She's so odd and quirky and has such varied interests that I can find something for her almost everywhere I go. And then I end up with a huge box full of gifts for her but nothing for anyone else. At the moment I have Melissa and Kim covered but that's it. I asked my boss on Friday if we were working on Xmas Eve and she said yes, but I think that if Yvonne and I can form a little conspiracy and not schedule any work that day, we may be able to get what we want. There's no point in sitting around in that office all day with nothing to do. Much better to be out stimulating the economy by doing my last-minute Xmas shopping.

I seem to have run out of things to say. My heart just isn't in it this week, and my mind keeps wandering off and forgetting to come back, so I think I'll just post this as is. Maybe next week will be more interesting.

I've got the universe reclining in my hair

Goodness gracious! The other day I decided to check a list of side effects to see if my not having had a period in three months could be chalked up to the Interferon, and I was surprised to see how many I have. I didn't know all this stuff was related to the treatment. I'd glanced through the list when I first started, but it wasn't real to me then because I hadn't yet experienced any problems. I was sure that I hadn't suddenly gone into menopause, though, so I thought it might be a good idea to make sure it was from the Interferon and not something else. This is what I found:

Irregular or stopped menstrual periods; loss of sexual ability, desire, drive or performance; pale skin; irritability; body aches; burning, crawling, itching, numbness, prickling, "pins and needles" or tingling feelings; change in taste, or bad, unusual or unpleasant (after) taste; cracked, dry or scaly skin; hair loss/thinning; hoarse voice; lack or loss of strength; loss of memory; insomnia; muscle or bone pain; poor concentration; stuffy or runny nose; sensitivity to sunlight; pain in the ribs; dry eyes; shivering; tanning or blue-grey discoloration of the skin; tearing of the eyes; nosebleeds; and last but not least, hearing loss.

And those are just the side effects I have, out of a long list of scary or bizarre symptoms. I don't like reading lists of side effects because they cause unease and anxiety, as I earnestly check to see if I have any of them, and I certainly don't need any excuse to unleash my hypochondria. It needs no encouragement. I'm such a terrible hypochondriac that I tend to under-react to medical problems because I'm sure it's just my hypochondria rearing its head. That may be why I failed to put two and two together about the side effects. Each one seemed to exist in its own little limbo, unconnected with anything else, in much the same way as the symptoms of hyperthyroidism which I had for years, all of which I was able to explain away in one way or another while I remained in denial until the pounding heart and swollen ankles sent me to the ER.

I was heartened to see that hearing loss is a side effect; it gives me hope that when this cruel war is over I will return to my usual level of deafness, which seems like dog hearing now, after what I've dealt with in the last eight or nine months. And I'm relieved to know that the sex drive I miss so much has been stolen from me and will return, along with my period, that my skin will someday be less reptilian, and that the odd grey color I've noticed on the skin around my mouth is not my imagination and will go away. I'm starting to look like I've got a five o'clock shadow. The nosebleeds are on the "talk to your doctor right away if you have..." list, so I called Judy to let her know that I've been having them. She said it could be connected to my low red and white counts, but my feeling is that it's just because my nose and sinuses are dry. Everything is dry: eyes, nose, sinuses, throat, skin, hair. Anyway, Judy just advised me to monitor the bleeding and if it seems to be getting worse, give her a call. Same with the hoarse voice, which I've had almost since the beginning. It's stayed pretty much the same since it started and I suppose it will remain with me to the end of the treatment.

I still have some hair, but not nearly as much as I had last week. I'd made up my mind: the hair had to go. So I talked to Gina, my friend and stylist, after the women's meeting on Thursday and she told me to show up at her shop on Saturday, which I did. I'd girded my loins and readied myself to be bald, but when I got there Gina sat me down and suggested that we try cutting the hair very short to see what it looked like before we took the drastic step of shaving it all off. My only argument against that was that I was sure it would make the baldness show up even more, but Gina said she's worked with women on chemo many times and that often a short haircut is just the thing. I really didn't want to have to shave my head, so I told her to snip away and we would see what happened. What happened was that it looked great, even before she cleaned it up. My receding hairline shows, but I like the cut, and because it's almost evenly two-toned, with the bleached ends offering a contrast to the darker re-growth, it looks much thicker than it did before. It's a very dramatic look, extremely short and spiky, but I favor the dramatic anyway, in hair, dress and makeup, so it's right up my street. And I've staved off the clippers for the nonce, which counts for something. Probably I will have to shave it at some point, but as long as I don't have to, I won't.

I think this is the first post I've written that was all about Interferon treatment. I think I'll stop here, lest I think of something to say that's not on topic.

Birthdays and gratitude

I'm feeling a bit dull because I'm nearing the end of a four-day weekend during which I did not much of anything. Whenever I have any significant time off I'm always tempted to spend it staring into space, to make it last longer, although usually my desire to go out and run around is stronger than my urge to savor the time, and my weekends fly past at top speed. This weekend, though, I've had my biennial cold, which forced me to spend a good deal of time at home, resting. It was a pretty wimpy cold, but for some reason it's made me really tired. It hovered all day on Thursday and then descended in earnest on Friday, but even at full force it wasn't anything to write home about. My head was congested and I blew my nose fairly often, but that was all, except for the aches and the fatigue. A head cold always seems to turn me into a ravenous pig, so I dragged myself to the grocery store on Friday morning, in my pajamas, and stocked up on food. Pretty much all I did on Friday, apart from the trip to the store, was lie around, doze and eat. By yesterday I'd stopped blowing my nose much at all, but I was still tired. I managed to jump on my trampoline and clean my house, but that was it until I went to the meeting last night, and today hasn't been much better. My weekly trip to the laundromat wiped me out.

I'm now thinking wistfully of bedtime, which is a mere six or so hours away. I know better than to go to bed earlier than my usual time; whenever I try it, I wake up at some unearthly hour, like four, and can't get back to sleep. And with all the extra sleep I've had this weekend, probably I'll have some trouble getting to sleep even at the usual hour. But I'm sleepy, and my bones ache, so I may not be able to resist climbing into my cozy bed with its clean sheets, just for an hour or so, even at the risk of dealing a fatal blow to the plan of going to sleep at the usual hour. Maybe if I put a movie in the DVD player I'll be able to keep my eyes open.

So, the first hurdle in the course which makes up what we call the holidays has been surmounted, without much difficulty on my part. I make holidays easy for myself by simply opting not to participate in anything I don't feel like doing. Like, for instance, spending Thanksgiving with my family. Don't get me wrong; I love my family, but I find them exhausting en masse. Besides, we're all so scattered now that it would take a miracle of planning to get us all together for one holiday. It was different when my mom was alive, but now it all just seems like more trouble than it's worth to get together. So I spent Thanksgiving with the people I think of as my real family: members of Narcotics Anonymous. We have a tradition, those of us with no family in town, of meeting up at the Tee Off restaurant in the afternoon and celebrating the holiday together. If it was up to me, I would not choose the Tee Off, being as it's overpriced and the food isn't very good, but the tradition began before I moved to SB and nobody asked for my input. So I show up every year and keep my mouth shut about the bad food. It's not about the food, anyway. It's about showing appreciation for the people who help to keep me clean year after year. This year was very enjoyable, even though the party was rather small -- or perhaps because the party was rather small. I had a chance to talk to my friend Kelly at length, which I rarely get to do, and I also got to listen to her talk horses with Sue. I love listening to people talk about their favorite subjects. It was a lovely, stress-free way to spend Thanksgiving, and afterwards Kelly and I went to the women's meeting, which rounded out the day nicely.

My eleven-year clean-time anniversary is coming up soon. It's next Saturday, in fact, which seems unbelievable. Where did this year go? I think I'm still stuck back in August someplace. And I'm not the only one. Last night when I asked Rhonda to bring a cake to next week's meeting, she and several people sitting with her said, essentially, "What, already?" It seems not very long ago that I was taking my cake for ten years. Perhaps because of that, I haven't thought much about my birthday this year, which is a big change from the fanfare I gave it last year. But ten years is a big deal, somehow. I was so excited to be entering into the double digits that I just couldn't contain myself. I expected that once I was on the other side of ten, everything would fall into place and make sense, and I'd learn the secret handshake and be given the keys to the forbidden cupboard. But nothing like that happened. It was just another day clean. I'm only half-joking about that, and it isn't really true that nothing happened. I expected transformation and have had a transformative year, but though it may partly have to do with length of clean-time, I'm sure most of it is because I've worked a lot of steps, throughout my recovery but particularly in the last few years.

Even after nearly six years in Santa Barbara, I'm still not quite comfortable with the idea of celebrating a birthday rather than an anniversary. In Minneapolis, where I got clean, you don't go to a meeting to "take a cake" like you do here, where they sing Happy Birthday and you blow out your candles before speechifying for five minutes or so. Out there, you take a medallion, and it's all very dignified and decorous, with no off-key warbling or singed eyebrows. The thing I like the most about the way they do it in Minneapolis, though, is that someone presents you with your medallion. Here, someone gives you your cake, which means they hold it up while you blow out the candles, but out there they take it one step further. You both stand up in the middle of the room and before you can express your gratitude for another year clean, your presenter, who is usually your sponsor, makes a little speech about you. It's hard to take, all those nice things people say. When I took my one-year medallion and my sponsor stood in front of me and told me what she saw in me, I had a strong urge the whole time to turn around to see who she was talking to. I got a bit more comfortable with it over the years, but even at four years it was difficult. Still, I think it's a great tradition, and I loved presenting medallions to other people. I think it's good for us occasionally to hear how others perceive us, and I loved watching people go from polite disbelief to almost full acceptance over the course of a few years.

