Okay, so, fibercrack, in reblogging the post about the fundraiser my friends are running to help me--and I thank each of you who has donated and each of you has reblogged or linked to the post in question, I truly do--said, in talking about me, "[...] and she has had a rough run of it for just about always."
And I try to be positive--I think of myself as a cautiously optimistic realist--about my life and I know that there are people out there who are far worse off than I am.
But I hate flying, I hate it with the passion of a thousand stars going supernova all in the same instant, and that's because I've had horrible experiences when doing so.
The one that stands out in mind took place two weeks before Christmas, 2005. My parents let me go overseas--for the first time at all, and on my own, though I was 19--to spend Christmas with my friend who had been an exchange student at my college the previous year.
First the plane was delayed for four hours. Well, it sucked, but you meet people, there was a restaurant and bar, you talk--could've been worse.
Finally, we get on the plane. And a guy starts smoking. The steward told him he had to put it out or get off the plane. The smoking man, that is, had to stop smoking or get off the plane. Not the steward.
Smoking Man, we then all found out--as he was quite loud--was actually Smoking-and-Drunk Man. And he informed the steward he wasn't getting off the plane. Nor would he cease to smoke.
At this point, two additional attendents have arrived to help force Smoking-and-Drunk Man--or S-and-D Man, from now on--off the plane.
That would be when S-and-D Man announced he had bombs on the plane that he would blow up if they didn't let him smoke.
No one thought he actually did, but you follow procedure anyway. The FBI showed up. Bomb sniffing dogs arrived.
And that's when we found out that S-and-D Man was actually S-and-D Terrorist, as there were, in fact, bombs on the airplane.
So S-and-D Terrorist is taken away in shackles on his hands and feet both, but all of us have to be rebooked. I won't go into the chaos that followed, because there was a bombs--or there were bombs, I was never clear on how many--on my bloody airplane!
My cat is a therapy animal, which means as long as I bring a letter from a psychiatrist saying I need her, she flies for free with me, and my anxiety stays under control. Panic attacks that involve me sobbing and shaking are thus averted, because I hate taking anxiety medicine, I don't like how I feel on it, so I have Ember, my lovely therapy cat, instead.
But I can't take her with me to the hotel today, so, while I do have my father and another person helps, I have to take some of the Absolute Emergency Only xanax before I get on the plane.
It gets better, because we're going to see my Lyme specialist, which is a long--normally 2-4 hours--stressful appointment, which can be filled with good or very, very bad news.
So. I'm not loving today. In fact, I'm hating it. I'm putting off showering, dressing, and packing until 11:30, when we leave at 1 PM. I know that's enough time, but I just. I hate doing this, and I have to every three months. Which, believe me, is not as much time as you think it is. it passes in the wink of am eye.
Just. Shit. That's it. Shit.
I need a vacation from my life. Or a vacation, period. I may be going to Florida, but that's because that's where the specialist IS. It has nothing to do with a vacation, and I'll be too tired from the appointment and having massive amounts of blood drawn from me at once to do anything. It's possible we might go see a movie. But I doubt it.
Just...think good thoughts my way? Please? And also, thank you, again, people who donated and who linked to and/or reblogged about the fundraiser. I've been able to pay off the only debt I had, so I don't have to worry about interest there, which is awesome. And money for IUD and surgery is slowly but surely building. So, thank you.
There. A positive note to end this on. Rather than an hysterical one. In the "fits of hysteria" way, not the "incredibly humorous" way. Cautiously optimistic realist. I will not panic. The flight will be fine, the appointment needs to be done, and the news will probably not be bad, as we know I'm getting better, no matter how shitty I still feel 2/3-3/4 of the time. Optimism! And no panic attacks. That's the plan for the day.
And I try to be positive--I think of myself as a cautiously optimistic realist--about my life and I know that there are people out there who are far worse off than I am.
But I hate flying, I hate it with the passion of a thousand stars going supernova all in the same instant, and that's because I've had horrible experiences when doing so.
The one that stands out in mind took place two weeks before Christmas, 2005. My parents let me go overseas--for the first time at all, and on my own, though I was 19--to spend Christmas with my friend who had been an exchange student at my college the previous year.
First the plane was delayed for four hours. Well, it sucked, but you meet people, there was a restaurant and bar, you talk--could've been worse.
Finally, we get on the plane. And a guy starts smoking. The steward told him he had to put it out or get off the plane. The smoking man, that is, had to stop smoking or get off the plane. Not the steward.
Smoking Man, we then all found out--as he was quite loud--was actually Smoking-and-Drunk Man. And he informed the steward he wasn't getting off the plane. Nor would he cease to smoke.
At this point, two additional attendents have arrived to help force Smoking-and-Drunk Man--or S-and-D Man, from now on--off the plane.
That would be when S-and-D Man announced he had bombs on the plane that he would blow up if they didn't let him smoke.
No one thought he actually did, but you follow procedure anyway. The FBI showed up. Bomb sniffing dogs arrived.
And that's when we found out that S-and-D Man was actually S-and-D Terrorist, as there were, in fact, bombs on the airplane.
So S-and-D Terrorist is taken away in shackles on his hands and feet both, but all of us have to be rebooked. I won't go into the chaos that followed, because there was a bombs--or there were bombs, I was never clear on how many--on my bloody airplane!
My cat is a therapy animal, which means as long as I bring a letter from a psychiatrist saying I need her, she flies for free with me, and my anxiety stays under control. Panic attacks that involve me sobbing and shaking are thus averted, because I hate taking anxiety medicine, I don't like how I feel on it, so I have Ember, my lovely therapy cat, instead.
But I can't take her with me to the hotel today, so, while I do have my father and another person helps, I have to take some of the Absolute Emergency Only xanax before I get on the plane.
It gets better, because we're going to see my Lyme specialist, which is a long--normally 2-4 hours--stressful appointment, which can be filled with good or very, very bad news.
So. I'm not loving today. In fact, I'm hating it. I'm putting off showering, dressing, and packing until 11:30, when we leave at 1 PM. I know that's enough time, but I just. I hate doing this, and I have to every three months. Which, believe me, is not as much time as you think it is. it passes in the wink of am eye.
Just. Shit. That's it. Shit.
I need a vacation from my life. Or a vacation, period. I may be going to Florida, but that's because that's where the specialist IS. It has nothing to do with a vacation, and I'll be too tired from the appointment and having massive amounts of blood drawn from me at once to do anything. It's possible we might go see a movie. But I doubt it.
Just...think good thoughts my way? Please? And also, thank you, again, people who donated and who linked to and/or reblogged about the fundraiser. I've been able to pay off the only debt I had, so I don't have to worry about interest there, which is awesome. And money for IUD and surgery is slowly but surely building. So, thank you.
There. A positive note to end this on. Rather than an hysterical one. In the "fits of hysteria" way, not the "incredibly humorous" way. Cautiously optimistic realist. I will not panic. The flight will be fine, the appointment needs to be done, and the news will probably not be bad, as we know I'm getting better, no matter how shitty I still feel 2/3-3/4 of the time. Optimism! And no panic attacks. That's the plan for the day.
emotions: 
anxious
anxious1 comment | comment