Ellie Vs. Mother’s Day

Warning: This post is not going to be entirely sweet or sentimental. This is going to be brutal, and probably a little sad at most parts. If you want a happy Mother’s Day post, this is not one of them. To those of you who do read this, thank you. To those who move on, I hold nothing against you. Mostly because I won’t really know, but, you know. Just putting that out there. Onward! 

I fucking hate mother’s day, and I am not sorry for it at all.

I was raised by my grandparents and my mother. My mother has done a few pretty great things for me, like paying for my medical treatment when I was younger, or taking my family on trips, or working very hard to get us our own house to live in. And I appreciate all that stuff, I do. However, my medical struggles through my life has made her resent me for being her sick child, and became about how stressful it is for her, turning her into a martyr. Our family trips were always ruined by my mother’s short temper, control issues, and lack of ability to handle anything going slightly different then planned. Our house became no better than my grandparents’, because we soon learned that she was exactly like her own father, and rather than escaping him, it only amplified her rage.

For a long while, as in, the first 16 years of my life, I wanted nothing more than to have my mother love me, accept me, and want me. However, no matter what I did, I was never good enough, and was always a bitch or a disappointment. She would drive me to school every morning, and within that short six minute drive would somehow manage to break me down, sending me to school with tears streaming down my face. My mother beat my self esteem into the ground, then filled the hole with concrete so that it could never get out. She has done this to all three of her children, but for some reason, it was always the worst with me. I’m assuming because I was the most rebellious and didn’t go along with all the bullshit like my siblings did. I was never a bad child, but I did learn very early that just because someone is older than you, does not mean they will automatically do the right thing. Life is not that simple and questioning my mother never ended well. When I got older, and she constantly reminded me that I was a burden on my family and that I was worthless, I finally conceded and stopped looking for her approval and acceptance. I gave up trying to be what she wanted, because what she wanted was not only impossible, but also not who I wanted to be.

The closest thing I have to maternal figures in my life have always been my sister and my grandmother. Both are incredibly strong women who have been through far more pain and trauma than my mother ever has, yet somehow, they still manage to be kind, loving, and selfless to the people they love. My grandmother always protected me from the rage of my grandfather and my mother, and was the one who dried my tears. When we got older, while I cried and my mother ignored me or screamed at me to stop, my sister would make me home made chicken soup, and while I laid on my stomach and wished I was dead, she would rub my back to take away the pain, and stayed there until I fell asleep.

I may not have the best mother. But I do believe a mother is more than someone who just pops out a child. A mother is someone who loves, who protects, who guides, and who helps the other person get through this rough thing called life. Being a parent is a title you earn, not just by having children, but by acting as what a parent should be. Parents constantly demand respect from their children, but they must learn that they have to earn ours, just as we earn theirs. I have always found it interesting that our parents many times treat us as the biggest problems and burdens in their lives, yet we had no choice in whether we were born or not. We were their decision, they were not ours. It may be sad, but just because some people are physically capable of having children, does not mean they should. Likewise, those who cannot physically have children are not always meant to be childless. The world is kind of silly that way.

The person I love with all my heart, who I do hope to marry one day, does not have parents either. Truthfully, it does make me a bit sad that our children will not really have grandparents, or that I will never have a mother-in-law. But that being said, it certainly does not make people like my grandmother, sister, or his grandparents who raised him, any less important. It does not make all they have done for us lesser because they aren’t our mothers. Our family may not be a clean and tidy standard family, but it does have love and a ton of goodness. And I’d trade that over a shitty mother and father any day. You can count on that.

I think Mother’s Day always brings a little stab to my heart, my boyfriend’s heart, and to all other people like us. Even though we’ve come to terms with the fact that our parents failed us, and that we’ve learned to cope with it, it still stings a little. Therefore, this morning I have decided that until I can have my adopted babies, and am everything to them that I believe a mother should be, every Mother’s Day my boyfriend and I will do something wonderful for ourselves, and let the people who raised us know how valuable they truly are. We will celebrate our little family, and we will have love.

I know, I know. The holiday is just a greeting card holiday, and really doesn’t matter. And that may be so. But the things it makes me feel, both the sorrow and the adoration for the good people in my life, does matter. It matters a lot.

