Don't Throw No Coupons on My Grave

Gonna do some retroactive annotations, corrections, and updates from the future on this post that was in my draft folder from September 15, 2010. The original post will be in bold italics and my responses will look regular.

Well, I've put my move to LA on hold for a couple of months, so I can convalesce without the pressure of relocating. 

I went out to LA on December 11, 2010 to find an apartment. If I didn't find an apartment by the 22nd, I wouldn't be moving to Los Angeles. Shit was not going well for me health-wise, both mentally and physically, so I wasn't going to push my luck if things didn't line up in LA.

Stayed at a friend's house. Let's call him Rick. I was still convalescing from the aftermath of a stomach virus that rocked both of my cocks a few months before. Post-viral gastroparesis it's called. Rick was acting like a dick during my stay. Lodging small complaints about my presence, giving me the silent treatment, etc. I left his house 2 days before my plane back to Chicago. He's not my friend anymore.

Ended up making a few calls and lugged my air mattress to a sparsely furnished apartment that my friend's brother was squatting in. I asked him if he wanted to find a two bedroom apartment to rent with me. He said sure. Found a place and signed a lease the day before my flight back to Chicago. I moved to LA on January 8, 2011.

Right now, I need to mend my body and mind in order to move forward. I thought I could just muscle my way through the constant physical and mental dread, but the more I fight, the worse I feel. Pulsating channels of anxiety course through my body like furious magma, and I've yet to figure out how to vent that shit.

I've figured out how to vent that shit. It's not a perfect system by any means, and I still get caught up in anxiety cycles. I'm in one right now, darling. Heavy anxiety is likely to follow me throughout the rest of my existence. Some days I'm cool with that, and some days I feel like there are a thousand freight trains bearing down on my dickhole. Wouldn't it be great if my urethra was the nexus of my anxiety? I wonder if I prayed to god every night if he'd grant me that wish.

Exercise is crucial as a vent, as is spending time to meditate each and every morning, although sometimes it's less of a meditation and more of a quiet time for my brain to run wild like a dog in a vast field of snow. I've also discovered that fighting anxiety is a poor choice because it doesn't work. But fighting is an old habit and depending on how tired I am, I can slip back into using old methods that don't actually work, but let me feel as if I have a lid on the situation.

Planes are a great example. Since I stopped taking Xanax on planes, I feel the anxiety train gearing up for a trip on the well-oiled rails (more trains, eh?), but I don't react because what good would that do? Tire myself out by clenching and worrying never makes it easier, so I just let the anxiety train gear up and if it wants to tear down the line, I let it, without fighting back or giving it worry fuel. The end result is not relaxation per se, but an absence of debilitating nervousness. It's not exactly a pleasant experience, but it's not a nightmare either. Ah yes, the goal of not living a nightmarish existence. Getting better at this every year. When I'm 72, I'll be so relaxed that the people who take care of me will think I'm dead and bury me alive. But the joke's on them. I never truly lived!  

During the past 2 years, I've had 3 stomach viruses and a two week bout with gastritis. My brain senator cites these facts in his crusade to get my stomach thrown out of office. I don't trust most foods, and I'm afraid that straying from my go-to bland foods will lead to a palace of woe. Food is a chore at this point. Just fuel. It stopped being pleasurable years ago.

Turns out that all this time, I had a bum gall bladder. It didn't officially give out until the end of May 2017. When the surgeon took it out, my gall bladder was a black and green slime filled chunk of what looked like rotten Nigiri sushi. Had to have a procedure the day before to snip the end of the bile duct in my liver, which was clogged with thousands of poppy-seed sized stones that my gall bladder sent its way. 2 procedures involving anesthesia in 2 days left me in a daze. Throw in not being able to eat for 4 days and woooo! Almost died!

Also, my stomach still isn't great, but it's better than it was. Ashkenazi Jewish genetics means stomach problems. There's nothing I can do. Sucks, but name one thing that doesn't.

I've had so many nauseous experiences that my brain reacts to most food as potentially dangerous. The caveman portion of my brain, the amygdala, is confused and scared when food passes my lips, goes down my esophagus, and into my bitch-ass stomach. Anxiety sometimes leads to false nausea, causing me to lose my appetite, which is why I'm skinny, which is why I'm cold all the time, which is why I need to gain weight, but that's hard to do with all the anxiety and nausea.

My body couldn't digest fat because my bile duct was blocked, which is why I lost a ton of weight and couldn't maintain the 180-185lbs that works best for me. After 9 months of illness, they figured out what was wrong with me and I got surgetized. I was down to 154 lbs. I had no energy. I was freezing all the time. I wore long johns and a sweatshirt to sleep because I often woke up really cold in the middle of the night. I needed to steadily gain weight by any means necessary.

You might think that since I was fixed, I could have a food party and throw down beef fists and ham slurry.  Chug a few Denver Omelette Blizzards from Dairy Queen. But I couldn't do it. After the surgery, my digestive system was like a brand new puppy, learning the ropes and having accidents. They told me not to eat any fatty foods for a month or two, and that my digestion might not go back to normal for a year or at all. I figured it out for the most part and hit 180lbs after 5 months of slow and steady eating. Lots of carbs. Lots of apple juice. Lots of turkey, hot dog buns, raspberry preserves, cookies, and protein shakes. By protein shakes I don't mean cum. And I'm not disparaging the cum slurpers of the world. Indulge, my sweets.

Now, with the help of a Cognitive Behavioral Therapist, I hope to train my brain not to associate food with nausea. This is my goal. I intend to work hard at my goal, because I can't progress until I learn how to manage panic, stress, and the effect both of them have on my body.

Here's a little secret, Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT) doesn't work if you're smart. It's not completely ineffective, but it's certainly not effective for people with above average intelligence. It might help a person be a little more aware of their behavior and thought patterns, but I feel the majority of people with anxiety are already acutely self-aware. We're aware of everything, which makes it hard to relax. CBT can suck my balls and asshole simultaneously.

I've been fucked with by my own brain and body, but I refuse to believe that I'm ruined. I've been exposed to the cruel indifference of reality, and it overwhelms me sometimes. So although it'll take some dedicated work to train my brain not to react so violently to the whims of my imagined doom, I'm up to the task because my future depends on it. And "protecting" myself from anxiety by not facing my fears is actually harmful.

Word.

In conclusion, I got troubles.

In perpetuity, baby!