sick to death of talking about my thyroid

With less than a month (OMG!) left in this deployment, the home stretch seems to be an eternity. And I am tired of talking to Sid about my medication, my bloodwork, my symptoms, my side effects... I'm just tired of it. He's not here to see the changes that have taken place, and he asks about it constantly. He's operating under the misguided impression that I am not the same person I was before, which is not something I ever actually said. I had made a blog post about it, and (stupidly) cross-posted it to a site I frequent and that he sometimes checks out, and he blew it all out of proportion and now, to his mind, he's coming home to a Pod Person or something.

The post in question was made in the depths of absolute alienation and discovery. I wrote about what I was feeling at the time, and it was by no means an objective look at my situation. Cory, who has been around to witness my subtle metamorphosis, assured me one day, unprompted, that I have not changed so terribly much. I relayed his words to Sid, who apparently never heard a word of what I said, because he's still convinced I've been replaced by a perky, cheerleader-type version of Starky.

I made the mistake of telling a few relatives, with the stipulation they never tell my mother, because she would blow it out of proportion to the point where, if I didn't get hold of the rest of the family before Mom did, she'd have everyone under the impression I have a goiter the size of a baby's head or something. Gory, false details are very important to my mother. The truth? Not so much.

Anyway, so now I've got a handful of people inquiring after my health, not including Sid, who asks nearly every day. And it's getting old. I know...everyone means well, and they are trying to understand what I'm dealing with. I understand. And I appreciate that I have people who care about me. But I am sick to death of talking about my thyroid.

something so simple, something so symbolic

I'm ready to cut my hair. My ponytail is 10 inches, long enough to be of use to Locks of Love, which is the only reason I have let my mop reach this length.

It drives me crazy. The longer my hair gets, the more temperamental my scalp gets. While I do think my hair is beautiful, and I love the way it looks when I wear it down, it's just not for me. It gets to tickling my face, and the skin on the back of my neck breaks out, and when I try to sleep at night, the fan kicks up stray hairs to tickle at me and make me think there's a spider in my bed.

This has been quite an experience for me, letting my hair grow long for the express purpose of giving it to someone in need. I always regarded my natural hair color as boring. And I find that it isn't! I stopped dyeing it so that it would be all one color when it grew out, and I see now that it's natural color isn't a mousey and drab brown, but a beautiful shiny deep brownish red.

Through something so simple, appreciating my natural hair color, I've actually come to appreciate myself a lot more. Instead of wishing for some aspect of my body to be different, it's easier now to focus on the good things about myself.

And of course, there is a deeper reason why I have decided that now is the time to cut my hair. It wouldn't be Starky's Emo Moment of the Day otherwise! This is my way of letting go of that "baby dream". I'm tired of hanging on to the hope. I'm tired of feeling as though it should happen to me and feeling pissed off and sad when Sid changes his mind or something. Because in all my pregnancy dreams, I've had long hair. And so cutting it short is like cutting loose the dream, you see?

I am so ready to take this step. Growing my hair out has been so symbolic of my journey of self-acceptance and healing, and cutting it feels like the next step down the path of accepting what is, rather than longing for what what should be or could be.

when diarrhea is the lesser evil

Levothyroxine causes insomnia in some people. Apparently, I am one of them. It was headaches for a few weeks. Then diarrhea. Now insomnia.

I'd really, truly, rather have diarrhea.

A few nights ago, I reached the end of my rope. I was exhausted, and had not heard another human voice in almost a week, and I was seriously reaching my breaking point. And the little water fountain for the cats decided to crap out and stop working. It was the THE LAST FUCKING STRAW. I put a bowl of water out for them and went to bed, because I couldn't handle anymore bullshit. It was 11 pm. 4 am rolled around, and I was still awake.

Yeah, I'd rather have diarrhea.

Add to that these anxiety attacks or whatever the hell they are, I'm really reaching the end of my endurance. I could be doing anything; walking down the street in broad daylight, lying bed in the dark, sitting at my computer, doing housework, ANYTHING... and suddenly it's like someone's tightened a belt around my ribs and I feel like I can't breathe. I can, it's not that I can't draw breath, but it feels like I can't. And I know it's all in my head, because it never happens when I'm with someone else.

