"Oh!" Moment
A long-winded, semi-humorous ramble about discovery, panic and how bad Excedrine tastes when it crumbles on your tongue.
So this morning I skimmed through the blogs and forums like usual, taking time to wake up before I actually stepped into the shower (repeated attempts to condition my hair with shower gel before I shampooed has made this process necessary. I'm just lucky I don't keep 'Nair' in the shower). I received my dailykos dose of depressing reality for the day, I read about the drama in the stitching world, I caught up on various writers' tales of success and defeat, in other words, your typical standard Monday morning read.
I finally moved from the warm cocoon of my blanket and laptop, feeling the old shoulder ligaments and tendons grind as I pushed up off the couch where I sat curled up contortionist-style to preserve body heat as CNN morning played on the TV. I moved to the kitchen to pop a couple Excedrine because once again, my arm hurt (yes, I have managed to correlate pushing up off couch with 'hey, that hurts'...I really need to get some Advil instead of Excedrine, but the stuff kills my stomach).
Given that I've grown up living on pills (hah, doesn't that sound like a true addict talking - allergies, people!), I tossed two Excedrine under my tongue so as not to taste the pills and took a gulp of water.
I seriously froze, pills sticking to my tongue and the roof of my mouth, swallowing water without swallowing pills. But it wasn't the pills or some involuntary gag reflex, oh no. It was that Archimedes discovery in the bathtub "Eureka!" moment of self-discovery based on subconscious reflection and brain digestion of the text I had read this morning.
Which brings me to point #1 of this blog: Excedrine tastes really, really bad. Especially when, for the life of you, no matter how much water you frantically drink, you cannot swallow the pills. Which are quickly crumbling on your tongue and filling your mouth with the most intense bitter UGH that you have ever tasted. Seriously, forget waterboarding and head slapping. Stick two Excedrine on the prisoner's tongue and let them dissolve. Oh yes, my friends. They'll speak. President Bush? Jack Bauer? Your brand of torture has nothing on mine.
I drank water. Lots and lots of water. Swishing the water around to remove any crumbled, powdery taste of bitter medicine (actually, read that as : swishing the water around to find any last trace of the crumbled, powdery life-saving wonder drug like a good coke addict licking their mirror clean) and replacing the tainted water taste with fresh until I was good and water-logged, but the powder was generally removed from all crooks and crannies of my mouth.
I immediately returned to my computer and googled symptoms RSI, something mentioned in one of the blogs I read this morning.
- Recurring pain or soreness in neck, shoulders, upper back, wrists, or hands.
Oh, you mean -that- pain I've felt in my neck, shoulders, wrists and hands that I've been bitching about to poor lilithilien for I don't know, ages now?
- Tingling, numbness, coldness or loss of sensation
Does a cold tingling numbness count?
- Loss of grip strength, lack of endurance, weakness
Now, I can't say that I've really noticed that, but at the same time, I am a weakling so I can't really say if I've lost strength or not. We'll leave this one as a negative.
- Swelling in the hands or forearms
You mean my arms aren't just fat?
- Difficulty using hands for numerous domestic, work or personal tasks (including turning the pages of a book, carrying or lifting things, turning doorknobs, holding a coffee mug, etc...)
Oh, so when I read a paperback book the other night and had to finagle a method of holding it so I could just brace it against my knees and turn the page with my non-dominant hand is a sign?
- Pain or numbness while lying in bed. Often early stage RSI sufferers mistakenly think they are lying on their arms in an awkward position cutting off circulation.
Sooooo....you mean when I toss and turn at night and finally lay my arm flat out beside me, palm up, because any other position feels like I'm cutting off circulation to my hand and makes my wrist/palm throb isn't just psychosomatic?
(Symptoms gathered from various, dubious sources. Namely, the internets. Hey, it's on the internets, its gotta be true!)
This moment of discovery brings me to point #2 of this blog: never, ever have a Eureka!!! moment before caffeine.
As you can imagine, my brain was racing when I finally stepped into the shower (and promptly dropped the bottle of conditioner - at first I hypochondriactically blamed the 'loss of grip' which I at first wrote off as a symptom until I realized that the bottle was slicked in spilt conditioner and it had merely slipped. I picked it up - hah! so there, loss of grip! - and grabbed the proper bottle of shampoo). Finally, a source for my bitching had been discovered! My brain was a scattered mess, bouncing from 'omg, my writing!' to 'no, not a doctor!' to 'yay at least it's not a heart attack!' to 'omg, what if it's actually a tumor?!' to 'shit, okay, what can I do at home to treat this?'
