So the CBD oil that I’ve been talking about in previous posts here and here is definitely working.
My background levels of pain have greatly reduced and it’s now easier to deal with breakthrough pain. However my right knee has clearly decided to be a horrible bitch about things. It’s swollen and it’s grinding and it won’t reliably bend and it hurts whenever I do foolish things like stand up or sit down or roll over in bed.
And something else has decided to flare up. Something really painful. Something that I really need to see a doctor about but I was too late this morning to get an appointment and I have stuff to do tomorrow that can’t be moved and if I leave it till Friday to see the doctor then I will have reached my own personal defcon 10 of pain.
That’s not 10 out of 10 on the pain scale. That level of pain is just screaming until it stops. Defcon 10 is out of my mind with pain, distraction and frustration. It’s a result of having to just put up with a level and type and location of pain that no-one should have to put up with. Defcon 10 is dangerous because it makes me want to knife 40 people at random. Hopefully the CBD oil will help with this kind of pain.
If anyone is interested I will post links to the kind of vape pen, cartridges and oil I’m using.
This post is just to let you all know what kinds of things to expect in the coming weeks. Unfortunate I am currently deep in negative spoons so this might be gibberish. Good luck making sense of it.
I’m going to start a series of posts offering advice to young creatives. The posts are mainly aimed at aspiring writers but I will try to make them useful to people pursuing other arts.
There are more Guardians of the Galaxy Volume 2 posts coming. Sorry but I am not nearly done with talking about that film. It’s just too good. How dare it be so good.
I also intend to write some stuff about Doctor Who. Because I love Doctor Who, that’s why. It’s my blog and I will blog what I want to. Even exceptionally geeky head canons about peculiarly British scifi.
I will almost certainly continue to whine about how hard it is to get published. Eventually I might try to crowd fund self publishing since I can’t afford to professionally self publish properly.
Also if the Conservative party wins the forthcoming General Election in the UK then you can expect more salt that the dead sea from me. There will be language so foul that if you read my blog while drinking milk it will instantly turn sour.
I also have an idea for some stuff I want to write on modern witchcraft. Not airy fairy new agey kind of witchcraft and not the ‘I don’t actually know the difference between witchcraft and satanism’ stuff either.
I may even get my finger out and finally write some steampunk psychiatry stuff.
Anyway. If any of that seems interesting or intriguing to you then leave a comment. Preferably on the actual blog rather than via twitter or Facebook or Tumblr. If you comment on the blog then other people who read the blog will see it. If you comment via social media the only person guaranteed to see it is me. Which is great for me but less likely to start a conversation.
I have no faith. I don’t mean religious faith though I have none of that and haven’t for years no matter how I try. I mean that I have no faith that good things exist far less that they’re ever going to happen to me.
I have no faith in my writing. Nobody wants my stories. They certainty don’t want to publish them. No one will ever want to read them far less pay to read them.
My work will never be finished. It will never be good enough because its mine. There’s no point doing anything with it because no one wants it.
I have tried to not be a writer. I’ve tried not writing. I’ve tried to forget any ambition or desire to write. I’ve tried not to care that my stories are worthless. None of this has worked. It hurts to call myself a writer when I am so clearly not one by any meaningful measure.
It’s like there’s a wall in front of me and I can’t see any way over it. I know that in theory people finish novels and then publish them or get them published. I know that there’s no obvious reason why I can’t be one of the people who does that. But the published authors are all on the other side of the wall. All the advice I see either assumes that I’m on the other side of the wall or that the wall doesn’t exist.
I’m so tired. I’m in so much pain. I have no faith that I’ll ever get over the wall. I have no faith that there’s any point in trying. The only reason I haven’t given up already is that I have literally nothing else to do with my life. I have no purpose or value. There’s no point in chasing happiness or success because nothing is ever going to make me happy and I have zero chance of success.
I recon I’m about 6 weeks away from printing my novel off, binding it by hand and then smacking people over the head with it till they agree to read it. That just seems a lot easier than the alternatives.
There are days, sometimes there are weeks and months, when I’m trapped by the law of diminishing returns. The conditions of my life mean that sometimes every step forward, every movement, every attempt to do anything takes a ridiculous amount of effort for very little reward.
I’m trying to stick to a diet that means that I have to cook things. But when cooking a thing hurts as much as giving birth did, and the thing you cook is a failure, and the diet may or may not be working, and even if the diet succeeds the best I can hope for is to be slightly less fat… what’s the point?