I'll finish up with a mention of Interferon and its effects and reverberations, shall I? I've been persuaded by several NA members not to shave my head just yet, but I don't know how much longer I can stand to deal with this mess that used to be hair. I keep saying that and I keep not shaving my head, but I know eventually I will grow tired of being driven to tears in front of the bathroom mirror every morning, while I attempt to put this limp, spongy stuff into some kind of order. It's only a matter of time.

I've discovered another odd side effect: the skin on my fingertips is thin and easily torn. I've noticed this for awhile but didn't connect it with the Interferon until someone I talked to at a meeting told me that he spent much of the last half of his year of treatment with Band-aids on most of his fingers. One nice thing about it is that my fingertips are extra sensitive, which makes feeling things like silk and cashmere and flower petals even more of a luxurious experience, but apart from that it's a pain in the ass. Like most people, I use my fingers a lot, and it's amazing how many formerly innocuous objects have become hazardous. I get paper cuts galore, and when I helped out my friend at her garage sale a couple of weeks ago I ended up with raw and bleeding fingers. The cuts I sustained that day only finished healing a few days ago. I even had to go buy some Neosporin and swathe the cuts with Band-aids because I kept re-opening them.

Ah, well, I'm still grateful that my Interferon experience isn't worse. I've been thinking a lot about that lately and feeling surges of gratitude about it. It could be so much worse. I'll put up with thin hair and nails and skin and be thankful for the absence of nausea and vomiting and chills, not to mention blood transfusions or shots to boost my immune system.

All about my pincushion

Slacker. Yes, I missed another week, but I'd rather skip a week than write when I have nothing to say. I think I've been working too much. I need a vacation: two weeks to go have fun and then two weeks to laze around and rest up from my vacation.

Today was lab day, and I arrived in good time. Having blood drawn has been a terrible ordeal ever since I got clean, but, happily for me, I discovered a functioning vein in my right hand just before I started the Interferon treatment, and it has served me well. Until now. Even with this nice new vein, I have my own phlebotomist at the lab: she knows just where to go, and we've had almost no trouble up to this point, but today she had no luck. I think there's too much scar tissue around that vein now and probably its heyday is over. So instead of having a quick two-minute blood-draw, I spent an hour and a half at that lab, with a team of phlebotomists hovering over me, poking me here, there and everywhere. After seven sticks, we filled almost all the tubes. There's one left unfilled, but the lab people said they would put in a request for one of the others to do double-duty. If it can't, they'll call me. I was an hour late for work, and on a Monday, too, which puts an unfair burden on my co-worker because Monday is always the worst day for phone calls. Next month I'll do a bunch of push-ups before I go to the lab and see if that helps. I already drink lots of water before I go, and I use heat packs when I get there, but none of that made any difference today.

Oh dear. I just realized that I forgot to order my meds today. I use a mail order pharmacy for the Interferon and Ribavirin, and I cordially loathe them. Their phone menu is one of the worst I've ever had the misfortune to deal with, almost as bad as Sparkletts water. It infuriates me every time I have to call to place an order. It's slow and repetitive and misleading and incredibly obtuse. Usually I end up frantically pushing zero over and over until I get a human being. I do my best not to yell at the person on the other end because I know it's not their fault, but sometimes it takes all my self-control to keep a civil tongue in my head. A month or so ago I asked if there was a way to reorder online and was told that, yes, they had a web site. I went there and signed up, and that's as far as I was able to go. Every time I sign in and click on "refill prescription," the page takes about a hundred years to load, after which I see a message saying, "service unavailable at this time," or some such thing. So I'm back to the phone orders. This time I have to talk to a human being because I need a new sharps container and because, for some reason, when I entered my prescription number over the phone on Saturday I was told that it wasn't valid. And now, since Thursday is a holiday, I have to order tomorrow or I'll run out of meds.

On to other topics. Like hair, which I still have. I've been putting off shaving my head from day to day, but I don't think I can hold out for very much longer. At the lab this morning I saw a woman who is way more bald than I am, and she didn't seem to mind it at all. I don't know what her trouble was, but her hair was really thin on top. To accentuate this, she wore her hair parted in the middle and combed straight down over her ears, leaving a wide strip of scalp showing on the top of her head. Has she not heard of the infamous comb-over? I, on the other hand, still have enough hair that there wouldn't be a swathe of scalp if I parted it in the middle, and yet I'm considering shaving my head because I can't deal with the inconvenience of styling it the way it is. Each hair is so thin and sickly that when I wash my hair it feels like I'm washing my head, and no matter how much product I use, it stubbornly retains the texture of angel hair, and I end up with little filaments of hair waving merrily on the top of my head. It makes me crazy every morning. Lately I've taken to wearing headbands, which helps a little, but I'm really just getting sick of the whole damned thing. Besides, it's now time for me to bleach my roots, and I seriously doubt that the pathetic strands I have left will withstand ten or fifteen minutes under the dryer with bleach on them. I'd end up having to shave my head anyway. Perhaps by the time I write next I will have taken the plunge.

My mood has improved considerably in the last two weeks, and I'm no longer jumping down people's throats at the slightest provocation, which saves a great deal of trouble, as I don't have to keep going back to people to say I'm sorry. I'm still overly emotional, though. I watched a movie last night and sobbed like a heartbroken child through the last ten or fifteen minutes of it. The movie was a tearjerker, but still, half a box of Kleenex is a bit excessive. I'm happy that I'm able to feel, though, no matter what I'm feeling. Becoming a living, breathing, feeling human being is the best thing that ever happened to me, and I'm grateful for the gamut of human emotion which is now available to me because I'm clean.

Principles before personalities

I'm not really in the mood to write an entry, but if I don't do it now another week will go by and I'll feel like a big loser for having abandoned my blog. Instead of writing last Sunday I went to the NA speaker meeting at the Harbor and stood at the podium for forty minutes, telling my story. Speaker meetings are common as blackberries in NA, and I've spoken many times, more than I can count without racking my memory, but I've never grown used to telling my story. I don't like speaking in public under any circumstances, in which I realize I'm not alone -- public speaking is the number one phobia -- but this sort of speaking is even more terrifying than most because it requires the speaker to talk at length about the intimate history of her addiction. Anyone who has never tried it probably thinks that you can edit as you speak and choose which facts to divulge and which to keep to yourself, but that's not quite how it is. Yes, there are things I've determined never to share from the podium, and as long as I make up my mind about them ahead of time, I'm pretty safe from blurting them out, but otherwise anything goes. I never know what's going to come out of my mouth. Anyway, I didn't commit any fearful indiscretions at this particular meeting, as far as I can remember, but as usual I was afraid I was boring the audience to death. The room was packed, and it's disconcerting to look out across that sea of faces and know that every single one of them is looking at me. Mercifully, the ordeal doesn't last that long, and soon enough I was able to make my escape.

Earlier that day there had been a slight explosion at the Area Service Conference, which left a bad taste in my mouth for the rest of the day. I made a brief announcement that the members of the step and tradition study had decided to allow that meeting to fold. We felt that a quick and painless end was preferable to a long, drawn-out deathbed scene, and the meeting was doomed anyway. Attendance had dwindled to the point where often there were only three of us there, week after week. This announcement had the effect of stirring up a shitstorm. As soon as I said my piece, one person said, "I don't think a meeting should be allowed to end like that, without letting the Area know ahead of time." My response to that was to quote tradition four at him: each group should be autonomous except in matters affecting other groups or NA as a whole. Then several more people chimed in, saying, essentially, that step studies are so important that more effort should be made to save this one.

At that point I lost my temper. "Whose effort? Mine? Because I'm finished making an effort on behalf of this meeting. I've opened the door and set up the room every week for six months, watching every other person who made a one-year commitment to that meeting drift away, until the only people who were left were Allen, Christopher and me. If you all are so concerned about keeping this meeting going, where the fuck were you when the three of us were sitting there staring at each other for an hour every Wednesday? We discussed it more than once at our business meetings; had you bothered to show up, you would have been given a voice in the decision-making process. Now, if anyone really wants to keep this meeting going, I've still got the binder with the format and readings in it, and I'll give you the key to the room. You can take over. If you're not willing, then I suggest you shut your mouth."

I thought that would be the end of it, but there were still a couple of diehard Mrs Grundys who were determined to blame someone for what they perceived to be mismanagement. Finally my friend Paul spoke up. Paul has been clean for 21 years and is every inch an elder in NA in Santa Barbara. He has only to open his mouth and people stop what they're doing to listen. Which is as it should be. He never says anything that isn't worth hearing. He reminded everybody, once again, that each group is autonomous, and then he added, "I think you all owe Hep Cat a vote of thanks for all her hard work and her commitment to keeping that meeting going as long as she did. The fact is that some meetings don't last, and Santa Barbara has had a hard time keeping a step and tradition study going. So instead of sitting here blaming her for doing what would have had to be done at some point anyway, maybe you should try being grateful that at least we had a step and tradition study in this town for six months." My hero. That at least shut everybody up and the meeting was able to move on to other topics.