See, you don't understand. I have an innate hatred/fear of going to the doctor. And no matter what you say, I probably will not go to the doctor for this until I have exhausted all home remedies. The last time I went to the doctor was to remove a pilonidal cyst (yes, the same pilonidal cyst which prevented Rush Limbaugh from being drafted during Vietnam, true American patriot my ass. Literally. Not pleasant. And for god's sakes, don't google pilonidal cyst - you'll get some fugly pictures. It's a cyst on your tail bone. 'Nuff said. But definitely not draft-dodging-because-of-medical-condition worthy) the size of a house boat. So maybe I exaggerate. It wasn't the size of a house boat. But it did require medical treatment. And that was the last time I went. I didn't even go when I stepped on a stitching needle and shoved it and a piece of thread nearly through my foot. I just closed my eyes, thought of England, and pulled the needle out.
I also have been blessed with a high pain tolerance and an immune system which kicks so much ass it'd give Ronon a run for its money. I don't trust doctors anywho (after all, I was going to become one - I know what they're like!), unless I know it's something that actually requires medicine. I am against over-medication, especially with antibiotics, and avoid doctors like the plague. Hah.
Thus, no doctor.
This brings me to point #3 of this blog, which ties directly into point #2 (never, ever have a Eureka!!! moment before caffeine): never follow a caffeine-less Eureka! moment with a total gender identity meltdown crisis.
Now, I’m sure you’re asking yourself, wtf?
I’m being completely serious here.
While I was conditioning and contemplating home remedies and all the things I could do to avoid the doctor since I knew what was wrong (and trust me, it’s that gut instinct/knowledge that yes, this is what’s wrong, borne by years of almost-med school and just knowing habits/self), I suddenly realized that I was acting totally like a guy in avoiding the doctor.
After looking down to confirm that yes, anatomically I am female, my panicked brain skidded off the tracks and into the territories of the transgendered and gender confused. Holy shit, I like football. I avoid going to the doctor. I like pants. I like porn. I played with G.I. Joes and Transformers as a kid and I hated Barbies. OMG. Mentally, I’m male. To top it off, I like pink and my deodorant I bought has sparkles in it. So, not only am I mentally male, I’m mentally a gay male.
Then, I realized I own all of 4 pairs of shoes, have no sense for interior design, I can multitask like a multitasking she-demon and I ask for directions.
Definitely not male or even gay male.
That did little to assuage my mental gender identity meltdown. I felt this strong need today to wear a skirt, don makeup and wear my bra outside my shirt to reaffirm my femininity after proudly clutching my vibrating vibrator and shaking a fist at the social inequality of the sexes based on a fucking broken X chromosome (read: XY - see! The Y is a broken X - it’s missing a leg!). At the very least, at least let me PMS so I can blame my psychotic morning on raging female hormones.
And now, I bring you to point #4 of today’s blog: panic (post ingestion of caffeine, mind you, which means I can think rationally and thusly, my panic is well-thought out and planned). I am a -writer-. Not only do I work on the computer in my free time, I am a writer/editor by trade. I can’t not write. But now I know part of why I have had such severe writer’s block lately - pain is a good deterrent. I want to work on the final chapters of SoI and then move on to other writing pursuits, but the moment I start typing I feel achy-pain and distract myself with other things than writing because, well, pain.
Has anyone on my flist suffered from RSI? What’d you do to treat it? I’m going to nab myself a strength ball or grip strengthener or whatever to build the muscles in my hand, and dammit, I’m going to have to start doing some exercises like some manly push-ups or lifting weights to strengthen the muscles in my arms/shoulders. I think I’m also going to look into some voice recognition software. With as much writing/typing as I do, this may be a good investment, time and $$ wise. I know the early incarnations of the software really blew goat chunks, but I’m hoping technology and accuracy has improved over about 5 years?
I’d take time away from the computer, but that’s really hard for me. Not from an OMG I can’t live without my computer! kind of way, but a ‘this is my livelihood’ kind of way.
I’ve also heard that a Dvorak keyboard can help. Has anyone tried one of those?
And now, I leave you with one final thought as I twirl my skirt and flash the world with my very feminine boobs:
If a male is really an imperfect female and this apparently excuses them from things like shaving their legs, pantyhose and common sense, why do males make more money, hold more power and have the freedom to belch in public?
