It's not going too well

It seems that the summers have it out for me. Last summer I had meningitis and had a stint in hotel LIJ for a week. As if losing my life to a week of wheel chair races and rediscoveries why I can’t take any form of pain killers wasn’t enough, I wasn’t able to drink for a few weeks afterwards. Evidently the antibiotics that they give you to kill off a possible deadly bacteria fucks with your liver pretty badly. And considering that I told the doctor the truth about my drinking habits, they really didn’t believe that I understood the concept of moderation.

This summer, the curse continues.

My parent’s ancestry is on the opposite sides of Europe. While my mother’s family hid in potato baskets during the pogroms in Russia, my father’s family wished for some potatoes to eat. Dad is a fair-skinned red head and mom is a dark haired Jew. In the gene pool lottery, I got my mother’s dark hair/light eyes combo, big boobs, and cheek bones. My dad’s side gave me my drinking problem, a non-Jew nose, and, strong jaw line and my pale skin. Being that I run out of health insurance on July 31 for an indefinite period of time, I played doomsday scenario—got checked out for every little thing that may pose a health problem to me later. This landed me in the dermatologist’s chair. And of course it comes back that two of my moles are pre-cancerous.

It sounds a lot more serious than what it really is. Basically, two of my moles could become a problem for me later on. Now, how much later? Nobody really knows, it’s kind of a guessing game. As I told the dermatologist that I run out of my health insurance in about two weeks, without any plans to COBRA it nor any idea when I will be insured again, he recommended that we cut out both of the moles. Being a hypochondriac without health insurance in two weeks, I agreed with his suggestion.

One of the moles was a tiny speck underneath my armpit. Literally right on the joint. I could deal with the six shots to numb the area, being awake as he cut it out, and then smelling my skin burn as he cauterized the wound. I almost fainted, but, in the end I was a brave little soldier. In the care instructions, it comes out that I cannot move the area or else I run the risk of rupturing one of the stitches. This is difficult as I have to move out of my apartment within ten days and have become quite the exercise junkie because, heading my father’s advice, “If you drop a bit more weight, you’d definitely find a rich man at Oxford”.

So, at the moment, I am helpless and have not raised my arm since Thursday when he cut it out. My hair styles have been interesting. I’m packing up my apartment using only my right hand as I need to be out by July 31. And as I sleep completely stretched out in my bed, I’ve had to modify my sleep position. As a result I haven’t slept in about three days. Considering that my bouts of depression are triggered by lack of scheduled sleep and being away from people, I’m teetering on a very fine line. I spent Friday night calling my mother crying and telling her how I am convinced nobody loves me and how alone I feel.

I’m re-reading this blog post and realizing how shitty it is. I blame this on lack of sleep. Hence why I have not begun to work on my book treatment yet. I think it would be forty pages of reasons why I am convinced nobody loves me and other paranoid dillusional thoughts.

I am so exhausted and emotionally drained from not sleeping through the night, that I feel kinda drunk right now. Not the happy Shannon drunk where I dance, strip, and drunk dial people and tell them that I love them, but that nutty sad drunk where I walk that fine of needing anti-depressants and needing to call my friends so I could listen to them breathe so I don’t think that I am alone.

I am so tired. Anyway, so the punchline: I can’t drink for twenty days as I have to take prophylactic antibiotics to prevent an infection. And once this one heals, I have the next mole ten days later. So, no drinking for twenty days. I would be able to deal with all this if I could at least exercise. But I cant even do that. So I go on long slow meandering walks and am starving myself in the mean time.

Damn do I sound shitty right now. Ugh, no wonder why nobody is returning my phone calls.

In all seriousness, this post is better than me writing about my first period. And to my work buddies who are reading this, yea. Duh, I miss the office. I never thought I would ever say that.

I am tempted to flee. Too bad I need to pack up my apartment.

Oh my God, I am done writing for the day, I sound like a complete nut job. I mean, not even dancing around in my stripper shoes can make me feel better right now. You know it's bad.