I got approved for a sabbatical today. I could abuptly disappear from June 1 - Jan 15.  It's kind of career suicide at this moment to lean out, after all I've built and accomplished in titles and raises, Big Work. But. I feel suffocated as fuck. By kids, work, and boyfriend. They all want more from me than I have, in every way.

I love my kids.
My job is enviable.
My boyfriend adores me.

Heavy.
Heavy.
Heavy.
That's how all three feel to me.

I want the kids to get jobs. I mean if they have to grow up, which bums me out frankly, then grow up. Don't just get big and too cool to hang out with me while also costing me a fortune.  I want my job to have about 100% less corporate culture  bulllllshiiiit in it, and I don't even have that much, but still, I have NO TOLERANCE. And I want to I dunno what about the wonderful boyfriend whose adoration is suffocating as fuck - if he tells me one more time that he wants to be a "good partner", I'm going to castrate him. BLECH. As completely illogical as it is, the dude who adores me and tries in every way to make my life easier is the most suffocating thing on the list. If he DID all the same things but just SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT IT, he'd be great, but he never shuts up.

Alll of it, my whole damn life, is on my fucking nerves.

Is this PMS? Hard to tell now. My uterus is microwaved / my hormone panel is the same, ie FUCKING CRABBY. And Nebraska says, 'You said that you might be experiencing PMS, can you tell me more?" That is annoying as HELL. (Right??)

I think I'll probably take that sabbatical. And disappear.

Yoga twice. In front of classroom 4 times. The house is clean. I inch back.

Sunshine was born in the falls, classic birth defects such as kidney malformation. She's going for surgery too soon. After working right up to the day of, for the money. Robotic surgery. I remember what that means. (grimsigh)

Dog spooning with sweater sniffing dogtoybutt:

Plotting: tattoo, another healing magic type deal; hair cut oft opposite side re arm tattoo; and
...what? I need one more thing, the power of three

Sunday. One week out from hysteroscopy, myomectomies, and endometrial ablation. Managed the first week of classes, almost every project is on timeline, I booked travel to the first couple conferences coming up, I completed all inspections and filed all necessary paperwork to buy that duplex, all chores got done if just barely. I also slept at least 12 hours of every 24 and haven't exercised in a month, too sick before and now so sluggish. I feel like a spoonful of mashed potatoes. When can I go back to normal?, I asked. "A week or two, just no baths, no sex, and don't do anything too crazy."

🤔 shit

So. New Orleans level escapades are definitely out. What about getting tattoos? No nearly having sex on the ground in the middle of Lewiston, obviously, and it's too cold for that anyway...

The wounds take up to month to heal completely, my body is a bag of fluids weeping from of a gut full of blisters. I have to be patient with it. But. As I feel better each day, and start to imagine being Perfectly Fine, trouble brews naturally in my heart of hearts. So, can I do Bikram??, cz thats how I keep my crazy on a leash. If I call and ask, Hey can I pull my leg over my head in a 108 degree room?, methinks the answer will be NO

🤔

I am back home and already in the least amount of pain I've been in for many months.

My face is the color of concrete.

No song.

One more day. And then MAYBE relief.  After years of increasing pain, months and months of relentless tests to "rule out" every fucking thing from colon cancer to pregnancy (multiple times, seriously), with results missing for weeks, forms sent to the wrong address (but the medical bills arrive just fine), fuckhead doctor stupid saying shit like "anxious? you've got tenure!", my heart racing every night, anemic dull ache eyes light going out in the mirror. Bleeding bleeding bleeding. And through it all, I work, work and work, worry and raise hard kids, dragging my ass upright day in and out. Buying houses, making decisions, staring the risks of monumental failures in the face, faking fine as well as you can actually BE fine.

When I finally got approved for surgery (you have to get approved for pain relief if you're a woman, you are not ENTITLED to it), and I had to tell people I'd be out a while, then I heard: every other woman I work with is sick. If they have what I have, they suffered too long untreated in most cases and wound up with a hysterectomy. If they're sick with something else, anxiety for instance, they either changed doctors umpteen times before anyone gave a shit or they self medicate with the xanax or klonopin of a friend who does have a doctor or they drink. They are told "try yoga" for EVERYTHING, sexist and culturally incompetent bullshit.

We are dying. Bleeding to death. Anemic. Panic ridden. Working on our feet against medical advice if we do have doctors worth a damn, which most of us don't.

I am furious. And it occurs to me as I lie here, feeling fury pulse through my panicked heart, that I might actually get better again. I'll still be dying because we are all dying, but meanwhile I'll be well again. I will have the full FORCE of my health. What might I do with that kind of power again? And this rage.

Words do matter.

I bought a duplex. Well, I have an accepted offer on one, though it's not mine til the ink is dry. Wanna see?

passenger - hearts on fire

8 more days til surgery..

I am so so sick of being sick...