Happy Mother’s Day to all the good mothers, the soon to be mothers, and the men and women who took the role of a mother without expecting anything back for it, and who made those they love never feel resented for it. Thank you for being what we need.

Hey mom, there’s something in the back room.
I hope it’s not the creatures from above.
You used to read me stories,
As if my dreams were boring,
We all know conspiracies are dumb.

Aliens Exist- Blink 182

Ellie Vs. Becoming the Hulk

Hello dear friends,

I feel like a popped balloon. Why? Well, let me tell you.

There have been many good things happening in my life. But the good things are still big things, and big things are always a bit intimidating and stressful, no matter how fantastic they are. It’s like a wedding, or a big move, or creating an adventure park where there are real, live dinosaurs but then the dinosaurs all get out and wreak havoc and oh god, the velociraptors, and…
wait. I think I’m getting a little off topic. Uh..awkward.

Even though there are all those good things, there are still a lot of consistent bad things, like my heath and my dysfunctional family, all on top of the fact that despite being a very expressive and talkative person, I hold most of my emotions in. I come from an extremely temperamental family. I am constantly walking on eggshells…and no matter how careful I step, several always, always break, and my household quickly becomes hell. Instead of becoming like them, I decided long ago to avoid that at all costs, and I desperately try to be the opposite of them. However, as you’ll soon find out, I have discovered that holding everything in until you erupt is not exactly healthy, either.  Believe it or not, human lives cause a whole bunch of messy emotions, and balancing them all can be a hard task. Thankfully, we have our entire lives to figure out how to make it work.

The members of my family tend to have giant tantrums that usually include a lot of breaking, screaming, and cursing for well…everything. If they want pizza but there isn’t any in the house, if the dishwasher is loaded/unloaded, or for pretty much every time I breathe wrong. However, I’ve always been taught that while that is completely alright, I’m not allowed to even speak my mind, let alone cry, because if I do cry or yell for some silly reason like you know, feeling like there are razorblades in my spine because of my disease, I’m a selfish bitch who is a drama queen and doesn’t think about anyone but herself. I’m quite certain my life is what invented the phrase “double standard.” And it truly sucks.

That all being said, Thursday night I became so very overwhelmed by my past, present, and future that finally, for the first time in ten years or more, I snapped. I think my brother having his own tantrum right as I got home triggered me, because my main trigger for my anxiety is people yelling, but truthfully,my own breakdown has been a long time in the making.After listening to music for nearly two hours to try to calm myself, I threw my earphones across my room, and though I know that it was not the right thing to do, it felt fantastic. I then took to lashing out and making a mess in my room. My mother came barging through my door, and she started screaming at me, and then started to threaten that she would lock me away in a hospital if i didn’t “knock it off.”

*Sidenote: Since admitting I have anxiety and depression, my mother, instead of helping me, now usually just calls me crazy and uses it to threaten me. When I first admitted it to her, she told me that I had to get it together, otherwise I would be locked in a psych ward forever and would never get out. Now I’m not a psychologist, but I’m fairly sure that’s not quite the right way to help your child fight depression. Just a guess. 

I got even more angry, and she kept screaming, so I left. The problem was, I didn’t exactly know where to go, so I pulled over on the side of the road and while crying, txted several friends to see if I could go to any of them. Since it was late, most of my friends were asleep, but thankfully my friend Brian was awake and willing to help me through this big mess of mine.

Since his house is plagued with cat hair, and I am deathly allergic, we hung out in my car, and I cried. My face was a faucet. That’s  really hot, isn’t it? I was so angry, and so tired, and so everything a person could feel at once. I was angry that my family members are allowed to throw fits and break things constantly and no one says a word, but the first time I do, and I’m threatened. I was mad that my boyfriend was in a different state and not here to help me, and that when I called him, he yelled at me and told me I was no better than my family. I was exhausted from not sleeping because my allergy meds and anxiety keeps me up at night, I was enraged that my body always hurts, and I was all around fed up. And above all, I was extremely pissed off that my family has never made me feel like I mattered. I don’t have much of a temper at all…but I erupted, I exploded, and I destroyed. The destruction was, in reality, quite minimal. Just a few bottles and papers on the floor, some broken hair clips and a broken cork board frame. No broken glass, no holes in the walls. In my head though, I felt as if I had run a bulldozer through the whole block.