I’m trying to finish a draft of a novel. But every word is hard and it takes so long and I have no idea if it’s any good. And if it gets finished, and I edit it, and it’s good – what then? Then all I’ve got is a pile of words I kind of like. Which is nice but it doesn’t do me much good. It’s a lot of effort for something that doesn’t pay the bills.
I don’t know how much longer I can keep going forward when every step is shorter than the one before it but hurts more.
Warning. This is a whiny post. Feel free to skip.
On Monday I had my roughly annual, public face-plant. I tripped and fell. Which at my size and with my health problems is a non-trivial event. This one wasn’t too bad. It hurt like hell but I didn’t break anything and it only took two attempts to stand up.
However, I immediately had to get on a bus, which is less than ideal. It mean that I couldn’t properly assess the damage and I had to sit with my feet down and my knees bent. That probably helped to exacerbate the twisted right knee.
I expected the knee pain. I was a little surprised that the side and back of the knee were hurting more than the area that I actually bashed when I fell. Unfortunately I underestimated my knee.
Time for a little back story. My right knee has been in open revolt against the rest of me for years. I keep threatening to have it taken out and shot. It keeps telling me to fuck off and that it will do what it wants and that I am not the boss of it. I ignore it. It decides to stop bending when I want it to. I take some pain pills and lean more heavily on my stick. It decides to bend suddenly when I want it to be straight. I sit down for five minutes and then go for a walk because I am the fucking boss and I will go where I want.
Which might explain why my knee has clearly been plotting behind my back. The pain of the twisted knee meant that I had to lean more heavily on my stick. Which caused tricep spasms that are currently making my hands a lot less reliable than they usually are. The uneven gait caused a lower back spasm that’s currently causing about as much pain as early stage two labour, only constant and with no gas and air. The twisted knee has caused a spasm in my hamstring that is pulling on my right gluteus maximus and causing a spasm there which has wrapped around my sciatic nerve and OH MY GOD WHEN DID I SIT ON BROKEN GLASS?!
Seriously though, sciatica (pain caused by irritation or compression of the sciatic nerve) is so ridiculously, over-the-top painful that you find yourself looking round to see if someone has stabbed you. I almost wish someone had stabbed me because then I could at least beat them with my walking stick. Also go to hospital. Where they have the really good painkillers.
Please just get it over with and kill me.
Every time I take you to see the doctor I discover some new thing that’s wrong with you. Some new incurable, barely treatable thing that’s going to make life harder and more painful and might eventually contribute to a cause of death but isn’t going to kill us any time soon.
Today it was two new things. Arthritis in the right knee and lymphoedema in both legs. And the advice from the doctor was to walk less (I’m not sure it’s actually possible for me to walk any less), exercise on a recumbent stationary bike (because I totally have one of those handy,) and keep my feet elevated at night. This advice is not going to make either problem any better it will just slow down the rate at which they get worse.
I understand, Body, that you hate me. I absolutely sympathise – I hate me too. But no one deserves to be treated this way. Maybe you’re hoping if you torture me enough then I will somehow fix things all the things wrong with our life. That’s not going to happen. I’m already trying as hard as I can and things are not getting better. Every new attack just makes it even less likely that I’ll ever be able to fix anything.
I really need you to either stop making things worse or do a proper job and finish me off.
Today I’m considering the sobering fact that my country wants me dead.
It sounds super dramatic but it’s also kind of accurate. I live in the UK. I’m disabled and I receive benefits. Like other disabled people in the UK I’ve been hit hard by the government’s austerity measures. According to some reports people like me have been hit nine times harder than the average citizen.
The combination of benefit cuts, sanctions and assessments has lead to an epidemic of suicides and other premature deaths. People have starved to death and died from stress induced heart attacks and strokes. It’s been a hard few years but I hoped things would start to get better.
Yesterday the UK re-elected the Conservatives. The people who have presided over changes that have driven people to their deaths are back in power. The politicians know what they have done and they just don’t care. So far the “austerity” measures that have hit people like me so hard haven’t actually saved any money. Setting them up has cost the government more money than they’ve saved through the cuts. Of course if more of us die then they’d start to see some savings.
The government wants me dead and my country just re-elected them. Therefore my country wants me dead.
Well, perhaps not my country. I live in Scotland. The Scottish Parliament seems to care about the sick and the disabled. But benefits spending is set by the UK Parliament at Westminster. Scotland did not re-elect the Conservatives but it doesn’t matter. As usual the governing party was decided by the English electorate. There was nothing we could do to prevent it.
Perhaps I shouldn’t say that my country wants me dead. Perhaps I should say that England wants me dead. I’m not sure about Wales.