That episode, though, sent me over the edge as far as the ASC is concerned. I've had Area level commitments for years, and have been at nearly every ASC since early 2005, with a break of a few months when I moved away briefly. I think I have burned myself out on the ASC, at long last. I need a break. I'm still willing to sit on the ad hoc committee I'm on, but I need to take at least a couple of months off from ASC attendance. I'm sure I'll miss it and come back refreshed, but if I keep going I may end up souring myself on Area service for good.

Do I have anything to report about my Interferon treatment? Well, I'm getting closer to the day when I'll have to shave my head, but as of today I still have a few hairs. I've noticed that my hair isn't growing. I have an easy way of seeing how fast my hair grows because I have it bleached every six weeks, so I can see the growth as the roots come in darker. Hair grows at the rate of about half an inch a month (mine actually grows a bit faster than that, normally), but after five weeks of growth, my roots are not even a quarter of an inch long. My hair is much lighter than it used to be, too. The roots are barely visible unless I look at my head from a certain angle in a certain light. I'm hanging onto what I've got for the time being, although it takes more and more effort to hide the patchiness, and probably I'll just be relieved after I take the clippers to it. Out shopping I've seen some cute hats, and I even saw some pretty headbands which would do to make the bald effect less stark without my having to swelter under a hat. Probably that won't be much of an issue, though, since winter is approaching, but I do live in Southern California. You never know.

Apart from that, things are pretty good. I talked to a friend last night about some recent spasms of ungovernable temper I've had, including my having snarled at everyone at the ASC, and he told me that his friend had the same problem. He said his friend is normally the nicest guy in the world, laid back and tolerant, but since he's been on the Interferon he's been snappish and nasty. So perhaps that explains it. I've got two other reasons as well -- quitting smoking and perimenopause -- which makes me think that maybe it's a combination of all three. It's only come up in the last month or so, and I'm hoping it will fade away, at least somewhat, before too long. I don't like having to apologize to people all the time.

And that's enough for today.

Artistic hair

Uh oh. The most dreaded side effect of all has appeared: I'm losing my hair. When I first started the treatment a friend of mine told me that she lost a lot of hair in the last three months of her treatment with Interferon. This woman has a lot of hair -- much more than she needs -- so possibly she just didn't notice the loss until nine months into her treatment. I, on the other hand, have extremely fine hair of medium abundance, and I noticed almost immediately that it was thinning in the front. I've got male-pattern baldness, with that uneven receding hairline that some men get. Soon I'll just have a patch of hair on the top and a horseshoe shape on the back and sides. Actually, the hair seems to be falling out all around the edges, so I have an all-around receding hairline.

I'm not really all that upset about it. If I had long, beautiful hair I would probably be plunged into deep mourning, but my hair is very short and very bleached. There's not enough of it to mourn. Probably when it gets really thin I'll just shave my head and have fun with wigs and hats. Well, with hats, anyway. Wigs are too expensive. The American Cancer Society web site has reasonably-priced wigs for sale, but nothing I would be caught dead in. They're all much too matronly. I talked to a couple of people about it at the meeting last night, and when I said I might buy a wig, one of them said, "No! You don't need a wig. You have a beautifully-shaped head. You should just let it be bald." I thanked him for those few kind words but explained that I'm a bit long in the tooth to walk around with a bald head. I've shaved my head several times in my life, but I was young then. What looks good when you're twenty doesn't look so hot when you're forty-four. I like having bangs. They hide a multitude of sins. The man steadfastly disagreed with me, telling me that I would look good with a shaved head at any age. Well, I suppose we will find out which of us is right before we're much older.

I've dealt with this before, the loss of hair caused by medication. One side effect of thyroid replacement is hair loss, but only in the first few months of treatment. When I started on Synthroid I had shoulder-length, dyed-black hair, and I noticed right away when it started falling out because it was all over everything. There it was, in the bathroom, in my car, on my clothes. I swear I left a little trail of hair behind me wherever I went. I never did have to shave it off, though. I decided, after examining it in the mirror and seeing how pathetically thin it was, that it might be a good idea to cut it short and bleach it. Short hair can be volumized and bleach makes each individual hair thicker, so I could create the illusion of hair. So I went to my stylist and had her give me the haircut I had for most of the eighties: short and bleached and spiky. I liked it so much that I've kept it ever since, with frequent modifications as I get bored with one style or other. That episode wasn't overly traumatic, but I have a feeling that this time I'm in for a lot more hair loss. I've already lost more hair in the front this time than I did last time; I'm having difficulty styling it so that the sparse patches don't show. Also, the texture is different. Each hair seems thin, dull, dry and brittle. Continued use of the blow dryer may have fatal consequences to the little hair I've got left. The man I talked to last night has a pair of clippers, and he told me to call him whenever I'm ready. We shall see.

Apart from that, side effects have been minimal this week. My lungs are okay -- not perfect, but good enough. The farther away I get from my last cigarette the more I see that smoking did contribute to the problem, because even when I'm feeling breathless now it's not anywhere near as bad as it was when I was still smoking.

I can't think of a damned thing to add to that. I seem to have nothing on my mind this evening. I'm just waiting for it to get dark so I can get cozy and watch the movie I rented. Ah, well, maybe I'll be more entertaining next week.

Regret and redemption

The weeks are flying past. This particular week wasn't distinguished in any way except that I've had quite a few bad lung days. It rained for a couple of days and that moist air is the worst weather for my lungs. When the rain stopped we were treated to an incredible heat wave: on Friday I drove home from work in my lovely air-conditioned car, and when I got off the freeway at about 5:45 I noticed that the outside temperature was 91 degrees. Ouch! The heat dried things out and left me with dry mucous in my chest and my sinuses. My nose has taken to bleeding daily, and occasionally I'll blow a chunk of dryish, bloody snot out of it, after which my sinuses feel clearer and I can breathe better for awhile. Excuse the crudity. But that dry mucous won't come out of my chest. It rattles around in there and won't budge. I've been jumping on my trampoline the last two days and my ankle has been fine while my lungs have not. I keep feeling lightheaded and I don't have much stamina.

I thought I'd get the side effects out of the way first, since they're sort of what this blog is supposed to be about, but they aren't what has been occupying me for the last week. Lately I've been consumed with regret over the past, which is very unlike me. I've always maintained that regret is a waste of time, which of course it is. What about the past can I change? Nothing. So what's the point of wishing it was different? All it does is rob me of the present, as I waste my time mooning over what might have been. I fully believe all of that, yet in the last week I've spent much of my time going over the past and wishing, futilely, that I hadn't wasted my life. I started using at fourteen and didn't get clean until I was 33, apart from a three-year hiatus in my mid-twenties, and during those nineteen years I jacked around, getting loaded, not working, not doing anything worthwhile. I went to college and came within three classes of my BA before I dropped out to pursue my addiction full-time. I spent most of my time and energy hiding from life and seeking out oblivion in one form or another, and now I look back at that and think, "What a fucking waste. Why did I not know what was important?" I even came up with a fantastic scenario of what my life would have looked like had I been able to oversee my own upbringing, had I been there to give myself encouragement and to teach me the joys of delayed gratification and the value of working toward something I want. I have experienced the most intense longing I've ever felt to go back and do it over, like a video game, taking with me what I've learned this time.

Possibly because of that, all week there has been something simmering under the surface which I think is starting to come up now. The other day I found myself arguing with myself about something and I suddenly recognized that I was inhabited by two different people. I recognized two distinct voices in my mind, and this set something in motion which yesterday's entry in Just For Today, about the fluidity of truth, kicked up a notch. It came bursting out of me at the meeting last night in an incoherent stream of consciousness which helped me to see where I'm headed. I think. When I opened my mouth to share I identified, as usual, and said, "I think I have something to say." I apologized in advance if I was incomprehensible, but I was literally thinking out loud, exploring new territory with my voice instead of my pen. What I'm coming to see is that I'm not one person but many, that I am a collection of selves and I have many distinct voices within me, not just two. I've always thought that I was working toward integration, that by working the steps and examining myself I would attain unity of self, if that phrase is possible. But it hasn't worked that way. Working the steps has allowed me to see that I am composed of many selves, and to be okay with that.

I've always been rigid. Too rigid. I've always wanted things to mean one thing and one thing only, for good and all. I want to pin things down and file them away because that makes me feel more secure. I desire an ordered universe, so I put the universe in order all by myself. I'm coming to see, though, that by working the steps I have developed enough faith and self-assurance that I can relax my paralyzing grip on continuity. Life is fluid. The truth is fluid. I am fluid. Flux is the only constant, and what was true yesterday may not be true today. All of my life I've been almost pathological about consistency. I carry around a mostly-unconscious assumption that I have a consistent core, an unchanging self which is expressed by my personality, and so if I deviate from the way I've always seen myself, I feel I'm being untrue to my essential self. But now I'm not sure there's an essential self to betray.

What if, when I disentangle all of the myriad strands of personality which make up what I think of as my self, I find that those strands are all there is, that there is no core? The thought is terrifying, but why should it be? What has my personality got to do with my essential being? I will shed both my body and my personality when I die, and my being will return to its ground, which, of course, it never really left. The person I think of as "I" is not a person at all but a complex of personae, some of which are at odds with others.