So this morning I skimmed through the blogs and forums like usual, taking time to wake up before I actually stepped into the shower (repeated attempts to condition my hair with shower gel before I shampooed has made this process necessary. I'm just lucky I don't keep 'Nair' in the shower). I received my dailykos dose of depressing reality for the day, I read about the drama in the stitching world, I caught up on various writers' tales of success and defeat, in other words, your typical standard Monday morning read.
I finally moved from the warm cocoon of my blanket and laptop, feeling the old shoulder ligaments and tendons grind as I pushed up off the couch where I sat curled up contortionist-style to preserve body heat as CNN morning played on the TV. I moved to the kitchen to pop a couple Excedrine because once again, my arm hurt (yes, I have managed to correlate pushing up off couch with 'hey, that hurts'...I really need to get some Advil instead of Excedrine, but the stuff kills my stomach).
Given that I've grown up living on pills (hah, doesn't that sound like a true addict talking - allergies, people!), I tossed two Excedrine under my tongue so as not to taste the pills and took a gulp of water.
I seriously froze, pills sticking to my tongue and the roof of my mouth, swallowing water without swallowing pills. But it wasn't the pills or some involuntary gag reflex, oh no. It was that Archimedes discovery in the bathtub "Eureka!" moment of self-discovery based on subconscious reflection and brain digestion of the text I had read this morning.
Which brings me to point #1 of this blog: Excedrine tastes really, really bad. Especially when, for the life of you, no matter how much water you frantically drink, you cannot swallow the pills. Which are quickly crumbling on your tongue and filling your mouth with the most intense bitter UGH that you have ever tasted. Seriously, forget waterboarding and head slapping. Stick two Excedrine on the prisoner's tongue and let them dissolve. Oh yes, my friends. They'll speak. President Bush? Jack Bauer? Your brand of torture has nothing on mine.
I drank water. Lots and lots of water. Swishing the water around to remove any crumbled, powdery taste of bitter medicine (actually, read that as : swishing the water around to find any last trace of the crumbled, powdery life-saving wonder drug like a good coke addict licking their mirror clean) and replacing the tainted water taste with fresh until I was good and water-logged, but the powder was generally removed from all crooks and crannies of my mouth.
I immediately returned to my computer and googled symptoms RSI, something mentioned in one of the blogs I read this morning.
- Recurring pain or soreness in neck, shoulders, upper back, wrists, or hands.
Oh, you mean -that- pain I've felt in my neck, shoulders, wrists and hands that I've been bitching about to poor lilithilien for I don't know, ages now?
- Tingling, numbness, coldness or loss of sensation
Does a cold tingling numbness count?
- Loss of grip strength, lack of endurance, weakness
Now, I can't say that I've really noticed that, but at the same time, I am a weakling so I can't really say if I've lost strength or not. We'll leave this one as a negative.
- Swelling in the hands or forearms
You mean my arms aren't just fat?
- Difficulty using hands for numerous domestic, work or personal tasks (including turning the pages of a book, carrying or lifting things, turning doorknobs, holding a coffee mug, etc...)
Oh, so when I read a paperback book the other night and had to finagle a method of holding it so I could just brace it against my knees and turn the page with my non-dominant hand is a sign?
- Pain or numbness while lying in bed. Often early stage RSI sufferers mistakenly think they are lying on their arms in an awkward position cutting off circulation.
Sooooo....you mean when I toss and turn at night and finally lay my arm flat out beside me, palm up, because any other position feels like I'm cutting off circulation to my hand and makes my wrist/palm throb isn't just psychosomatic?
(Symptoms gathered from various, dubious sources. Namely, the internets. Hey, it's on the internets, its gotta be true!)
This moment of discovery brings me to point #2 of this blog: never, ever have a Eureka!!! moment before caffeine.
As you can imagine, my brain was racing when I finally stepped into the shower (and promptly dropped the bottle of conditioner - at first I hypochondriactically blamed the 'loss of grip' which I at first wrote off as a symptom until I realized that the bottle was slicked in spilt conditioner and it had merely slipped. I picked it up - hah! so there, loss of grip! - and grabbed the proper bottle of shampoo). Finally, a source for my bitching had been discovered! My brain was a scattered mess, bouncing from 'omg, my writing!' to 'no, not a doctor!' to 'yay at least it's not a heart attack!' to 'omg, what if it's actually a tumor?!' to 'shit, okay, what can I do at home to treat this?'