My friend Brian is one of the coolest people in the world. I have known him for nearly five years, but it was not until a few months ago that we actually became seriously close and opened up to each other quite a lot. Still, he sat with me as I cried and lamented, and he listened to me, but more than anything, he made me feel sane. He didn’t make me feel like I had done anything wrong, or that I was just some mentally disturbed thing. Instead, he treated me like a normal person who was just overly exhausted and who had finally been pushed to her limit, and that’s exactly what I was. I am so thankful he was there for me. I was beyond miserable and I felt incredibly broken. Everything welled up inside me that I had been holding in for so long, and it was painful, but he hugged me to keep me together, instead of bursting apart like I wanted to. Hugs are very good medicine, I must say.

For some reason, many human beings are under the impression that one person can do whatever they want to another, and the other should just take it all, and if the other person has enough and snaps and gets angry, that person is awful, or crazy, or overly sensitive. That idea is really fucking stupid. That is not a very articulate response, but it is the truest one. The reality of life is that all people have limits, and it is actually normal to break down once in a while and scream out, “hey, I’ve had enough!” Anger is a natural response that our brains have to let us know that we have limits and that we don’t like certain things. Even if someone throws something once in a while or slams a door, it’s okay. However, it is not okay to have that kind of response to every little thing like undone dishes or something small not going your way, and it sure as hell is definitely not alright to take out your anger on another person, whether you physically or mentally abuse them. There are ways to deal with anger that make it so your emotions don’t fester and poison your soul like they have done to me, but also so that you can be safe and healthy in expressing them. I just…have not figured those out yet. I hear this thing called the internet is useful for figuring things out. I should find one.

Now, after I have returned to my normal shade of pale olive instead of dark green, I am mostly tired, sad, and disappointed in the fact that my family’s reaction to blowing up for the first time since I don’t even know when was to call me crazy and threaten to send me to a hospital for it. They never even asked why I was upset. That is not at all fair, especially considering their tempers that they are always in denial of. My mother apologized the next morning and tried to force me to talk about what was bothering me, but I have learned that it is useless to talk to someone who does not listen. Sadly, this is how things have always been, and though I should be used to it, I still get upset about it. Naturally, I held it all in and said I was fine and that I’d talk to my counselor about it Monday. Thank God I have good friends and a counselor…because I don’t really feel fine.

As I said before, throwing things and causing a little destruction was not the right thing to do…but I don’t apologize for it, either. Every human being deserves to have a limit, and to say no when that line is being crossed. Even the Dalai Lama said in an interview in response to being asked, “So, you never get mad?” replied something along the lines of, I do get mad, and if someone never, ever gets mad, they are either from a different planet, or dead. Even the Dalai Lama gets mad, you guys. Even the Dalai Lama.

I have been extremely exhausted and my depression has enjoyed snacking on my brain. Doing even the smallest things is pretty hard, and I am in even more pain because my emotional pain is always reflected physically, lucky me. My family as always has been unhelpful as can be. However, my friends have been extremely supportive and kind to me, as well as wonderfully understanding. They all get the fact that I didn’t destroy my room because I wanted to be just like my family, or to prove a point, or to threaten anyone. I simply did it because I was pushed too far. Ideally, I could have found a better outlet to express that, but hey, I’m working on it. This experience has also made me realize that there’s a bit more anger from my past in me than I originally thought; but I can work on that too.The best way to do this whole human thing is to try to constantly learn new things. I’ve got a lot of learning to do.

Let me make it clear that I’ve never hurt a person or animal. I can’t imagine that, no matter how mad I get. I have to refrain from tears every time I accidentally crush a snail on a sidewalk. The problem is. though, I’d rather let my emotions eat at me, or break my own things, then risk saying something even a little mean to someone else like, “Hey, get the fuck over yourself, because worse things can happen in a person’s life then not having pizza for dinner”. My way of coping isn’t very healthy, and that habit also makes it so that while I know my limits, other people never hear them, so they think it is okay to treat me badly. Like all things, I believe there is a balance somewhere in there. I just have to find where, and it will take a lot of work. I really need to find an internet to help with this. I think they live in the Arctic.

So, what are the valuable lessons from this post?