There's some sort of connection between that train of thought and the illumination I received this morning as I jumped on my trampoline, but I can't find it at the moment. As I jumped, my mind flitted from one idea to another, as it tends to do, and before too long it arrived at step eight ("We made a list of all persons we had harmed and became willing to make amends to them all."). When I told my sponsor, after I presented my writing on step seven, that I have no one to put on my eighth step list this time, she insisted that I work it anyway, on myself, which annoyed me no end. It seemed like a waste of time to me, and I have an entrenched opinion that we shouldn't put ourselves on our eighth step list. Steps eight and nine are about other people. I make amends to myself by working all of the steps. I agreed to do it, however, because Kim is my sponsor and I take her direction, although I wasn't in any hurry to begin it.

So, anyway, as I jumped I thought about step eight and about what I might be making amends to myself for, and suddenly the light dawned. Illumination came flooding in. All of this grieving I've been doing lately, this regret I've been feeling so acutely over all the missed opportunities and all the years I wasted chasing after oblivion, it's all part of the process. I think I've arrived at step eight at last. I needed to go through that all-consuming anger at my parents, to purge myself of it and forgive them before I could get down to the slow-burning anger I felt toward myself, to the self-blame which lay at the back of what I shoved off onto my parents. My job now is to forgive myself for having wasted my life. If I don't, I will waste what time I've got left nursing this useless regret and not allowing myself to move forward.

I'm not dead yet. There's still hope. There are some things I can't do; some doors have closed for good. But there's no reason in the world why I can't oversee my own upbringing now, starting today, and give myself the good foundation for adulthood that I need and deserve. I may not be nineteen anymore, but the world is still my oyster.

All tomorrow's party dresses

It's been a busy weekend, and, alas, it will soon be over. I didn't have time to write yesterday morning because I had plans all day, so here I am, on Sunday afternoon. I think Saturday morning is not the best time to write my blog in any case. Usually I don't feel like sitting at the computer because I've spent all week in front of one, besides which, usually I've already written myself out in my journal. So I may write on Sunday or Monday night from now on.

I went to the ophthalmologist on Tuesday, and, as predicted, he said the blurred vision is a side effect of the Interferon. He added that it's caused by dry eyes, and he gave me some artificial tears, which I've had a hard time remembering to use. I talked to him about my Horner's Syndrome while I was there, expressing the opnion that at the rate it's drooping, my right eye will be completely closed by the time I'm fifty. He said, "You know you can have that corrected, don't you?" I said, "Yes, but I can't afford plastic surgery," and he stunned me by saying that the procedure would probably be covered by my insurance because it's corrective and not simply cosmetic. Oh my God. Please let me have this! Have I mentioned the Horner's Syndrome in here? I can't remember if I have or not, so, at the risk of repeating myself, I'll describe it. Horner's Syndrome is a condition which affects the eye and is caused by a pinched or damaged nerve in the chest or neck. Mine was caused by the Graves' Disease: when my thyroid went into overdrive and swelled, instead of growing plump it grew tall, thereby pinching that nerve and causing my right eye to droop, swell and generally make a nuisance of itself. The symptoms are better now that my thyroid levels are back to normal, but the damage has already been done. The eyelid swelled and shrank so many times that it's stretched out. I have a little nest of wrinkles in the corner which makes it difficult to apply eyeliner. Also, the lid is puffy and droopy, making me look cock-eyed. Last but not least, the lid is distorted on the lash line, so that I have two levels of eyelashes on that eye. It looks odd. The ophthalmologist gave me a referral to an ocular specialist, with whom I have an appointment next month. I'm sure the procedure will cost me a fair amount even if my insurance covers it, but I'm willing to make payments in order to have my eye fixed, and it's a fairly simple procedure which can be done in the office, so it can't be too expensive.

On Thursday afternoon my ankle swelled up like a football and was so painful that I could barely push in the clutch to drive home, so I went back to the Urgent Care and talked to another doctor, who spent more time with me and explained my injury more clearly. He expressed the opinion that I was slowing the healing process by moving my ankle too much, and he gave me an "air cast," which I've been wearing every day since, and it's done wonders. The pain is nearly gone and the swelling is way down. I've finally begun to believe that it will be healed someday and I will be back on my trampoline at some point. I have exercises to do when I'm not wearing the cast, to stretch the muscles and keep the ankle from stiffening in one position, but apart from that I'm doing my best not to move it at all or cause it any sort of trauma. The doctor I talked to on Thursday said he's seen ligament injuries take as long to heal as a break, so I've stopped cursing and have settled down to wait.

Of course, my vanity and my desire to play dress-up are at odds with my desire for healing. My friend Rebecca had a party yesterday, and I wanted to wear a mini skirt with black tights and boots, but I can't wear heels unless I want to add an extra week or two to my healing time, so I went to Nordstrom and bought a pair of combat-inspired boots by Steve Madden. I'd seen them there a few weeks ago and salivated over them, but decided reluctantly that I could buy either them or the cut-out booties, and I went for the cut-out booties. But then I injured myself and have been unable to wear the damned cut-out booties! I thought it over on Friday night and decided that clothing and shoes are more important than CDs, so I'm going to sell my entire CD collection to pay for my shopping habit. I have over 300 CDs, so even if I only get $1 apiece for them, I'm doing pretty well. I'll just rip them all to my hard drive and get rid of the lot. With that in mind, it was a joy to walk into Nordstrom and buy the boots I'd been coveting. I wore them to the party but was unable to stay longer than an hour because my ankle was killing me. When I got home I kept wearing the cute little outfit I had on, but took off the left boot and replaced it with my air cast. Ahh, relief! It's not a thing of beauty, but it is a joy forever.

While I was out running around yesterday I'd also intended to get a cheap black denim mini skirt and a pair of black leggings from Forever 21, which is the ultimate teeny-bopper store. I hate going in there because the music is awful, it's full of children, and I wouldn't touch most of their stuff with a barge pole, but their prices are amazingly low. I seriously doubt that their sweatshop workers are making ends meet. After scouring all three levels, however, I was unable to find the mini skirt I'd seen online, and they didn't seem to have any leggings left, either. I wandered through Paseo Nuevo mall, looking in various shops to see if they had a black denim mini skirt, but was unable to find one, so I determined to buy it and the leggings online and pay the shipping. I was grumpy, though, when I got home and I didn't want to deal with Forever 21 and its bad photos. I couldn't tell what the skirt really looked like from the photo, which is why I'd wanted to try it on in the store, so instead of buying it I went to the Topshop web site and spent $50 on their black denim mini skirt. My CDs had better sell.

Later I learned that I could have got the boots for half price because my friend Melissa's boyfriend works at the Steve Madden shop in the Mall of America, and she would have been willing to get them for me and ship them to me. But it's too late now. The two of us sat on the phone for a couple of hours yesterday afternoon, shopping online together. After drooling over everything we can't afford at Shopbop, we looked at all the Steve Madden shoes, and I decided that I have to have a pair called the Wrappp bootie. They're adorable. So, when my CDs sell, I'll send her $85 and she can get them for me. So it all works out.

I have to take a moment to express my gratitude that what's occupying my mind these days is the frivolous absurdity of fashion and not the host of side effects I could be experiencing. When I think of what my friend Shawna went through on Interferon, I'm inexpressibly grateful. Each week that passes with minimal side effects is a triumph.

Just one last thing before I sign off for the week. I've noticed that my emotions have intensified quite a lot since I quit smoking, which is saying a lot because they were pretty intense before, thank you very much. Also they fluctuate wildly: one minute I'm giddy with inexplicable elation and the next I'm prone on the floor in the throes of suicidal despair. I don't feel like I'm on a roller coaster so much as in a pinball machine, ricocheting all over the table in the most disconcerting way. I've noticed it all along and have even commented on it here, but I didn't connect it with having quit smoking until the other day. Because it hasn't been difficult for me not to smoke I suppose I just sort of assumed I wouldn't have any of the other symptoms associated with quitting, but now that I know I am, I have to say I'm glad of it. I'm always happy when what I do is "typical," when I have the usual symptoms of this or that, because I'm sure it means I'm doing it right. I know that I value things I have to work for much more than things that come easily to me, and I was afraid that if it was too easy to quit smoking, I wouldn't have enough protection against it if I felt the urge to smoke. So, according to my friends who have quit, I'm in for about two years of steadily decreasing emotional symptoms, which is okay by me. I went through a couple of years of changes when I got clean; I can do this, too.

Deaf, dumb, blind and lame, but strangely happy nonetheless

Oh dear, two weeks have passed without a post from me. What a slacker. My excuse for not writing last weekend is that I was planning and throwing a party. My landlady was out of town for three weeks, and she said it would be okay if I had a small party while she was gone. So I invited about twelve women to come over last Sunday for food and games. It was a lot of fun, but I've decided that next time I have a party I'm going to make all of the food in advance so I don't have to spend half the party in the kitchen, cooking the pasta, dressing the salad, heating the bread. Even with that inconvenience, though, the party was fun. I love Victorian parlor games.