This happened the last time Sid was gone, too. And my dad wanted to come and visit, and I wondered to myself how I was going to hide the fact that I couldn't function. But I was fine for his whole visit. I had someone to talk to, something to distract me, and I was fine. And as soon as he left, it started up again.

I don't know why this happens, I just know that it does.

Now, I'm not a very social person. I don't know many people in this town, and I'm not so close with my family I can just call them up for a chat any old time. I used to be friends with the neighbors, but I guess they thought I was too...needy or something. Jesus christ, I was lonely, Sid was away for six months, and they were the only people I could talk to, and they basically said, "you need to find something else to do, because we don't want you coming over here."

There is no one to talk to. No one to turn to. If I didn't talk to my cats, the silence would be deafening. And I have brought this on myself.

america, fuck yeah

There's only a month or so left in this deployment. The dates could change, and I'm not supposed to share them anyway. "A month or so" will suffice. Because THE TERRISTS might be reading! Not to poke fun at what some might find a sensitive issue, but I don't hold such a high opinion of myself that I think anyone, much a "terrist", is reading this. But I'll keep my mouth shut just the same. My husband is already unpopular among his peers and superiors for not believing in The Christian God (or any god, what a dirty atheist) that I don't want to make things worse by COMPROMISING SECURITY. (AMERICA, FUCK YEAH, guys. Kiss the fattest part of my ass and smile while you do it, because freedom of religion also means freedom from religion. Just because you believe in the Judeo-Christian sky-daddy doesn't mean you're any better than the godless heathen you serve with. I suggest you get the fuck over yourselves.)

Sid's emails have been getting progressively more emo as the days go by, and while I truly do appreciate that he feels he can tell me these things without fearing ridicule, I have to admit, it has pretty well established itself as something that IS SURE TO RUIN MY GOOD MOOD, SHOULD I HAVE ONE. I don't send him morose emails about all the shit that goes wrong in my day, or how depressed I am, or how I WISH HE WAS HOME. I could, but I don't. What purpose would it serve? I know he feels bad enough without me making it worse. So I keep it to myself.

I'm not saying this to be a bitch, though it's inevitable that's how it will come off, but I'm doing my best to shield him, and I wish he would do the same for me. I know it's got to suck being out there. I know. But does he know it sucks being here all alone? I don't think he does. By the tone of some of his emails, he seems to be laboring under the impression that it's all sunshine and roses and laughter over here, and all I do is sit around with my multitude of friends, eat ice cream and talk about sex.

What friends? What ice cream? For heaven's sake, what sex? Where was I when this all went down?

This entire deployment has brought out the angst and the emo in both of us.

dreaming: better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick, but only barely

First and foremost, Sid, if by some strange chance you have found this blog, for the love of cheese, look away now. Just stop reading and go find something else to do. Please.

I had some weird dreams last night, and they weren't your standard "oh, how STRANGE" kind of dreams, oh no, that would be too simple. In the first, I had sex with Brad Pitt. And I don't even find Brad Pitt to be attractive. If it had been a lucid dream, I assure you it would have been Alan Rickman as Severus Snape. Most assuredly, it would have been.

But yeah. A sex dream. A STARKY FIRST. The worst part is, in the dream, I was still married to Sid. Fuckin' A, I cheated on my husband in a dream. If it's any consolation, which it isn't, Brad Pitt was cheating on Angelina Jolie, so it kind of evened out.

I woke up feeling awful. Because I cheated on my husband in a dream.

Believe me, I know it makes no sense.

So when I feel back asleep, I dreamed I was pregnant (ooh boy, that can of worms again). I'm not going to get into specifics, because it's really unimportant, but goddamn it, I was so happy. That's what sticks out to me. I remember telling someone that I was having twins, a boy and a girl (which is another can of worms, believe me). And I was happy, did I mention that? Truly, genuinely happy. Despite all the problems that were happening in the dream, which very closely mirrored my real life worries, I was smiling and not faking it. I was hopeful in a way that I have not been in a very long time, and that I fear I will never again experience in this life.

