I’ve come to find that the only thing that will sit and grow due to absolutely no effort on my part is my bum.
I’m at the point in my cycle of moods (aka wheel of death) where my attitude is constantly awful because the wind blew wrong. Yep, ladies and gentlemen, that scowl on my face – I’ve been mean-mugging the wind all day. However, I’m at the point in my therapy experience where tracking my moods helps me anticipate the swings. This provides me the peaceful perspective that outside stimuli which trigger my highs and lows are not the actual causes.
It also ROBS me the opportunity to assign glory and blame to those people and situations who would be temporary gods and scapegoats in my day. YAY personal growth.
Actually, I blow RASPBERRIES at your personal growth. I’ll embrace it in two weeks when I’m manic again.
I’m a hypochondriac. And, worse still, I’m a miseducated one. I don’t call the PCP or bother 911 when I have a cough or a rash – oh, no. I consult Specialists WebMD and Dr. Google Images until I find a report that confirms my suspicions of TB, or photos that demonstrate with frightening accuracy how my rug burn could most definitely be a flare-up of that flesh-eating virus going around…and thusly live my life according to my findings. it’s kinda the reason I’m currently medicated for bipolar disorder. If WebMD had compared my erratic behavior and emotional symptoms to that of a dying squirrel, I might have made myself a tree home and began hoarding nuts to save my life before seeking actual psychiatric help. Of course, had I done all of those things, it wouldn’t have taken long for psychiatric help to come out of woodwork (pun intended) looking for me.
Lately, I have been experiencing a pain at the tip of my left pinky. I originally wrote it off as an invisible bruise of some sort and thought nothing of it. The pain however, has persisted, and the other evening I began scrutinizing both my pinkies. One would expect (well, one with the medical background of an AVID internet explorer) to find the disgruntled digit, if bruised, to be a bit more puffy (an elite medical term) than the other. However, it was actually the peaceful pinky on the right that felt…fleshier (also an elite medical term; I’m not surprised you don’t hear it more often) than its counterpart. By comparison, the hurting pinky tip seemed almost flatter, as if it had somehow deflated.
This last part definitely concerned me – but only for a moment. I mean, let’s get real here, Spaztastic. It’s not like some THING physically flattened your finger without you being aware of it. And the idea of a medical condition that deflates your hand one unassuming tidbit at a time is absurd (though in the search to confirm that last assertion I did find documentation describing the current coloring of my fingernails as a possible indication of cirrhosis. Damn).
Dismissing the inequality of the pinkies as an anomaly to be investigated at a later date but probably not the cause of the pain, I was left with determining which internal intruder was injuring my poor Pigletine persecutee. Ever ready to answer the call, my hypochondriac senses activated and I have thoroughly diagnosed myself with a currently mild case of fibromyalgia…again.