I kept meaning to write during the week this week, but somehow it just didn't happen. I don't like sitting at the computer because I've done something terrible to my ankle, which has kept me off my trampoline since Monday. It started the week before last, and was just a twinge, so I ignored it and kept jumping on my trampoline every morning until it became too painful to do so. Since it seemed to be getting worse, I went into the Urgent Care on Monday for an X-ray, fearing that by continuing to jump while in pain I may have done crucial damage. The doctor said I strained some ligaments, gave me an Ace bandage and told me to keep off it for a day or two. Well, okay, but it's been five days since then and the ankle is no better. It doesn't feel like ligaments to me. It feels like something is wrong with the joint, inside. Of course, my idiocy in having worn my new four-inch cutout booties to the meeting on Tuesday night probably didn't help. I felt no pain at all while I was wearing them, though. In fact, the pain was better when I had them on. And they're so cute that I just couldn't resist. The next day, though, when my ankle was worse, I vowed to eschew heels in favor of flats and to stay off my feet as much as possible until my ankle is healed, and that's what I've done ever since. Not that it's helped. The ankle is more swollen now than it's ever been, and a bruise has formed. If it's not significantly better by, say, Tuesday, I'll probably have to go back to the doctor. I really want to get back on my trampoline. I've noticed an increase in my irritability since I haven't been jumping.

I'm extra broke this pay period, but I'm not sure why. My only real extravagance, the cutout booties, I paid for with my credit card, so that didn't affect my bank account. I did buy a ticket to see Grizzly Bear at the Hollywood Palladium on the 20th of this month, but that wasn't enough to create dire poverty. I'm not sure what the cause is, but I'm on such a strict budget right now that I can't even afford the traditional post-ASC breakfast with my friend David tomorrow. ASC stands for Area Service Conference, and it's the monthly meeting of all of the local NA groups. I always have some sort of Area commitment, and at the moment I'm sitting on an ad hoc committee for the purpose of doing an Area-wide inventory, to see if there are improvements we can make in our efforts to serve NA and its members and groups, as well as the larger community. This means that I have to show up at the ASC every month and give a little speech. I always look forward to breakfast afterwards, and it's too bad that I can't go this month. Maybe David will take pity on me and buy me breakfast this time.

I would be able to go if I didn't have to go see the ophthalmologist on Tuesday to have my blurred vision checked out, but I need my breakfast money for the co-pay. The last couple of weeks I've noticed that my vision has been blurry, not all the time but often enough to be bothersome, so when I refilled my Interferon prescription last week I talked to a pharmacist about it. Sure enough, blurred vision is a side effect. The pharmacist said I should have it checked by an ophthalmologist, just to make sure it is, in fact, a side effect and not something else. I think it's a bit pointless, myself, but I talked to Judy about it and she insisted that I make the appointment. So, there goes another $20 co-pay and three and a half hours of missed work, just so I can be told that the blurred vision is a side effect.

The other side effect I'm having is that I bruise easily. A few weeks ago I started noticing little bruises all over the place, but I couldn't remember having bumped myself hard enough for a bruise to form. I thought I must be extra clumsy lately, but eventually it dawned on me that the slightest bump results in a bruise forming. I talked to Judy about the bruising and she said that it might be from taking Advil, which I take two or three times a week for headaches, and more often lately because of my ankle. I suppose the headaches must be a side effect as well because I never used to have to take Advil. I'm not sure why that only just occurred to me. Anyway, Judy said that if I don't mind going around looking like a battered woman, it won't hurt me to keep taking the Advil.

Since I didn't write last week I wasn't able to crow over the fact that I am now past the halfway point in my treatment. The second half began a week ago yesterday, so it's all downhill from here. Now that my lungs are behaving themselves, for the most part (I still have a bad lung day every so often, and my voice is still pretty thrashed), I don't really mind the treatment so much. And now that my thyroid levels are perfect, and have been for some time, I can see how much of my recent misery was caused by hypothyroidism and not by the Interferon treatment. Because I feel so great, physically, I have an irrepressible sense of well-being, most of the time. The well-being may also have something to do with my having completed step seven, but whatever the cause, I'm grateful for it.

Now the only thing I have to wish for is that my ankle would heal quickly so I can jump on my trampoline again.

LIfe, liberty and the pursuit of frivolity

Well well well. Here it is, Saturday again and I've got almost nothing on my mind. It struck me this morning that I do my Interferon shot on Friday night and then promptly forget about it. It has so little outward impact on me that it's difficult to remember how hard it is on my body. I feel no obvious effects from my low red and white cell counts, and the breathlessness has all but disappeared. I still have gunk in my chest and throat -- it rattles around in there but doesn't come up or get worse -- and my voice is husky because of that and because my throat always seems dry, but my breathing is fine. Now that my thyroid levels are good, I feel fabulous most of the time, physically, at any rate.

And really, I should point out, if only to myself, that I feel pretty damned good emotionally, most of the time. I do have those awful moments of despair, but they don't last, and more often than not I have a smile on my face. Life is good, despite the poverty, the drudgery, the loneliness and the Interferon. I still hate my job, but at least it doesn't feel like hell anymore. The flurry of activity engendered by our switch to all-digital has died down and our office has become the sleepy little workplace it used to be. Almost. We're having a run on disconnects and new installs right now because many of our customers are in the military, and the military shuffles its personnel around periodically, but even that is normal. It happens a few times a year. So I think I'll be able to put up with it until my treatment is finished and I can start looking for something more congenial and closer to home. It would be great if Obama could get his health care reform package passed in its current state, but I won't be holding my breath on that one. I strongly agree with the assertion that health care should be available to everyone and that it shouldn't be attached to employment, and it makes me shudder to hear these right-wing nut jobs shrieking about health care being a privilege and not a right. What? And these people claim to be Christian? I don't get it. And have they heard of the UN? They might not like the UN, but this country is a member of that body, and the US as an entity agreed with the UN's pronouncement that health care is a basic human right. That discussion is over. It ended a long time ago. We agreed.

Okay, I didn't mean to climb onto my soapbox.

I've kept my profile up on the dating site all this time but haven't mentioned it because there really hasn't been anything to mention. I've corresponded with a few men, most of whom live in LA, but I didn't get excited about any of them, nor did I want to meet any of them. Last night I got a message from an intelligent, educated, cultured man who lives in Santa Barbara. He talked about English history and Beethoven's Kreutzer Sonata, both of which I mentioned in my profile, and he seems interesting. And funny. So what's the problem? The problem is that he's 56. And bald. He's not attractive -- at least, not to me. Also, he seems a bit prissy. I decided to sleep on it and write back in the morning, but this morning I felt even less inclined to respond than I did last night. I forced myself to write back, however, telling myself that perhaps he's more attractive in person than in photos. Many people are. Still, I'm not interested in an old man. I suppose it makes me shallow, but looks are somewhat important to me, and I'm not attracted to old men. As intelligent and cultured as this man is, the only thing I feel at the thought of meeting him is dread.

It's not just his looks, though. How can I take a 56-year-old, classical music-loving lawyer to see Emily Wells? Or Department of Eagles? I want someone younger, and hipper, someone whose tastes coincide, more or less, with mine. I want to run around with someone. I don't want to walk sedately into the opera house on the arm of a staid old bald man. I want to have fun, to go to SXSW and Coachella, and down to LA to see music or go to obscure art exhibitions. My problem is that I've stayed young, which could simply be called immaturity, but it's more than that. I've led such a different sort of life that I have trouble relating to people my own age or older.

This may not last, but at the moment I'm in a place where the earnest pursuit of culture has become a bore. Frivolity is the order of the day, and it seems that much of my mind lately is taken up with clothing and shoes. I have fun jumping on my trampoline, wandering around downtown going window-shopping, and playing dress-up. Last year I announced that I was ripping up my garden and starting over; I vowed to pull out all of the vegetables and plant a profusion of flowers. And that's what I've been doing. I'm even thinking of taking a class in swing dancing or ballroom dancing, except that I'm such a klutz that it might just be an embarrassment. I've taken dance classes before, in college, but once I discovered that not only do I have a terrible difficulty with learning the steps in the first place but I can't retain them even overnight, I gave up on dance. Each class was a frustrating attempt to play catch-up. So we shall see.

And now it's time to go water and weed my real garden, with its profusion of nasturtiums.

Climbing out of the pit

I'm feeling a little better this week, although my life is just as uncongenial as it was before. I just can't stay in that slough of self-pity for very long. The best cure for it is to take an interest in someone else and stop thinking so much about how much my life sucks, so that's what I did. I went to four meetings this week and listened to everyone else's problems and triumphs, which allowed me to forget my own for awhile and supplied the added benefit of opening up my connection to others through empathy and compassion.

I was given an opportunity to practice patience, as well. As I left the women's meeting on Thursday I was buttonholed by a woman whose conversation bores me nearly to death, and as she held me hostage for twenty deadly minutes I had occasion to be grateful for being myself. As she went droning on about the various wrongs she had suffered at other people's hands, it occurred to me that I'd rather live a life bereft of people than have what this woman has. Her life is filled with people, whom she invites to abuse her in one way or another so that she can wallow in her victimhood.

Not that I haven't got my own version of victimhood (last week's entry being a perfect example). It's just not like that. I used to make jokes about the Universal Conspiracy Against Hep Cat (that sounds funny, but I don't want to use my name), but the conspiracy, as I saw it, was impersonal. I didn't feel that other people were deliberately inflicting pain on me, or that God was singling me out for suffering in some malicious way. I've never been able to blame other people for what they do, or at least, not for long. My relentless honesty refuses to allow it. I tried pointing out to the woman last night, as she complained of having been used and abused by her former fiance, that because she voluntarily placed her neck under his foot, she can't very well blame him now for stepping on it. She said, "Yes, I know," but I don't think she does know. I've never met anyone who focuses more on other people's behavior. She seems incapable of looking at her own part in things. But she has stayed clean for over five years, and she's better now than she used to be, so there's hope. She reminds me of that old joke about the co-dependent who wakes up in the morning and says to her partner, "How do I feel today?" but there's always room for people to change.

