Cleolinda Jones (cleolinda) wrote,
Cleolinda Jones
cleolinda

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Fnarr

Guys... I really don't like getting into my personal health business here, but I've been in a good bit of pain the last week or two--well, "a good bit of pain" for someone who isn't used to significant amounts of pain; I'm sure someone with a chronic illness would laugh at me--and I'm just hoping it's not ovarian cysts at this point. It's not a stabbing pain, per se, so I suppose that's encouraging? Maybe I just really need a new desk chair, as this one's kind of busted? It feels mostly like muscle pain, but who knows? All I know is, 1) if I lie down, get comfortable, and then try to sit up, IT HURTS A LOT; 2) there are days when I don't have it at all, which says to me it's not a kidney problem or, really, a muscle problem, and really is probably related to Something Else; 3) the lower back is a bad place to mess around, regardless. But until I can get in to see a doctor--and it can take weeks to get an appointment at these places--I'm just going to be taking my naproxen (think prescription-strength Aleve, I guess you'd say?) and trying not to trip over my own feet with loopiness.

I talk about mental health issues because I feel like talking helps. I don't talk about physical issues because pain's just pain. If you have PCOS, you can't talk your ovaries out of it (although, more likely than not, it contributes chemically to my depression). So I don't really tell y'all about it. It feels more private, and I hate talking about it. I mean, I really hate it, I hate talking about reproductive/gynocological issues with a mixed-gender audience of thousands of people, none of whom signed up to hear about girlpain (and some of whom are probably defriending me as we speak), and I hate feeling like I have to talk about it to justify something. But yes, that was part of what was going on underneath My Existential Ennui. And yes, I would rather have you think I was wallowing in my own melancholy, because at least that way six thousand people wouldn't be thinking about my ovaries.

(... Oh shit.)

Here's why I'm telling you about it now:

Please don't ask me when I'm going to post this or that or whatever. It's not for lack of trying, and pain makes it kind of hard to think. The doll thing is just--"silly" isn't the word; "playful," almost?--enough that I can do it most easily. And the longer it takes me to write, say, Star Trek in Fifteen Minutes, the less relevant the whole thing becomes--other people already have similar parodies up--and the less likely it is to ever go up. So there's no point in bugging me, is what I'm saying. I mean, I'm fairly savvy about these things; I know what people want me to post. Honestly, all it does is get me angry. Angry enough to tell you all this even though I was trying not to, and even though I'm now scared I've pissed people off. Believe me, if I could work any faster, I would.


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