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How’s things?

Hi. How are you?

No, really. How are you?

I know that’s, like, a default thing we all ask friends, family, and strangers, and we don’t often actually want to hear (or care about) the answer. But I really do. How are you?

I’m okay, today. I know you didn’t ask, but I’m going to tell you anyway.

Money’s tight because we had to lease new furniture because our old furniture was literally causing both of us spine and hip injuries, and then we spent more money than we should have over the holidays. Our bad. But we’ll get through it. We always do.

My mental health has been in the toilet. Some time over the holidays, I realized that I really don’t give a shit if I live or die. I’m not having suicidal ideations. I’m not actively suicidal. I just don’t care what happens.

That scares me.

The last notable time I was in this head space, I spiraled so far into self destruction that I’m really not sure how I didn’t die. Mom always says there’s someone or something looking out for me. Looking back at the number of times I should have died and didn’t, and didn’t even suffer any major injuries, I’m starting to think she might be right.

My physical health is in the toilet, too. I can’t remember if I talked about this here. My last physical showed that I’m pre-diabetic. My triglycerides were high enough that I’m at risk of a stroke. My diastolic blood pressure is always high. I’m dealing with some pretty severe (and undiagnosed because I won’t make a doctor’s appointment for them) sciatic nerve issues. I’ve been diagnosed with Carpal Tunnel Syndrome (CTS), which the surgeon I was referred to is saying is minor, but it limits what I’m able to do so much, and it’s so damn frustrating.

Despite the fact that my sodium levels were normal, my last PCP put me on water pills that are meant to make your body remove more salt from your system to combat the diastolic problem, but literally all it’s doing is making me pee ALL THE TIME and sweat like a pig. (Where does that phrase even come from? Pigs don’t sweat.) The number hasn’t budged.

I have a new PCP who wants me to lose weight (duh). She thinks it’ll help with the blood pressure problem. And she might be right, but I’m feeling like we should be stopping the water pills and looking into something else.

That’s not something I’ve actually discussed with her, yet. I’ve been avoiding her. I was supposed have an appointment in February to follow up on my weight loss goals, but she cancelled because something came up, and I haven’t rescheduled because I’ve gained back all the weight I’d lost at the last appointment. Every single pound.

My PCP has been very supportive, and doesn’t seem to be blaming everything on my weight, but all of my health problems (except the CTS) are directly related to my diet and lack of exercise, so even if she were, she’d probably be justified.

That’s how I realized I literally don’t give a shit if I live or die. I am still eating myself to death. Binge eating disorder is a motherfucker.

Turns out, serotonin release is directly related to food intake. According to Harvard, 95% of your serotonin is produced in your gastrointestinal tract, so it kinda makes sense that I binge eat yummy foods when I’m depressed or anxious. But it’s not healthy. It’s quite literally killing me. And I don’t care.

But I do care that I don’t care? I mean, writing this, and picking apart why I don’t care is making me sad as hell. Normal people care if they live or die…don’t they?

What the fuck?

The surgeon put me on an anti-inflammatory pill called Meloxicam for the CTS, and gave me some braces to wear at night. And for a while, it was working, but the second I started knitting again, I started having flare ups. Knitting has been the only thing that has proven to quiet my mind and curb some of the need to be stuffing my face when I’m anxious or depressed or whatever.

Flare ups when I’m knitting means my hands are gonna kill when the ground is thawed enough for me to start working in the flowerbed and putting in our vegetable garden…which is going in this year if it kills me. And gardening is what keeps me relatively sane in the Spring and Summer.

In truth, that may have something to do with why I don’t care about what happens to me anymore. How the fuck am I supposed to kick binging or work through my mental illnesses if I can’t utilize the coping mechanisms that actually work for me because of other health issues?

But also, the world is going to shit. Donald Trump and the GOP seem to be actively and intentionally destroying every single foundation this country is built on. Fuck, Trump’s even managed to drive away basically every country we’ve ever allied and traded with. They’re all finding new countries to trade with. I can’t even imagine the hoops we’re going to have to jump through to rebuild those relationships when we finally get rid of the conman and his entourage.

If we get rid of him.

BLEH! How depressing.

I keep reminding myself of the good things. Like the fact that we can afford our medication. And we were able to go out and buy a whole new bed and lease a whole new living room set when we realized our furniture was causing injuries, and, until we spent beyond our means over the holidays, it wasn’t even hurting us. And the fact that even with our overspending, our bills are paid and there’s food in our fridge and pantry.

Ten years ago, overspending would have ruined us. Ten years ago, we would have just had to deal with the physical injuries.

I didn’t come here to write this. I guess this is what needed to be written. I’ll try to pound out what I actually came here to write (which was just an update on the rebranding I said was coming) and get it posted later in the week. Don’t hold me to it, though. We all know how bad I am at blogging.

In the meantime, listen…if you feel alone, and you need someone to talk to, I’m here. I try not to be online as much as I used to, and I’ve had all social notifications turned off for months because a person can only deal with so much of the vitriol spat at Liberals by Trump supporters and Russian bots (trust, I know that Liberals are not innocent), so if it’s an emergency, I am not the person to ping.

Honestly, if it’s an emergency, you should call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255 because there’s always someone there, and they won’t judge, and they can get you help if you need it.

But if it’s not an emergency—if you just want someone to talk to and it can wait—I’m here, and I care, and I’d love to hear from you. @ me on Twitter (just a “hey, can we talk?” is fine) or email me @ rayne[at]insatiabledesire[dot]com and I’ll get back to you as soon as I see it.

I see you. You are not alone. You are worthy. You are loved. You deserve the world. Yes, even you.

💜

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