So there it is, a simple solution to the ongoing irritation of my own inner victim. Another is to go and have some fun, which I was able to do last weekend, and which I'm planning to do today. My friend Rebecca, who was so helpful with my garden, has a bluegrass band which is playing this afternoon at Cold Springs Tavern. I was planning to go by myself, but on a whim I emailed my niece, who lives in Ojai, to invite her to go with me. She accepted happily, so she's going to meet me here later and we'll drive to the show together. A couple of weeks ago she invited me to an art opening in Ventura. I wanted to go, but it was the day of Kim's sponsee get-together, so I couldn't make it. But we agreed to let each other know when we found something fun to do, as both of us are starved for culture and living among philistines who don't care one way or the other.

I've been thinking that it would be a good idea if I started paying more attention to the UCSB Arts & Lectures series. They often have good stuff, but I never go, either because I forget about it or because I don't want to go by myself. My niece might want to go sometimes, which makes it a more appealing prospect. I don't want to miss Anne Lamott the next time she comes through, and there's music from all over the world. A big reason why I don't like working so far away from where I live is that I feel less like a Santa Barbaran because of it. I spend forty hours a week in another town, and I have to adjust myself every day as I leave here and come back here. Possibly availing myself of the culture on offer here will help to make me feel more at home.

I suppose I should mention Interferon at least once before I close. Last night I did my 26th shot, which means I have 28 to go. I'm almost halfway. The past week has been very nearly free of side effects, apart from the insomnia and the husky voice. I feel really good, physically; my lungs are clear, I have plenty of energy, and I'm able to spend quite a lot of time on my trampoline, which helps to mitigate the depression. I know that things can change in a moment, so I'm reveling in it while it lasts.

Getting in touch with my inner Eeyore

I didn't write last week because I had nothing to say. I don't have much to say this week, either, but I don't want to get out of the habit of writing or this will end up being one of those ghostly blogs cluttering up cyberspace, and we can't have that, can we?

The update on the Interferon is that I've passed 24 weeks, which, had my virus behaved itself, would mark the halfway point, but since it took its sweet time going away, I've got three weeks to go before I'm halfway. The good news is that my viral load is still negative and my red and white counts are "holding their own," according to Judy. They're both still low, but they're not so low that we need to do anything drastic. Apart from the insomnia, which probably won't go away until the treatment is over, I haven't had any side effects in the last two weeks. I haven't even filled the prescription Dr H gave me for an inhaler because my lungs have been fine. The weather changed from chilly and overcast to sunny and ninety degrees every day, which may have something to do with that. The only unusual thing I've noticed is occasional aching and stiffness in my bones and muscles, like I'm about to get sick. It happens for a day or two, usually later in the week, five or six days after I do my shot, and then it goes away. I asked Judy about it and she said it might be a side effect. Well, that's good to know. If it's a side effect, that's fine. It's not anything I can't live with. But if it's not a side effect, then I'd like to know what it is. I suppose I'll find out next year, when the treatment is over. If it never happens again, I'll know it was a side effect.

Apart from that, I'm in something of a lull. No emotional or spiritual upheaval, no drama, nothing interesting going on in my life or in my mind. I'm a bit bored. I have no friends, nothing to compensate me for the tedium and drudgery of my job and the crushing poverty I can't seem to get out from under.

I don't want to complain. It does no good and it just makes me feel worse in the end. But the only thing that keeps me going is the thought that things will change soon, that I won't have to endure the poverty, the drudgery and the loneliness for very much longer. The problem is that I'm losing hope. Nothing has changed and nothing looks likely to change. From where I sit I see a dreary vista of more of the same stretching off into infinity. I'll spend the next two years toiling away at a job I hate for the privilege of paying off my car, and another year saving enough money to move someplace cheaper, all so that I can start all over, again, at the age of 47.

I can't do this a day at a time for the next thirty or forty years. Something has got to change. I've been in this rut for the last seven years, ever since my sponsor relapsed and our tight little circle broke up. I've been alone and bored and poor. I've been alone even when I wasn't: the last boyfriend I had taught me that being with someone just because he likes me is lonelier than being alone.

If I had a friend I think I could endure the rest of it. I sat at a meeting a couple of weeks ago in which the topic was gratitude, and as I listened to my fellow members talk about the things they were grateful for, I felt increasingly alone and different. They all have problems, of course, but not in all of the big areas of their lives, not all at once. Not when they have ten years clean, at any rate. They're grateful for their families, for the jobs they have that they love, for their friends and the fun things they do with the people they love. I haven't got any of those things. It seems to me that if I could get relief in just one of the three problem areas of my life I would feel less despair and more hope. A friend makes up for a lot of lack.

But I don't have a friend. I don't have anyone to matter to. If I want to go downtown and go window shopping, I have to go by myself because there's no one in my life I can call and invite to go with me. Yes, I have "friends," but they're more like acquaintances. If I want to do something with any of them I have to make an appointment three weeks in advance. I have no one to be spontaneous with, no one to hang out with and watch movies or go for a walk or meet for coffee.

There's something to be said, of course, for living a day at a time, but the days tend to pile up behind a person. Spending years plodding through my days just in order to meet the bare minimum of requirements for life is not living. It's existing. I've got ten years clean and I haven't got a life. It must be my fault, but I don't know what more I can do. I've been trying to change things for the last six years, to no avail. I've asked my higher power to point me toward what I want, and since I'm still here, maybe this is what I want. I don't know. I'm not making any decisions right now because I know the Interferon affects my mood, but my feeling is that if I hit fifty and nothing has changed, I don't see any point in sticking around any longer. Why should I shuffle into old age and infirmity, alone and poor, if I don't have to? With no safety net -- no retirement plan, no spouse, no children, nothing to cushion me -- all I would have to look forward to would be pushing a shopping cart around and eating dog food, talking to myself because I have no one else to talk to. I don't want to be the crazy cat lady.

I just made myself laugh, so perhaps there's hope for me yet.

A broken record?

This has got to be the greyest, dreariest summer on record. Where is the sun? All the kids are getting ready to go back to school and summer hasn't even arrived yet. Today it's raining. In August. In southern California. It's muggy and heavy and wet, with a warm drizzle keeping everything moist. This is not great weather for my lungs, but they've been surprisingly good for the last week. I had a couple of bad lung days, but not as many as I would have expected, given the climatic conditions.

This morning I had to take my car to Santa Barbara Volkswagen, to have my passenger-side headlight replaced. When I bought my car I didn't realize how expensive it would be to maintain. I've owned many Bugs, all of the older variety, and they were cheap and easy to fix. I could do a lot of the work myself. Now I have a 2001 New Beetle and I can't even replace the headlight bulb myself. They have to remove the entire housing just to get to the bulb, so it costs me $45 every time a bulb goes. And then there was my $200 battery -- $150 for the actual battery and $50 for them to put it in for me. Two hundred dollars for a battery! Highway robbery! But it's a special kind of battery and that was how much it cost. Apart from the expense, though, I love my car. It's just like my old Bugs except that it's safe, quiet and comfortable, and it handles like a dream. And it's not a gross polluter. This is the first "nice" car I've ever owned, and I don't think I could go back now. I've grown used to having AC and electric windows and door locks and a sunroof and a Blaupunkt stereo. My favorite car in the whole world is the mid-seventies BMW 2002. I love those cute little boxes like nothing else and have yearned for one for at least twenty years. And now I suspect that if I got one I wouldn't like it because it isn't luxurious like my Beetle.

While I was wandering around downtown waiting for my car to be fixed, I bumped into a friend and fellow addict I haven't seen in awhile. We chatted for a bit and caught up, and then I asked her if she was planning to go to Matt's memorial a week from tomorrow. She said, "I don't go to the memorials of people who die of the disease." I was appalled and found myself arguing with her, but eventually I saw that not only was I not doing any good but I was making her angry. We simply disagree on the subject. As far as I'm concerned, blaming someone for relapsing or for dying of the disease of addiction is perilously close to taking credit for your own abstinence. It can be argued, of course, that those of us who stay clean do so because we choose to do the things that keep us clean, like go to meetings regularly and work steps and help other addicts, but underneath that is still the mystery of why we continue to be willing to do those things and others don't. I can't take credit for my own recovery. I can only be grateful that I'm still clean and still willing to do what it takes to stay clean. When someone I care about dies, I get angry at the disease, but not at the person. At the moment I'm trying to stretch my mind to see the other viewpoint. The woman I talked to today has stayed clean for eleven years. Obviously she's been doing something right, and she's not an arrogant person. I respect her opinions on other subjects. I want to be able to see other people's sides to questions. Actually, I can see her side, but I still think it's wrong. I can apply my criterion for grading an English paper: could a reasonable person hold this opinion? and answer yes to it, and I still think it's wrong. It's not an academic subject. It's literally life or death.