See, you don't understand. I have an innate hatred/fear of going to the doctor. And no matter what you say, I probably will not go to the doctor for this until I have exhausted all home remedies. The last time I went to the doctor was to remove a pilonidal cyst (yes, the same pilonidal cyst which prevented Rush Limbaugh from being drafted during Vietnam, true American patriot my ass. Literally. Not pleasant. And for god's sakes, don't google pilonidal cyst - you'll get some fugly pictures. It's a cyst on your tail bone. 'Nuff said. But definitely not draft-dodging-because-of-medical-condition worthy) the size of a house boat. So maybe I exaggerate. It wasn't the size of a house boat. But it did require medical treatment. And that was the last time I went. I didn't even go when I stepped on a stitching needle and shoved it and a piece of thread nearly through my foot. I just closed my eyes, thought of England, and pulled the needle out.
I also have been blessed with a high pain tolerance and an immune system which kicks so much ass it'd give Ronon a run for its money. I don't trust doctors anywho (after all, I was going to become one - I know what they're like!), unless I know it's something that actually requires medicine. I am against over-medication, especially with antibiotics, and avoid doctors like the plague. Hah.
Thus, no doctor.
This brings me to point #3 of this blog, which ties directly into point #2 (never, ever have a Eureka!!! moment before caffeine): never follow a caffeine-less Eureka! moment with a total gender identity meltdown crisis.
Now, I’m sure you’re asking yourself, wtf?
I’m being completely serious here.
While I was conditioning and contemplating home remedies and all the things I could do to avoid the doctor since I knew what was wrong (and trust me, it’s that gut instinct/knowledge that yes, this is what’s wrong, borne by years of almost-med school and just knowing habits/self), I suddenly realized that I was acting totally like a guy in avoiding the doctor.
After looking down to confirm that yes, anatomically I am female, my panicked brain skidded off the tracks and into the territories of the transgendered and gender confused. Holy shit, I like football. I avoid going to the doctor. I like pants. I like porn. I played with G.I. Joes and Transformers as a kid and I hated Barbies. OMG. Mentally, I’m male. To top it off, I like pink and my deodorant I bought has sparkles in it. So, not only am I mentally male, I’m mentally a gay male.
Then, I realized I own all of 4 pairs of shoes, have no sense for interior design, I can multitask like a multitasking she-demon and I ask for directions.
Definitely not male or even gay male.
That did little to assuage my mental gender identity meltdown. I felt this strong need today to wear a skirt, don makeup and wear my bra outside my shirt to reaffirm my femininity after proudly clutching my vibrating vibrator and shaking a fist at the social inequality of the sexes based on a fucking broken X chromosome (read: XY - see! The Y is a broken X - it’s missing a leg!). At the very least, at least let me PMS so I can blame my psychotic morning on raging female hormones.
And now, I bring you to point #4 of today’s blog: panic (post ingestion of caffeine, mind you, which means I can think rationally and thusly, my panic is well-thought out and planned). I am a -writer-. Not only do I work on the computer in my free time, I am a writer/editor by trade. I can’t not write. But now I know part of why I have had such severe writer’s block lately - pain is a good deterrent. I want to work on the final chapters of SoI and then move on to other writing pursuits, but the moment I start typing I feel achy-pain and distract myself with other things than writing because, well, pain.
Has anyone on my flist suffered from RSI? What’d you do to treat it? I’m going to nab myself a strength ball or grip strengthener or whatever to build the muscles in my hand, and dammit, I’m going to have to start doing some exercises like some manly push-ups or lifting weights to strengthen the muscles in my arms/shoulders. I think I’m also going to look into some voice recognition software. With as much writing/typing as I do, this may be a good investment, time and $$ wise. I know the early incarnations of the software really blew goat chunks, but I’m hoping technology and accuracy has improved over about 5 years?
I’d take time away from the computer, but that’s really hard for me. Not from an OMG I can’t live without my computer! kind of way, but a ‘this is my livelihood’ kind of way.
I’ve also heard that a Dvorak keyboard can help. Has anyone tried one of those?
And now, I leave you with one final thought as I twirl my skirt and flash the world with my very feminine boobs:
If a male is really an imperfect female and this apparently excuses them from things like shaving their legs, pantyhose and common sense, why do males make more money, hold more power and have the freedom to belch in public?