When I woke up, I seriously thought I might be sick. I felt like such utter shit, it seemed like vomiting was the only way to express it besides tears. And I am done with crying over stupid shit like this. Done, I tell you. There is no use crying over something so idiotic. There is no use dwelling on it. There is no use in even thinking about it for another second.

So I move on. To what, I have no idea. I'm still searching for that.

the Sadim Touch

You know, the opposite of the Midas touch. Apparently I have it.

Seems whatever happened to our crappy old lawn mower rendered it beyond repair. And I so desperately wanted to believe that I could fix it that I put off buying a new mower. Well, the grass - more precisely, the weeds - reached thigh height and I started getting nervous.

In a town this small, nothing goes unnoticed. Everyone on Liberty Street knows that I am a recluse, and that when they see me out of the house...it's a cold day in hell. They will actually comment about it to my face. Everyone in this town knows who I rent this house from, and they know where she lives, and they know that if something's amiss at Manson Homestead, they get better results when they bypass talking to me and just go straight to the lady that cashes my rent checks. So I knew it was just a matter of time before someone called her up and complained that the crazy, shut-in cat lady on Liberty Street was trying to see how tall she could get her grass before the city got sick of it and came to mow it for her.

Believe you me, as much as I would like to have the stooges from the city mow my grass while I sit on my shrinking ass and watch, I saw what they did to the foreclosed house next door. They scalped that yard. Thank you, but I can push a mower myself. Sid and I spent way too much time spreading grass seed last year for anyone to come along and scalp our (finally) beautiful lawn.

Anyway, like I said, the grass was thigh height, and I knew that if I didn't soon work myself up to do something drastic, like buy a new mower, the whole neighborhood would be ringing up the landlady, demanding my blood. I wasn't just putting off buying a new mower because I couldn't bear to spend the money, but because I knew I would have to use Sid's car, and that meant taking off the stupid cover and getting pollen and birdshit all over myself.

But I did it, and it was even worse than I had imagined. It's rained a lot lately, and that cover did fuck-all to keep the water and dirt out. That car was caked in yellow pollen. It was embarrassing, even to me, and I usually don't worry myself over the dirtiness of a car.

But that's not the best part. Oh no, the best part was when I got to the store and picked out my new mower, and had the guy bring it out and put it in my trunk for me. He says, "You know you got ants in here?"

Yes, you read that correctly. There were ants making a nest in the metal framing around the trunk. I feel no further comment is necessary on this, as thinking about it makes me twitch.

So I get the mower home, get it out of the trunk, and get it assembled. I fill it up with oil and gasoline and I'm psyched. I put together a lawn mower! I'm independent and industrious! Yay starky!

And then I couldn't get it started. I primed that thing, and yanked at the pull cord for a good ten minutes before I decided that one more failure would result in me taking a mallet to this spiffy new mower. In desperation, I went across the street to beg help from the neighbor man.

He started that thing on the first goddamn try.

It's the Sadim Touch, I'm telling you.

an unforseen side effect

I am finding out that all the weird things about me that always sort of defined who I was are not really me at all, but my hypothyroidism. And now that that's not a problem, I get to go through that whole teenage phase of "finding myself" all over again. Because this has apparently been going on for years, unnoticed, I do not know who I am without symptoms.

Take, for example, my sex drive. Nonexistent. Never had any libido to speak of. Ever. It didn't bother me, it was just who I was, and I accepted it. Well, now that the synthroid has had time to render some major changes, I'm finding out that hey, you know there really is something there.

And my god, I'm freaked out. This is the strangest thing to me. This is like being 12 years old again and going through puberty. It's alienating. I don't know my body anymore, this isn't the one I'm used to. My husband is coming home to a wife he has never really met before.

For the past few weeks, I've been taking my pill every day and seeing gradual improvement, and I was totally okay with having a chronic disease. It didn't bother me. I was not my disease, you know, it didn't define me as a person. And I'm finding out that I was, and it did.

It is extremely humbling.