You know, it's funny, I have between three and five partially written blog posts for this blog that actually have nothing to do with my anxiety yet I always find myself publishing by thoughts regarding my health. I'm sure it's really getting boring to read but let me assure you that it's even more boring for me to write, to experience.
Now, it would require some graphic detail to explain to you what happened recently that has retriggered it and thrown me five steps back. The very simplified version that I'm sure you were bright enough to piece together is it has to do with the very last part of digestion. My shit is literally fucked up. Generally, when I have physical symptoms (chest pain, abnormal heart beat, body numbness or tingling, etc), I can write it off as me being hysterical. However, this time I found myself unable to ignore this problem. Not only is it not new but it's really pretty bad.
"So what'd the doctor say?" you ask. Well, here's my favorite part of this story. Since I was denied Medicaid (or Medicare, whichever is the one for poor people, that I'm apparently not poor enough for - this still blows my mind but that's another post entirely), I decided I would be a responsible adult and get health insurance as soon as we had enough money to pay the monthly cost which is vaguely a hundred dollars. As of Monday, we got that money. Now this happens and here I am, almost a day after I discovered the feces from Hell, trying to debate on whether I can wait until April 1st to go to the doctor, assuming that's when it would begin. If I do that, it's another half month of nausea, abdominal pain, zero appetite, fatigue and terrifying shit.
As it is, I have a job opportunity that I'm too afraid to take because I'm at the point now where I can't even force myself to clean my house. My anxiety is being made only worse by my heightened digestion problems. I just slept around thirteen hours because I was too tired to even make myself get out of bed. I woke up purely because I was scared and didn't want to lay in there by myself anymore, frightened that I'm going to die alone. I know that it's pretty unlikely for the symptoms I have to kill you but after these symptoms elevating for literally years I can't seem to convince myself it hasn't found a way to destroy my from the inside.
I try so very hard to be positive. I know that it's the healthier thing I am physically capable of doing. A week ago I was forcing myself to exercise for at least ten minutes a day because I know it helps basically every problem and with how violently tired I am, that's the best I could manage. I can't even get myself to hula hoop for five minutes now, my heart starts racing immediately and I crumble into panic mode.
Tomorrow, I'm going to the doctor. I can't put it off any longer and even if it means I'll be even further in medical debt, I need someone to tell me what's wrong with me. Especially now that I have bagged evidence and they can't just write me off as not eating enough fiber or needing a diet change. Though those are both probably true, it is not the real problem.
I just forced myself to eat half of a burger and I already want to throw up. Everything other than potatoes and bread makes me feel incredibly ill. Although I just slept thirteen hours, I wish nothing more right now than that I could just turn off my brain and go back to sleep, but not even fun, technicolored ponies are keeping me calm enough to lay still. Fuck, I tried having sex last night just to chase the demons away which has never failed me before but afterwards I was more lonely and scared than I was before. I'm officially out of ideas. I've been crying on and off for a day now yet tomorrow I'm supposed to pretend I feel fine for our company that's been planned for basically a month, drink (which always triggers my stomach symptoms in a violent way), and have fun. All I really want is a hospital bed and a team of medical personnel to find out what's wrong with me and fix it without me being in crippling debt for the next ten years.
If only this big, strange lump on the side of my neck would go away. If only my insides didn't struggle to break apart every piece of food I ate. If only I didn't feel like a wet noodle, struggling to balance when I walk and too weak to do anything other than force one foot in front of the other.
Everyone is tired of hearing me talk about this. Including me. If there was anyway I could change my reality, go back to the person I used to be before I started getting sick, I would. Sometimes I fear she's gone forever and that I'll always be a shade of who I once was. Eight and a half hours until I can go to the doctor. Maybe then I'll get some answers and the opportunity to reclaim who I used to be.