Monday, April 10, 2006

::snickers...giggles...ROFLMAO::


Just reread my last entry.....relaxation without guilt.....that's a good one!

See, I'm a type A personality trapped in a lazy person's body. Used to be quite the neat freak, quite organized, always had 10 things going at once. Now that I'm medicated, I still have 10 things going at once, but I'm much more relaxed about it. Which means it feels like less is always getting done, there's this carefree, I'm-not-getting-graded-on-this attitude that allows me to go at my own pace, with the side effect of never being happy with that pace. Perpetual butt-dragging. Frustrating as hell.

The little dude up top here is Bucky Katt, courtesy of Get Fuzzy, by Darby Conley (graphic courtesy of http://www.comics.com). Bucky's another favorite of mine; he's a sarcastic Siamese who torments his roommates: human Rob, an ad exec, and lab/shar-pei mix Satchel. Bucky's attitude makes Garfield look like a pussy.

I've often thought of writing a memoir about my experience with depression and lithium deficiency. I think it could help people. I have an entire novel written that's semi-autobiographical, that deals with my issues with artistic license. Part I is the way I want it; Part II needs some work. But watched a repeat of "House" on Friday, and it reminded me of something damn scary, that could easily have me 86ing the memoir idea for good. Main sickie that week was a bulimic who needed a heart transplant, and House ends up lying to the transplant committee in order to get her a heart, because her condition would've been enough of a reason to consider her high-risk. Like she deserves it less because she has an eating disorder. Now certainly I realize that there's other criteria that come into play, that "House" is fiction—my friends have taken to teasing me because I'll make points in conversation with "yeah, but on Law & Order last week, there was..." But the point is that gods forbid, something were to happen to me requiring a new organ, the last thing I want any transplant committee judging me on is the fact that I'm a self-abuser. Because that doesn't go away. And it ain't my fault. The medication helps, but it's like alcoholism, it's a one-day-at-a-time thing. I've grown so much in the last 10 years; I'm an entirely different person from who I was in college. Judge me on who I am now, not who I've been. Crap, I think I just made the argument for why a memoir would be such a good thing, so important toward promoting more open criteria on things like transplant boards. Someday I'll turn these ideas into a book of essays or something. In the meantime...

Finished baby booties, started an umbilical cord hat (from SnB) and a little dress from Zoe Mellor's Nursery Knits (sweet patterns! also planning another pair of booties probably and a couple pair of those fingerless mittens that small people wear in the early months to keep from scratching their faces). Poor SSS is getting neglected, but I'd rather get to the halfway point on the baby blanket right now; still plenty of time til the shower, but if April goes half as quickly as March did, then I need to use my time wisely. They're naming her Kylie Kincade...not bad. Not a clue where the Kincade is coming from, but I was half expecting something hideous like Christine, so...

Congrats to Phil Mickelson on his 2nd Masters win! We won't discuss how much of the final match I frickin' watched yesterday; sometimes I really don't know what's come over me.

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