  1. Suppression of emotions for an extended period of time leads to turning into a giant angry broccoli monster.
  2. While it feels good to throw things and scream, there are probably better ways to deal with anger and frustration.
  3. It’s okay to be angry and frustrated when things get to be too much. It’s a normal reaction to life sometimes sucking much more than it should.
  4. Velociraptors are never your friends. Never.
  5. The internet lives in the arctic, is black and white, and waddles. No wait. Those are penguins. Whatever.

And lastly, my favorite –

6.   Punk/pop-punk music is great medicine for me when I feel angry. It wasn’t enough this time, but usually it is. Music and   hugs are the best medicine…aside from, you know, medicine.

Cut the crap ’cause you’re screaming in my ear,
And you’re taking up all of the space.
You’re really testing my patience again,
And I’d rather get punched in the face.
You’re getting on my every last nerve.
Everything you’ve said I’ve already heard.

I’m sick to death of your every last breath,
And I don’t give a fuck anyway!

-Let Yourself Go- Green Day

Ellie Vs. A Ferocious Friday

Friiiiiday Friiiiday. Something something Friiiiday.
I sing that every Friday to the 15-year-old girl I nanny on the way home from her school. At first she would get annoyed. Now she sings it with me. Nanny win!

Hello dear readers, I hope you are all well and are enjoying the sunshine. I am such a giant fan of sunshine. (Did anyone else imagine an enormous ceiling fan of light? No? Just me? Oh. Okay).

This week overall was pretty calm and easy, and then Friday happened, and it was so intense that I think all of this would have been much easier if it had been spread out through the week. Since it’s a whole lot of life balled up into one single day, I decided to write it out in a timeline. So. Here we go!

10:46a.m: Watching Scrubs, eating breakfast, I happen to check my e-mail and sure enough, one e-mall headline states, “You have a new message from your doctor at Stanford Hospital!” My heart flies out of my chest and out the window. I frantically go to the website, log in, fail because I am nervous, log in again, read the message, and to my utter joy, it is my doctor telling me that the board director has approved my surgery and believes it to be a reasonable solution to my condition. I couldn’t believe it. With tears in my eyes, I read further, taking in the instructions for the next step in the process. Have my therapist call her, talk to a social worker (which I had the day before, who also supports me), bring a friend to the next appointment. Done!

12:30p.m: Drive to see my medical doctor, the one who has known me the last eight years, to talk about the surgery. She was completely supportive, and said the gynecologist had called her and she explained to the gynecologist that this had been something on our mind for years and that it was now seen as my best chance. Happiness level: Over 9,000!!!!!

3:330p.m: Pick up the kid, sing the chorus of Friday to her, go to the house, do nanny stuff.

5:00p.m: Receive a call from a very frantic receptionist at Stanford, telling me someone called on my behalf and didn’t know why. I explained the person calling was my therapist, because the doctor asked for her to call them. The receptionist then said my therapist did not leave a number (which turns out, she did, but this lady was just sort of crazy all together), and because this was such a disaster to her, she called my emergency contact. My emergency contact is my mother, who is not supposed to know about my surgery. Panic and rage ensues. Like really though, what the fuck? Who calls an emergency number because they lost a phone number in a non-emergency situation? For those who know me, I have a very, veeeery long fuse when it comes to my temper. It’s rare I blow up at anyone, let alone a stranger. But I blew like a volcano. Boom.

7:30p.m: Pick up my friend Brian, sit in the car crying my eyes out from fear because I still didn’t know what the receptionist did and did not tell my mother. I calm down as best as I can, then drive us to the theater to meet up with the rest of our friends so that we all may bask in the glory that is Avengers: Age of Ultron. The movie was really fantastic. Not quiet as good as the first, but certainly not bad by any means.

12:30a.m: Come home after a long day, try to sleep, but can’t, so I cruise through the interbutts mindlessly. (Don’t tell me you don’t do that when you are sleepless. I know you do!) Then, PLOT TWIST: I get a message from a friend I haven’t talked to for nearly seven months, apologizing for falling off the face of the Earth. I was furious at him, partly for bailing on me and constantly flaking on me since I’ve really known him, partly because I had been extremely worried about him, and partly because I unfortunately get left behind a lot by people for one reason or another, most of the time for reasons that really aren’t reasons at all. I don’t know how in one day two different people got me to snap.

