Josi (O-Josi-O) (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} eris_devotee) wrote,@ 2009-01-04 23:34:00 |
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I've had a really rough week with pain. I should've caught a clue last Monday, because I took a few flexeril in anticipation of my visit from infinitehaiku and the drugs made me *way* emotional. That is almost always a sign that I've been in too much pain, and the release of it is so huge that I finally feel safe enough to break down a little.
This stoic response to pain has been an ongoing problem in my life. It's neither an intentional nor a conscious process. Well - that's not completely true... I have to make the choice between the ultra-lucid shiny veneer of pain, or the dreamy haze of pain meds. I only weigh 95 lbs - pain meds and muscle relaxers hit me *hard* even at their lowest dose, even in patch form.
I've been almost immobile all week. I took 3 flexeril about 2 hours ago, and I'm going to stay on them for a while. I'm going to my doc in the morning to get pain patches again.
Crocheting has become *very* difficult because sitting in the same position + repetitive motion aggravates my joints and muscles like crazy. I need to figure something else out, and rather quickly, because more than an hour/day is killing me (and I pay for even that hour).
* * * * *
On Facebook, I finally found my grammar school best friend. He's Bob these days, but back then he was Robby. He was my best friend until 6th grade, and then I transferred to the public school by my parents' new home. We met up again in high school when our schools competed against each other in Mathletes & Academic Decathlon.
Bob was the smartest kid in school, bar none. He was also a total sweetie, with a really good heart and a depth of compassion that's almost painful to witness in a child. He felt every hurt of everything around him, and it just made him kinder. Of course, that made him vulnerable, too. But people had to get through me, if you know what I mean.
In his email to me, he wrote "The Josi I remember always marched to the beat of a different drummer anyway. You were always pretty comfortable being a non-conformist and not really caring what others thought. I suppose that is why we were friends."
And I guess I'm sorta blown away by that. By the time high school came around, I was very conscious of my... activist nature. But in grammar school?... it's not something I remember reaching for. I mean - I remember thinking popular opinion was not to be trusted, and thinking bullies sucked, and gravitating towards the other smart goofy kids. I mean - I used to pop off at people all the time for being jerks, but I had a sort of protected status because my dad was the juvenile officer for that area and he was at my school almost weekly (and every now and then, when I'd miss my bus, he'd drive me with sirens a-blaring).
I guess I still feel a disconnect with that kid. Grammar school was probably the worst time of my life. I had no language for, or understanding of, the stuff that happened to me, and so I walked around all the time feeling awful. I can't remember the face that I put on for others, so reflections of it are alien. I guess? I feel comfort in knowing that I have some continuity from then to now, but I wish I could remember being that girl. I remember being a very different girl, and I don't know how to reconcile the two of them.
infinitehaiku and the drugs made me *way* emotional. That is almost always a sign that I've been in too much pain, and the release of it is so huge that I finally feel safe enough to break down a little.This stoic response to pain has been an ongoing problem in my life. It's neither an intentional nor a conscious process. Well - that's not completely true... I have to make the choice between the ultra-lucid shiny veneer of pain, or the dreamy haze of pain meds. I only weigh 95 lbs - pain meds and muscle relaxers hit me *hard* even at their lowest dose, even in patch form.
I've been almost immobile all week. I took 3 flexeril about 2 hours ago, and I'm going to stay on them for a while. I'm going to my doc in the morning to get pain patches again.
Crocheting has become *very* difficult because sitting in the same position + repetitive motion aggravates my joints and muscles like crazy. I need to figure something else out, and rather quickly, because more than an hour/day is killing me (and I pay for even that hour).
* * * * *
On Facebook, I finally found my grammar school best friend. He's Bob these days, but back then he was Robby. He was my best friend until 6th grade, and then I transferred to the public school by my parents' new home. We met up again in high school when our schools competed against each other in Mathletes & Academic Decathlon.
Bob was the smartest kid in school, bar none. He was also a total sweetie, with a really good heart and a depth of compassion that's almost painful to witness in a child. He felt every hurt of everything around him, and it just made him kinder. Of course, that made him vulnerable, too. But people had to get through me, if you know what I mean.
In his email to me, he wrote "The Josi I remember always marched to the beat of a different drummer anyway. You were always pretty comfortable being a non-conformist and not really caring what others thought. I suppose that is why we were friends."
And I guess I'm sorta blown away by that. By the time high school came around, I was very conscious of my... activist nature. But in grammar school?... it's not something I remember reaching for. I mean - I remember thinking popular opinion was not to be trusted, and thinking bullies sucked, and gravitating towards the other smart goofy kids. I mean - I used to pop off at people all the time for being jerks, but I had a sort of protected status because my dad was the juvenile officer for that area and he was at my school almost weekly (and every now and then, when I'd miss my bus, he'd drive me with sirens a-blaring).
I guess I still feel a disconnect with that kid. Grammar school was probably the worst time of my life. I had no language for, or understanding of, the stuff that happened to me, and so I walked around all the time feeling awful. I can't remember the face that I put on for others, so reflections of it are alien. I guess? I feel comfort in knowing that I have some continuity from then to now, but I wish I could remember being that girl. I remember being a very different girl, and I don't know how to reconcile the two of them.
