white noise

Yesterday the back of my skull felt perforated as if someone with stiletto heels was dancing around in there and slipped through a few times. Still, I managed to get a few things done with crafting and around the house. Today, my head doesn’t hurt nearly as much, but I’m tired and sluggish. I want to curl up in bed and sleeeeeeeep.

Dr. Bivins is changing my medication now. He’s weaning me off the Topamax and trying me on Lyrica. I like this because I think the Topamax is just too damned designer expensive. Jon is concerned, though, because he thinks the Topamax has had exceptional results in knocking out my pain. He observes that my energy levels have definitely improved, my moments of Fibrofog have decreased, and even my memory has improved. He’s worried I won’t get the same benefits from the Lyrica. Hopefully I will. If not, we can always go back to low doses of the Topamax, I think. Either way, I don’t think a 200 mg dose is doing any more for me than a 100 mg dose does. There’s no doubting the Topamax has helped me a lot, but I hadn’t made these other observations for myself that Jon made.

Sleep and stress are still my worst enemies. I guess in that sense, I’m still my own worst enemy. I’m not sure how to get myself to sleep. If I’m wired, I’m wired, and no amount of coaxing, cajoling, doping or meditating seems to unwire me long enough to get the rest I need. I do, however, believe sleep deprivation is the foundation for most of my emotional rollercoaster rides, hence the reason I don’t seem able to handle stress very well any more. If I can get a handle on my sleep, I think stress will follow suit.

As May creeps ever closer, bringing with it yet another birthday, I’ve decided my wish for this year is for someone who has hurt my feelings deeply to take responsibility for said hurt, apologize, and ask for my forgiveness instead of simply assuming it’s there to take. I’ve heard many wonderful sentiments in recent years, but “I’m sorry I hurt you, will you forgive me?” hasn’t been one of them.

I came across the card my father sent to me when he finally faced whatever demon it was he needed to face in order to walk away from meth. The card is a powder blue color. On the front, sunlight glints off cattails. Inside it, he writes he loves me and always will. That I saved his life. I remember reading those words for the first time while sitting in my truck in the parking lot of MTI in Sacramento. I remember knowing in my gut that he was sincere, that this was real. That battle, at least, was over. No more nifty how-the-hell-did-you-get-my-number phone calls about how I managed to ruin his life or death threats at 3 a.m. I can remember the quiet sense of relief I felt.

I’d never have to call dispatch again and whimper pathetically over the phone at Carol, “please don’t make me shoot my own father.” Yay for me. I only had to do that once, but you know, such an experience leaves rather an unpleasant taste on the tongue. It’s right up there with that bar of Lava soap being scraped across one’s bottom teeth.

He doesn’t remember the fighting. He doesn’t remember the nastiness and hatred even though I do. It must all seem like some blurry-eyed dream to him at times, and I often wonder if I should let it go and just move on. But, there’s also that part of me that has learned that “forgiving and forgetting” does not equate to ignoring or sweeping things under the carpet to be cleaned up another day. There’s the matter of accountability, and I am entitled.

It’s about love, but it’s also about respect.

Phew …

It’s warm; buds are popping up all over; it’s suddenly spring. After two weeks of freakishly odd on-and-off-again snow storms our world is renewed with new growth, new warmth, and a whole new set of bugs — yay for us! But, I still expect to wake up one day soon to more snow. And blossoms (c’mon granny, make up yer mind).

It’s now time to replace the water pump for the downstairs heater, have the system bled, and all that rot. I feared it wouldn’t last the winter. Sounding as it did, I thought it might bore a hole to the earth’s core whenever I turned it on. Might’ve taken the house and us, too. Never can tell these things … until it’s too late. You wake up one night and — my goodness, it’s hot. Is that lava on your pillow?

Well, Aunt Charlene did say I’d go to Hell.

I’ve thought a lot about Travis the last few days, and Tammy. I suppose that means I should sit my butt behind a pen and write an old fashioned letter. Tammy isn’t a computer buff, and it’s never likely she’ll have an email address. Gotta keep in contact via the Pony Express, otherwise contact falls by the way side. But, she’s one I shouldn’t let contact slip away. Not sure why, but that whisper inside my head says write to her.

I suppose I should listen. Intuition is so rarely wrong. It’s that higher power knocking at the door, you know?

About Travis. Why? Now there, I’m really not sure. I wonder still what makes him so significant to the circle of my life. And why should he drift into my thoughts again now? I’ve heard he wasn’t doing well. Chances are he’s either been back in jail, or belongs there again. No control over his anger. His Achilles heel — anger. If he learned to control that particlar beast, he’d move forward. Did he ever learn, or did he continue down the darker path?

I wonder. I’m compelled to send him a letter. Another letter that will sit waiting, unopened, or perhaps maybe forwarded.

You can’t tell me a person can never change. That, as McClinton so ineloquently put it, “he’s a puke and will never be anything but a puke.” No, the truth is that one person cannot change another person. But a human being can most definitely change. I know anyone can; my father is living proof. Four years this February, clean and sober. After being a drug addict for over 35 years. Anyone can change. With the right incentive.

Happy Birthday, Dad. This one’s for you.

Hollins University refunded my non-refundable deposit. Now, they’re hounding me for a new one. I can’t register until I pay them a new $200. Never mind that I withdrew some 2 semesters ago. Go figure.

I have an appointment with an academic advisor at Radford this coming Monday.

I love my sweetie. I really do. He bought me Sims 2 for Valentine’s Day. Guess who’s not sleeping until 2 a.m. these days! *zzZZzzsnort* Am I obsessed with their little sim lives? Oh no. I’m trying to sell off the damned kids. No. I’m hooked on building and decorating their little sim houses. WAY SO cool.

And a hell of a lot cheaper than doing it to ours. :)

But Scott suggested we look into concrete stain. Which is why my harpy little arse is in front of the computer taking a break from cleaning and reorganizing the dungeon. Last weekend, Jon helped me put together the Sauder barrister book cases we bought. So I figured instead of letting them sit around empty for a month, I should probably put them to use. I love Sauder furniture. I hate having to put it together, but I love its convenience. It’s like the Plug-n-Play of the furniture world.

It won’t last forever, but I’ll certainly get my money’s worth. :) (at least, I better!)