However, we talk for a very long time, and after I go through my initial, “you bailed on me and I fucking hate you know,” phase, I went back to my normal, non-threatening self and admit that I love him dearly, and that I really, really missed him because he truly was one of my dearest and closest friends. Which ultimately did make his prompt exit out of my life that much more painful. After first giving me what I like to call an automatic robo-apology, he gave me a real one, along with telling me that I was important to him, and it made everything better. I am so happy that we decided to be friends again. I don’t trust many people, but the few that I do trust mean the world to me. So when they go away, or hurt me, whether intentionally or not, it’s like a knife through my little heart. Ouch.

This whole event though was just an overload of feels. All the feels at once. ALL OF THEM.

3:30p.m (where it gets really interesting): After talking to my friend for ours and reclaiming our awesome, Chris Evans loving friendship, I feel amazing and happy and all the good things in my soul. I thought that I would easily be able to go to sleep after all that, so I get comfortable and tried to sleep. Instead of falling asleep to dream of The Avengers, I instead lay awake, my heart suddenly pounding faster and faster, my body becoming overwhelmed with pain. I felt so hot, and my heartbeat was so blaringly loud, and I was so nauseous, and I was suddenly so everything bad. I sit up in my bed, sweating as if it was currently placed on the sun. My nausea gets worse, and I decide to go to the bathroom because I thought I would throw up.

I walk through the hallway, and right before I got to the bathroom, I faint in front of my mother’s bathroom. Our house is really quite small, so this was a very short way from my room. She wakes up and comes out, to the hallway, and I was on the floor, laying on my back. I couldn’t get up and everything was hurting, and my brain was apparently not working very well, because she kept asking what was wrong, and all I could muster, “please call help.” I said that phrase over and over, and my mother argues with me saying there was no reason for an ambulance because I have fainted before. This was not like the other times though. I usually didn’t feel so much pain and nausea, and I usually snapped out of it quickly and was aware. I was feeling confused, and I couldn’t speak, and finally I just scream a blood-curdling, zombie raising scream, because I was scared, and I was in pain, and I just couldn’t take any of it anymore. My mother finally stops fighting me and calls an ambulance.

While she was on the phone with the dispatcher, I realize I had to at least try to go to the bathroom, because peeing myself in front of five strangers didn’t sound all that appealing. So, I crawl to the toilet, and lift myself up onto it, but then my vision goes out. I was still concious, but everything turned black and I really could not see. I try to get up and wash my hands, because even in the worst situations, I am still slightly germaphobic. Then I faint again.

I wake up in my room on my bed, with the three paramedics surrounding me. The scariest part of this all was that I opened my eyes, saw them, then closed my eyes once again. When I did, I feem like I am paralyzed. I hear what is going on, but no amount of energy can get me to open my eyes, speak, or move. I was frozen. They ask me questions and I can’t reply. They force me up to lift onto the gurney, and finally I am able to look around, and after the third time of them asking me what my name was, I finally could answer. Into the ambulance I go.

The rest of the night/morning: We got to the hospital, and I still felt partially paralyzed, but I was at least more aware. I was intensely sleepy though, and struggled to stay awake. I felt a nurse play with my hair, and she said in her Southern accent, “poor girl.” I don’t know why, but her doing both those things was just so amazingly soothing, and for the first time all night, I felt a little less scared. The paramedics told me my blood pressure was freakishly low. 72/something. I have normally low blood pressure, but never that low, ever. They were very worried.

After about six hours in the hospital, the wonderfully sweet doctor who I had seen at my arrival came in and told me that I passed out from too much pain. He said that my body basically got overwhelmed from pain, clamped down on itself causing my blood pressure to drop, resulting in my vasovagal syncope being triggered and causing me to black out and faint. I told him that this was the worst episode I’ve had, but not the first, and as I told him before when I first met him, my periods since I had them give me absurd symptoms. I didn’t tell him about my plans for a hysterectomy, because people are so strange about the subject, but after hearing about what I’ve gone through and seeing the result first hand, he told me that though it is tough, he would really have me consider a hysterectomy, because this isn’t living and these periods are impacting my life far more than they should. He said I should have done it years ago, and that just because I didn’t have a uterus, didn’t mean I would have to give up being a mother if that’s what I wanted. I was so ecstatic to hear his response! I told him that I was in fact planning to have the surgery, and that I had a lot of support from doctors and friends, but my family didn’t support it. He said while it was unfortunate my family didn’t support me, I should still do it for my own well being, and that I could add him to the list of doctors on my side.

