Today I have taken an oxycodone. I am mostly pain free (in what in my world constitutes pain free), but the dose these little pills provide is the bare minimum. All it does is cut the edge off the really wicked stuff. I mean, my tendinitis in my right shoulder hurts like hell. What’s that about?
Last night, I was all teary and whimpery, because I hurt so fucking much but somehow thinking that there’s something shameful about taking a prescription painkiller. Yet another thing that we can add to my insanity. I was also afraid to move from the couch to the dining room table as I am no longer allowed to use the computer on the couch. Actually, I will not allow myself to use the computer on the couch anymore. I have made a choice. In some weird way the Venus aligns with Mars, I get terrible pain in two points behind my ears and have trouble turning my head. (Don’t even ask about Saturn.) These are not good things. Magically, the planets align properly when I sit at the dining room table in a chair like a mensch. I have remind myself I’m not a cripple. (Emotionally, the verdict’s still out, but physically, all body parts work as far as I can tell.)
But I was afraid to walk the few steps over. Am I afraid I might fall? No. Am I afraid it will hurt? Not anymore than usual. (Though pain can really fuck up your head. I mean scrambled brains, not sore pressure points.) No, I think this was just irrationality at its best. (Like being afraid of the shower. Not slipping. Or tripping getting in or out. Or even water boarding. No, I was just afraid of the shower. I’d have made more sense if I had thought the damned thing were infested with demons. That should embarrass me. Not taking a teensy oxycodone that never hurt anyone. (I mean the actual pill I’m about to swallow- not Oxycodone in general. No, I’m not taking pot shots at people with drug problems. I only take pot shots at myself. Anyone caught in the line of fire, my most sincere apologies.)
I just bought a bunch of Pointer Sisters songs. They kick serious butt. And thought they might be empowering. I need a hit. Couldn’t hoit? Now, I’ve got Marvin’s Let’s Get It On in my happy ears. Empowering too. But in a different way.)
It’s Saturday and saw Tamar (the best P.T. in the entire world.) I do my damndest, but I get out of breath so fucking easily. Hell, Tamar said we may only be able to get me only a little less tight. The tightness might not be coming from my body refusing to cooperate. (I never did learn to play nicely with others.) Really that’s not exactly true. I just always refused to take part in any competitive sport. I just hated looking like a numnutz I knew I would be. Better to sit on the sidelines. Isolating? Yeah, just, a bit. Very helpful in my coming age. I remember once the school had a pep rally. My friends and I took that opportunity to go home. If there had ever been any others during our three years at Schreiber, I missed ‘em.
In gym class, as much as I tried, I was stuck participating. Sophomore year, I was playing flag football. I hung out in the back of the mass of girls. My opponent’s quarterback threw a forward pass. The wobbly ball moved through the air as if in slo-mo coming straight at me. I caught it. (Not too hard, I never had a problem with hand-eye coordination. I just issues participating.) We were at the opponent’s goal line, so I had to run down the whole fucking field. Touchdown. Whoopee. I don’t think we had an extra point kick or even a kickoff. Somehow were around the opponent’s goal line again. (We weren’t pushed there by a fabulous offense. I think that’s where the gym teacher started us because if we did, she didn’t have to go tramping around the field.) Once again the quarterback threw one more wobbly ball towards the end zone. Shit, it was coming straight at me. Again. I ran down one more time. TD! I think our gym teacher had enough of flag football, because she sure as hell wasn’t going to move her ass under any circumstances.
Gym class improved immensely when they introduced a selection of sports we could choose to play. I square danced an awful lot. I fenced once, but the layers of Lysol permeating the mask was more than I could take. All I knew, if I wanted to live another day, I had to get away from Soccer Speedball as fast as possible. I don’t remember much about it except that people threw balls at you with incredible speed and force. The fucking “game” hurt like hell. If you enjoyed taking the risk of being decapitated by Sue Murray, play away. Once was enough, after that I avoided it like the plague.
Then I discovered the fabulosity of weight training. The class was made up mainly by a bunch guys keen on expanding their muscles. No teacher taught. There must have been one there, but he or she was one quiet dude. The muscle-bound boys were really friendly and very nice. They showed me the machines and shit. I did lots of sit ups to make the class go faster. I must have been in this section with a friend, because I recall entertaining ourselves by discussing what we actually wanted our “weight” to do as we trained it. Jump through hoops? Catch poorly thrown footballs?
I must be on drugs looking at the shit I just wrote. Note to self: one oxycodone gets me fucked up, and I don't even know it.