I thought about it on the way home and saw, suddenly, how much fear is behind my friend's opinion. When someone whose recovery seemed to be in good shape relapses after a long time clean, it's scary. It reminds us of the reality of the disease. All we can really say is, "There but for the grace of God go I." Relapse is a reality of recovery. People do it all the time and there are no guarantees, so it's natural for those of us who are still clean to want to reassure ourselves that it won't happen to us by pointing out to ourselves all of the things we do that the other person didn't do, or that the other person stopped doing. But that's just a sneaky way of taking credit for our own abstinence. It's the shortest route to ingratitude. My attitude on this is inflexible, apparently. I feel, to my core, that I'm right about it. Matt lost the willingness which had been granted to him when he got clean. He is to be mourned and pitied, not blamed and vilified.

It's now time to get ready to go to my sponsor's house for one of our infrequent gatherings of sponsees. I have no idea what to expect but usually it's a workout. Kim generally has some difficult topic or other for us to explore, and usually I'm a puddle of tears by the end of the session. Last time it was, "How do we set ourselves up to be victims?" and the time before that the topic was relationships. I don't know what it will be today, but I can almost guarantee that there will be some kind of catharsis.

I just realized that I said almost the same thing in this post that I said last week. Oh well, I suppose I just wasn't finished with that subject. Perhaps now I can lay it to rest. There wasn't much about Hep C or Interferon in this week's ramblings, but in a way that's a good thing, since it means there's nothing wrong this week.

Grace

I'm a day late. I just didn't feel like sitting in front of the computer yesterday, after the hellish week I had at work. I work for a tiny, Mom & Pop cable company, and last week we changed our entire system so that all of our customers now require digital boxes in order to get our service. One of our service areas is a retirement community, where we have somewhere between 400 and 500 elderly customers, which means that our phones have not stopped ringing since Tuesday. It was so insane that I contemplated quitting more than once. The only thing that stopped me was the thought that I would lose my health insurance if I quit. Next week will be just as bad, if not worse, but I suppose things will settle down eventually, as everybody gets used to the new boxes. But our 95 year-olds will probably always have trouble. One woman had her box installed by our technicians and it was working perfectly until she pushed the wrong button and lost the signal, whereupon she called me, crying, to ask me to send the technician back. Our technicians have been working fourteen-hour days, trying to get all the old people installed, but I sent one back over there. He fixed it for her, and then she called back a few hours later to say that she'd lost her signal again. "Why can't you put it back to the way it was before?" she wailed. "I didn't do anything to deserve this!" I really felt for her, but I couldn't spare another technician. Fortunately, this time we were able to talk her through the solution and help her get the channels back. But I know that she will be calling us every other day for the rest of her life, asking us to send a technician over to fix whatever she did wrong. And that's only one customer!

So. Anyway. Here I am, unrefreshed and unready for the work week to begin tomorrow. At least my viral load is still negative. My white count was acceptable as of my last labs, last Monday, so that's good too. The count is still low, but Judy said it's within acceptable limits for treatment. If it goes lower, I may have to go in occasionally to get a shot to stimulate white cell production. As for my hemoglobin, well, I'm slightly anemic, but Dr H seems to think that an ordinary multivitamin with iron will take care of the problem, so I started that on Tuesday. Normally I think vitamins are a waste of money and just give you really expensive pee. I can get all the nutrition I need in my food, as long as I eat well and avoid fast food and processed foods, but I recognize that my current situation isn't normal. I'd rather take an iron supplement than eat a slab of cow meat, although I will do my best to eat more tofu in the next eight months. I've discovered that Judy is a bit of an alarmist, so the next time she calls me with news of something unusual I'll reserve judgement and wait until I talk to Dr H about it. He wasn't nearly as concerned about my low red and white counts as she was.

Currently I'm serving as the secretary of the Saturday night meeting, which means that I have to arrive early to unlock the door and set up the room if it needs it. Last night I was doing just that when I got a phone call from a friend who told me that a friend of ours had died the night before. I knew before I picked up the phone that someone had died -- I've developed a sense about it, from years of practice. The man who died, my friend Matt, was an addict with a story somewhat similar to mine, only he sank even lower than I did before he got clean. The man was in a coma for six months after contracting tetanus from a dirty needle, for God's sake! And he had a head injury from falling down the stairs which caused him to be legally blind, not to mention all of the broken-off needles he had in his neck. I would have thought that if anyone had the credentials to stay clean for the rest of his life, it was Matt. But it doesn't work that way. A program of recovery is a daily thing. At about six years clean, Matt stopped going to meetings, saying they were "too negative." I tried to talk to him about it, but he was adamant. And then he married his girlfriend, a chronic relapser, and I didn't hear from him for over a year, until I got the news last night. I don't like to assume that people are using just because I don't see them or hear from them, but usually that's what they're doing, and that's what Matt was doing.

It was a blow. It always is, even when it's someone, like Matt, whom I'm not close to. We were never close friends, but I've known him for nearly thirty years. Losing him is like losing another piece of my youth. I'm tired of going to funerals. I sometimes think that the biggest difference between addicts and those so-called normal people is that the "normies" don't have to go to the funerals of young people every year. Last year I went to two funerals, one for my nephew Joel, and one for my old friend James. Both of them died of the disease of addiction, and there's at least one every year. It scares me when people stop going to meetings, and when I hear the voice of the disease in their words.

It makes me grateful, though, that I've been granted the willingness to do what it takes to stay clean a day at a time. As I said, a program of recovery is a daily thing. Every day I practice the principles of the program to the best of my ability, and I reinforce the habits I developed in my first couple of years clean. It's repetitive, and I hear many addicts say, "It's boring. It's the same thing over and over." Okay, it's the same thing over and over, but how much variety is there in the life of a using addict? I don't know about anyone else, but my life when I was using was incredibly narrow and predictable. It was like a really sick, indie version of Groundhog Day. The thing about working a program is that it goes against my natural inclination. That's why I have to exercise discipline in order to practice it, and why I need continual reminders of how bad it is out there where the using addicts are. If I veer off the path for awhile, my thinking starts to change and using doesn't seem so bad after all. That's what happens. I know, because it happened to me the first time around. It took nearly two years, but eventually I relapsed, and it was a hellish six and a half years before I was able to get clean again. That relapse nearly killed me, and I seriously doubt that I'd be able to make it back to recovery if I relapsed again.

But I can't take credit for my own recovery. There's a mystery at the heart of the twelve steps, and I like it that way. I don't want to understand everything. I don't know why I have the willingness to do what it takes to stay clean and Matt didn't. He had it for a long time -- he had seven years clean a year ago -- but somewhere along the way he lost it. As far as I'm concerned, it's grace. I was graced with desperation when I first got clean: I was desperate to get and stay clean and that made me willing to do whatever it took, no matter what. And it's grace that I continue to be willing a day at a time. I can't judge Matt for having turned his back on recovery. I didn't judge him at the time. It's cause for grief and for compassion, not for judgement. He lost the precious gift which every addict has who stays clean no matter what, the gift of willingness.

What?

I've discovered that my mood is very much dependent on my ability to breathe. When I can breathe just fine, I feel great and life seems like a good thing, but the moment the breathlessness hits I turn into Sad Sack and all I want is to go to bed and pull the covers over my head. Not being able to breathe makes everything harder, and things were hard enough before, thank you very much.

My lab results this week were dismal. I still have no viral load, but my white and my red blood cell counts are down. I'm not quite anemic yet, but I was only half a point away from it on Monday, which may explain the recent breathlessness during dry sunny weather. Judy was concerned enough that she's having me go back in for another blood draw on Monday. If the counts continue to drop we may have to lower my dosage, which would not be a good thing, considering how stubborn my particular virus is. I had a fever last night, which made me wonder if I had a sinus infection. I've got pain behind my eyes and in my forehead, and I feel pressure in my sinuses, although they don't seem to want to drain. The fever began in the afternoon at work: I noticed that I was shivering even though the temperature in the office was at least 75 degrees. I thought it might be from anemia, but by the time I got home I was feeling feverish and chilled. My temperature was 100, which isn't cause for concern. I decided that if I was much worse today I would call Judy and see if I should go to the Urgent Care. Under normal circumstances I wouldn't think twice about it, but with a low white count I think it might be wise to err on the side of caution.

I so rarely get sick that I'm a big baby when it happens. I want my mommy. Last night I lay in bed and tried to remember the last time I had a fever. I couldn't recall. About a year and a half ago I had a head cold, and about two years before that I had a head cold. Beyond that I can't remember. So I decided that maybe it was just my turn. I spent the entire night shivering and sweating and tossing and turning, so that when I woke up this morning I found a bird's nest of hair on the back of my head. But also, when I woke up this morning the fever was gone, so perhaps it was just a phantom fever which made an appearance for one night.

One last topic and then I'm finished. I feel vindicated in my assessment of the cause of my increasing deafness. It's the TMJ disorder. I was diagnosed with it after I was treated for the Graves' Disease, the hyperthyroidism being what caused the TMJ disorder in the first place. Hyperthyroidism made me clench my jaw and grind my teeth for years before I knew what was wrong with me, but now the hyperthyroidism is gone but I'm stuck with the TMJ disorder. I don't have jaw pain, thank God, but I have a lot of swelling and tension in the muscles of my face, my head, my neck and particularly my jaw. Possibly that's why I have the hamster effect so noticeably. Anyway, I kept telling my doctors that I was sure my eustachian tubes were being blocked by swelling in my neck and jaw. I could feel the swelling and the pressure, and it would explain the fluctuations in my hearing, not to mention all of the crackling and popping going on in there. They all just patted me on the head and said, "Whatever you say, dear," without really listening.