After being up for over 24 hours, I finally was able to sleep, and have been mostly resting since. Going through all this absolutely, totally sucked; however, I feel like at this point, God is slapping me in the face saying, “THIS THING NEEDS TO HAPPEN NOW! FOR ME SAKES!” I get the point, God. Thanks for the signs, man. I read you loud and clear. And it is wonderful to now have yet one more doctor on my side through this grand adventure to improving my quality of life. I just can’t do this anymore guys. I can’t.

Despite Friday being as overwhelming as possible with so much good and so much bad, yesterday was filled with mostly kindness from the amazing people in my life. My friend came to pick me up from the hospital at 7a.m, one came to help me do basic things since I am very weak, and another just showed up to my house to surprise me with ice cream, my favorite chips, and the amazing book called Goodnight, Darth Vader (since I had to miss a May the 4th celebration, she said the book would make up for it). I am very unlucky that I am constantly battling pain and sickness, and to do it all with a very unsupportive family. However, I am beyond fortunate to have so many good friends that make up for the lack of support, and lend their hand to me when I need it the most, and sometimes, without me even asking. Those few people make all this far more tolerable. I can even try to explain my gratitude.

I worry constantly that when I move in two months, I will be leaving these amazing friends behind, and will never find ones nearly as incredible as them. To an extent, my condition makes it so that I always have to rely on others at least a little. Personally, I despise that. I generally try to be as independent as possible, but my life reminds me often enough that realistically, I can’t do this on my own all the time. I do make sure that they do know that even though I need help, I am always there to help them as well. There are a group of people in my life that I would honestly do absolutely anything for, no questions asked. While I will miss my friends when I go, not only because they help me, but because they are in general a group of extraordinary humans, I maintain a glimmer of hope that there are good, kind people all over the world, wherever I will go. They may be hard to find, but I do honestly believe they’re out there.

Today, I will be apartment hunting, resting, and hopefully will get to spend some time at the lake by my house. It’s so odd because as I said before, my life isn’t all bad or all good. It is this giant puddle of everything a person can feel at once. I guess that isn’t the worst thing in the world, but let me tell you, it sure is exhausting.

I am all circuits and wires
Conducting symphonies of heat exchange energies
Fueled by a nervous system thrust through the great unknown
A timid mess of frightened bones
I pledge to make no difference
I aim to take no stand
This bitter silence is the only play I have
In light of all their laughter, I’ll take to keeping shy
A resolution that I’ve finally had enough
Can’t speak, can’t speak, can’t speak at all
Don’t even think you know the reason.

Circuits and Wires- Motion City Soundtrack

Ellie Vs. The Rest

In high school my friend came up with the extremely silly phrase, “I falafel,” to say he felt awful.

Well guys, I falafel (sidenote: yum…falafel).

When you’re constantly not okay, especially due to the fact that you have approximately one metric butt load of chronic illnesses as well as some others that just like to pop up and be dreadful whenever they wish, it gets really hard to remember that there is actually more than just pain and sickness to your story. I am sure people who have either been through long term or even short term illness understand that it can be easy to lose yourself in all the doctors, medications and machines.

The last few years I have always been burdened by the thought that if it weren’t for all my medical mysteries and close calls, I wouldn’t be a very interesting person. I felt like that was all that made me different….that I am a person that just always hurts. And that is a very troubling thought. I never wanted to be known as the “sick” girl, or the girl who is “allergic to everything,” or be a “downer.” However, even when I tried to hide anything even slightly related to illness or sadness, I still somehow managed to end up being one or all of those things. Hrmmph.

Nearly two years ago I was fortunate enough to take a trip to Florida with my mother to visit DisneyWorld in celebration of her finally getting her master’s degree. On the plane from Arizona to Florida, I happened to end up being seated not next to my mother, but next to a wonderful redheaded man near the same age as me. During the 4 1/2 hour flight, we ended up becoming what we like to call, “vacation best friends.”

We talked about food, music, superheroes, art, food, comics, music, and food, and it was fantastic. But of course, at one point it came out that I was chronically ill, which was why sitting that long was quite the nightmare, and also why there were so many things I could not eat for fear of anaphylaxis. He was curious, and having his own experiences with illness in his family, started a conversation with me about all that, too. It was without a doubt the best flight of my life.

