Your turn will come

I'd like to focus on the victory of the week, whch was that I figured out how to format an epub book that passed muster with IngramSpark—but all I can do is obsess over an ingrown hair on my upper lip. Dermotillomania strikes again. When I'm cold, skin imperfections are magnets for my roaming fingers. Every hangnail is an invitation to pull hard. My cuticles are bloody meat. It's a wonder I haven't died of flesh-eating strep. Does that sound familiar? Sorry if I repeat myself.

There's nothing new in my brain. The ruts are deep. I rehash the same tired complaints week to week, month to month. Usually people are kind enough to ignore the fact that I repeat myself. I'd like to apologize but actually I feel a bit smug. They don't yet know the frustration that awaits them when they reach for a memory and come up empty. Meanwhile, I keep picking at my lip, rubbing that hair the wrong way. 

I am regressing to my cultural mean. That is to say, like a narrow-minded person with trash roots, I'm circling the wagons on my willingness to be open-minded. I don't want to stress my brain cells with new things. The idea of learning for learning's sake sailed out the window when I got laid off from my teaching job in 2013. I have no more curiosity. This is partly why mastering the epub was such a victory. I use the word mastering hoping nobody will actually ask me to explain what I did to succeed. I went in circles for several days, punching holes in html and css with little knowledge and a lot of desperation. I kept telling myself failure is not an option, but of course failure is always an option. One day it will be the only option. I just hope it doesn't hurt much.

Meanwhile, it's the little things. Like hairs sprouting on my upper lip. 

The dark ones don't last long. If I see one, I pluck it. I'm not afraid to go in after it. If the hair is white, I can't see it. That makes me crazy. As I sit here picking at my cuticles, I contemplate the nuclear option.

Yesterday I had to thread a needle. I threaded needles for many years in my former life as a garment maker. I can thread a needle by feel, which is lucky, because my eyes no longer work right. I can't see things far away, and I can't see things up close. That means I can't see the thread or the eye of the needle. Muscle memory is the only kind of memory I have left. What's more, lately my right eye has occasionally been blocked by what looks like a round thumbprint. You could call it a flower. I guess it's a thing that happens sometimes. Oh, it hasn't happened to you? Well, your turn will come. Meanwhile, if you want to talk to me, stand about twenty feet away. 

I try not to think much. Thinking is over-rated. I do as little as possible. I used to admire people with robust intellects, you know those smartasses who read lots of nonfiction books. Not anymore. I think they are wasting brain cells in the pursuit of something that can't be retained. Sort of like Arizona uses water. 

I peaked in my twenties. It's been downhill ever since. This is ironic, because I was emotionally stunted when I was in my twenties. All those brain cells with so much capacity, like a high-powered nuclear reactor generating power to illuminate and solve all problems, and all I could do was apply them toward chasing codependent relationships. Now, forty-plus years later, I have so much more emotional intelligence and no brainpower left to use it. The nuclear power plant has imploded into dust. My weary thoughts sit mumbling around a campfire, singing kumbaya and trying to remember how to make s'mores.

In fairness to me, my capacity to think has been reduced somewhat by the washing machine in my head. Being off balance saps my will to care about anything. I'm going to the ENT for a follow-up this week. Maybe she will be able to tell me what particular brand of inner ear washing machine I have. I'm skeptical. Last year it was "Vestibular Migraines." That brand works for some people, but me, I give it zero stars. This year, the new fad is "PPPD," which stands for persistent postural perceptural dizziness. It's the brand of the week. As vestibular specialists do more research, they come up with more brands of vestibular insanity. We'll see what the ENT has to say about PPPD. She might tell me I'm really insane, like, Carol, it's all in your head. Duh. Doctors tend to blame the patient when they are too embarrassed to admit they don't know what is going on. Who could blame them? All those years in medical school, right? It's gotta hurt.

Let's keep it simple. Instead of adding up my victories and defeats to arrive at my value as a going human concern, let's just give me an attaboy for managing to cross something off my daily to-do list. As I'm going to do after I upload this blogpost.  

 

When you get done with that two by four, pass it over here

While I wait for the verdict on my dissertation, I am doing a lot of resting, as per my Chair's directive (“Get some rest!”). You could call it thinking... planning... strategizing. You could call it sloth, too, and you wouldn't be wrong.

Although, in my defense, I will say that another restaurant-induced migraine laid me low for a day. I blame the jasmine-flavored iced tea: It smelled like perfume and tasted like chemicals. I don't know why I think I can get away with eating like other people do. You'd think I would have learned by now. My mother thinks I should eat out more often. Her diagnosis is that I treat myself like a hothouse flower. I need to expose myself to more toxins to build up my tolerance. Kind of like getting a cat when one is allergic to cats. I get it. Makes sense. It's the muscle-building theory: Use it or lose it.

However, Dr. Tony (the naturopath who saved me from self-induced starvation) says I should make every effort to avoid toxins. Apparently I have enough toxins. In fact, he says my liver is overloaded with toxins. I picture an overworked liver, huffing and puffing up a flight of stairs, dragging a huge suitcase full of dripping chemicals. It's not something you build an immunity to, it's something you gradually recover from, as long as you don't do any more chemical-ingesting.

That's harder than it sounds. Socializing usually involves eating and drinking. Meeting friends over a meal or a beverage is probably coded in our DNA. It used to be campfires and mastodon steaks. Now it's beef and broccoli over rice with jasmine-flavored tea. And flavor-enhancing, shelf-life-extending chemicals. Yum. Do we even know what is in our food? I read labels very carefully, but I suspect it's often the ingredient benignly labeled natural flavors that sticks in my craw. Lately I'm having trouble with anything that is not organic. Too bad pesticides and herbicides aren't listed as food ingredients on labels. It sure would help me avoid problems at the grocery store. But what do I do about restaurant food? I'm doomed.

Migraines for me are not so bad. An aura that blinds me for 20 minutes, followed by a nauseating headache that usually goes away with an ibuprofen and a two-hour nap. Lucky me. It could be worse. That's two migraines in just over two months. The last one was on September 11. I know because I blogged about it, real-time, as it was happening. I blamed non-organic curry powder for that episode. I stand by my accusation. This time, I blame chemicals in tea, but I don't really know what caused it. Maybe someday they will make an app for the iPhone that allows us to scan our food before we eat it, sort of like a mobile electronic poison-taster, to suss out the presence of MSG, sulfites, nitrates, and GMO ingredients. I'm not cool enough to buy Apple products, so I'll wait for the Windows version. If I live that long.