The last few weeks my deafness has increased to the point where people are getting sick of hearing me say "what?" all the time. Last Sunday I tried to watch a movie, but I had to turn it off because I couldn't hear it, even with the volume all the way up. I turned off the TV and bawled for about an hour, grieving the loss of my once-perfect hearing. I'd noticed, though, that some days I could hear pretty well and other days I could hardly hear anything, which made me wonder just how much actual, irreversible hearing loss I have. I googled "TMJ hearing loss tinnitus" and found message board after message board written by people who have all of the same symptoms I have, all of whom have TMJ disorder. Many of them said the same things I've been saying about the swelling blocking their tubes. They talked about their tubes feeling "clogged," which is exactly what it feels like to me. Reading those posts made me feel less crazy, and I got some useful tips. They all said not to bother seeing an Ear Nose and Throat doctor because they're worthless for anything having to do with TMJ. I have to see a TMJ specialist. Normally those are dentists, but I'm hoping my medical insurance will cover it since it's an effect of the Graves' Disease. Anyway, I'm hoping I can find a way to reduce the tinnitus and increase my hearing without having to resort to hearing aids.

I have two doctor's appointments on Monday, one with Dr W, the endocrinologist, and one with Dr H. I'm hoping I can get Dr W to listen to me about the TMJ disease and either refer me to a TMJ specialist or ask Dr G to write a referral. We shall see.

Here's to better days, better breathing, better hearing.

Surviving bad lung days

I'm a bit late with the blog this week. Usually I write in the morning, but today I had things to do, and now it's the afternoon. I'm sleepy because I just spent three hours in the sun -- or, rather, in the grey haze which passed for sun at the beach earlier today. I went to a barbecue put on by Narcotics Anonymous, having decided this morning that it might be fun. And so it was. I wore my pretty floral sundress from Anthropologie with my new cowboy boots and felt very festive and summery, carrying my Japanese parasol to protect my pallor from the sneakiness of the sun. An overcast day is always the worst day for sunburn because it doesn't feel hot, so you can't tell you're fried until it's too late. The sun made an appearance about twenty minutes before I left, but the whole thing was pretty much over by then.

And now here I am. I had two bad lung days this week, and I've come to see that quitting smoking had absolutely nothing to do with the improvement in my breathing in recent weeks. What did the trick was the weather. We had a couple of weeks of dry sunshine, and my lungs cleared right up, but then the fog rolled in on Thursday morning and I had two days of severe breathlessness and anxiety. It's better now because the marine layer isn't as thick and has burned off earlier in the day, but it sure would be nice if we could have a summer. Every year we have "June Gloom," a month of grey and overcast days which generally clear up by the Fourth of July. This year we've had "May, June and July Gloom," with a day or two of sunshine here and there, or even a week or two upon occasion. It's now August. It's time for us to have a month or two of that famous California sunshine. If I have to make it through the rainy season this winter dealing with breathlessness and anxiety, I'd really like to have a few months of dry weather and good breathing beforehand. Not that we've had much rain in the last few years, but the drought has to end at some point.

I talked to Judy about it on Friday, saying I don't know if I'm going to make it if I have to deal with that much breathlessness on a weekly basis, and she suggested that I try drinking peppermint tea in the morning. Ick. I like peppermint tea, but not in the morning. I like coffee in the morning. Well, decaf, anyway. I love coffee. Some nights I lie in bed before I fall asleep and think happily about the coffee I'm going to drink when I wake up. I'm drinking coffee right now, in fact. For some reason I always crave coffee after a daytime party, so I came home and made a pot, which I'm sipping now as I write. So probably I won't be drinking peppermint tea in the morning. I'll buy some and try it and if it does wonders, I may change my mind, but I suspect that it won't have enough of an effect to make the taste of peppermint acceptable in the morning. Judy seems to think that an inhaler is too drastic a solution, which puzzles me. People get inhalers when they have a little cough. What's so drastic about them? I've never used one because I've never had any problems with my lungs. I've never had asthma or bronchitis, and I can't remember the last time I had a cough. I don't understand why getting an inhaler would be such a big deal, especially since I would only need it occasionally, but maybe Judy knows something I don't.

I was surprised by how easy it was not to smoke at the barbecue today. I was a bit concerned about it because it was the first time since I quit that I would be faced with smokers en masse, and I didn't know how I would react. I didn't react at all. I hardly even noticed the cigarettes. I don't think it would be a good idea to spend a lot of time around smokers, but I'm glad to know that I can go to an NA function and not mind the smoking. None of my friends smokes anymore, and for a long time I felt like a bit of a pariah because I was the last smoker in my social circle, but now I'm grateful that I don't have to be faced with other people's cigarettes very often. Much as I would like to think I'm immune to it, other people's behavior influences me. When I spend time with smokers, I want to smoke. That's why I don't spend time with people who use drugs.

Okay, it's time to get busy writing on step six. I did my fifth step with my sponsor nearly three weeks ago, and I only began writing on step six last weekend. I needed to take a break in between to process steps four and five, but now I want to get moving with steps six and seven. These are my favorite steps because these are when the rewards start coming, when all of that brutal self-examination and self-appraisal pays off. I want to be relieved of the defects of character which are standing between me and other human beings, and my fourth step gave me a pretty clear picture of where the problems lie. Now it's just a matter of becoming entirely ready to have my higher power remove those defects of character, and of humbly asking to have my shortcomings removed. One thing at a time, though, and what I'm doing now is writing in detail about the defects.

And here's to another week's passing. Only 35 to go.

Fiddling while Rome burns

Viral load: negative. Woo hoo! At long last, the desired result has been achieved, and I'm only six weeks past my original stop date. Only. When I got the news from Judy I realized that I was hoping for a negative result, despite what I wrote last week. I wanted to keep going and have a chance of clearing this disease, notwithstanding all of the trouble and expense of the treatment. It helps that I'm breathing better. The breathlessness peaked last Saturday and has slowly gone away over the last week. I don't know if I can attribute it to quitting smoking or to having lowered my dosage of Ribavirin, or to a combination of the two, but I don't much care which it is. I have no intention of looking this particular gift horse in the mouth. I'll just stay at 800 mg a day and continue not to smoke. [By the way, Pam, if you're reading this, I left you a note in last week's comments. I couldn't figure out any other way of responding to your comment.]

My goodness, life is so much easier when I can breathe! And when my thyroid levels are normal. I feel fantastic! It's been coming on for the last couple of weeks, ever since my last hypothyroid symptoms went away, but it got sort of derailed by the breathlessness. And now that I can breathe I go through my days feeling expansive, confident, joyful and ready for anything. Oddly, though, I occasionally have moments when I suddenly plunge into the depths of despair for no apparent reason and begin to contemplate suicide. It only lasts for a few minutes and then I'm back on top of the world again. My explanation is that my mood is naturally buoyant right now but the Interferon is tugging me back down, and every now and then it succeeds in tripping me up. I feel much the same way I did when my thyroid levels were normal for the first time in years, perhaps ever. For about two years I felt better and more alive than I had in longer than I could remember, and then I began having trouble with my dosage. And now I feel like the King of the World again.

This expansive feeling has laid to rest my concerns about my finances. When I started the treatment, I sent a mass email to my family to ask for a bit of financial help while I was on the Interferon. Without that help, I told them, I wouldn't be able to afford the treatment. I got a few responses saying they would be happy to help me, and I gave my address to a few of them, but the only one so far who has stumped up any cash is my brother. He's helped a lot, but he can't afford to give me all of what I need, and up to now I've felt diffident about approaching my family again and saying, "Remember that money you were supposed to give me?" So I've been living hand-to-mouth in a way which was becoming frightening; probably if the breathlessness hadn't made me quit smoking I would have had to do it simply because I couldn't afford it anymore. I've added up my bills and expenses over and over in the last few months, comparing them to my income and making unrealistic budgets to see if I would be able to make it without any help, wondering what the hell I was going to do.

Still, I haven't been very frugal, despite all of the panic and self-admonishment. I had to take my car to the shop on Tuesday because the "check engine" light had been on for two months and it was starting to cause problems, so what did I do on Monday? I bought a pair of cowboy boots on ebay. But, hey, they were vintage Lucchese in my size, in the perfect brown I've been looking for. A steal at $99. I couldn't pass them up. I dreamt the other morning, though, that they arrived and turned out to be hip boots. I pulled them on and they went up to the top of my thighs, which may be my way of telling myself that I made a foolish and unfitting purchase. But it's too late now! And then my car repair bill was $420, which was even higher than I'd been expecting. There goes half my rent and car payment for next month.

The funny thing is, I can't seem to bring myself to worry about my dire financial position. I just keep thinking everything will work out for the best, and I have this irrational feeling that it will all work out in a way I'll be happy with. At the moment I have about $15 in my checking account and $80 in credit, and I don't get paid until next Friday, at which point I'll have to pay rent, make my car payment and shell out another $115 co-pay for the Interferon and Ribavirin. After which I'll be broke again.

But everything's fine and I still want to go shopping. I don't get it. I suppose it's just that I've been teetering on the brink of financial ruin for the last ten years, since I got clean and started caring about such things, and disaster has not yet struck. Something always turns up, even if it usually proves to be nothing but a stopgap. So we shall see what happens in the next month.