At one point, several hours into our conversation, I told my new best friend that I felt that if it weren’t for my poor health, I would most likely be a very boring person. His reply was something that I could never possibly forget. He said, very loudly might I add, “That’s BULLSHIT. You mean to tell me, that this conversation we’ve been having for hours about art and food and music wouldn’t have happened if you weren’t sick all the time? I don’t fucking think so. There’s a lot to you.” My heart glowed.

Lately, this has been even harder than usual to remember. So, to not only help myself, but also so that my dear readers can know a little more about me aside from the fact that I usually falafel, here are a few quick facts about the rest of me.

  1. I fucking love dinosaurs. I don’t know why, I don’t know what started it, but since I was a child, I have absolutely loved dinosaurs. They are just so. Cool.
  2. I recently just graduated with two AA degrees after five years in junior college. One is in Communications, while the other is in Liberal Studies with an Emphasis in Art. The particular form of art is music. I earned the second degree on accident, but I am very glad I did.
  3. I enjoy cooking, and I love baking even more so. I’m not Food Network material or anything quite yet, but people usually enjoy the food I make. That’s a good sign, right?
  4. I have idolized Lucille Ball and Elizabeth Montgomery for as long as I can remember. I grew up watching all those wonderful old shows like I Love Lucy, Bewitched, The Dick Van Dyke Show, and so on. Side note…my first crush was definitely on Dick Van Dyke. I mean…have you seen him back then? Hot damn. He’d make a dragon wanna retire, man.
  5. I absolutely love graphic novels. I like comic books as well, but I enjoy graphic novels more because they end at some point, and I find comfort and satisfaction in endings.
  6. My favorite T.V. Shows are, aside from Bewitched and I Love Lucy as mentioned before, Chuck, Pushing Daisies, Doctor Who, Scrubs, Fringe, Video Game High School, and That 70’s Show. If you have not seen all these, you need to. Now.
  7. I love music, obviously. I used to play bass guitar and piano, but haven’t in years for a number of reasons. I would like to start up again, though.
  8. I also love fashion, particularly vintage and retro clothing. I’m also the queen of bargain shopping considering I’ve never had much money, but you’d be surprised what you can find for next to nothing! I’m pretty sure I thrift better than Macklemore. I Mackle…more. That was stupid. Sorry. Anyway.
  9. I was in acting from the time I was 5 to the time I was 18. Not like, professionally, but still. Most of my life, I wanted to be an actress, and then I suddenly burned out. It was scary when I did, because all I had ever done my entire life was write for theater, act, and obsess over music. I ended up loving my Communications major after a little searching, and I have never regretted switching.
  10. I HATE mirrors, the sound of ticking clocks, things that flutter (they make me nervous), the smell of coffee, and the word “pissy.” Writing this actually just made me cringe.
  11. My favorite sound in the world is the sound of a ring hitting a dish or pan, because it reminds me of my grandmother, who is still my favorite person in the world. She wears her wedding ring as well as my grandfather’s, because he is always working with his hands and never could really wear it. She always says it helps with her arthritis…but I think she is just being a romantic. I mean, she’s done it for nearly 60 years.
  12. I used to be heavily addicted to video games. I still love them, but am much less caught up in them.
  13. My favorite color is all of them. But especially Turquoise. But mainly all of them.
  14. I was born on July 4th, also known as American Independence Day. I was supposed to be born in June, but my stubborn newborn ass just wanted to wait for a minor holiday, I guess. But hey, fireworks!
  15. I have a partial photographic memory. It mainly works on things I either absolutely love, or things that absolutely terrify me. I found this out when I was 20 and thought I was losing my mind, because I couldn’t sleep for days after being in the Denver airport. One mural they had there was particularly terrifying to me, and I kept seeing it in my mind, and it scared me over and over. I told my mother that I thought there was something seriously wrong with me. She said there wasn’t, and instead that I simply just have the ability to remember certain things to very great detail and have the images stuck in my head. I’m not sure if that is actually a true photographic memory, but that’s the best way to describe it. It’s just odd.

So, there you have it. Fifteen pieces of evidence that prove that there is more to me then just pain. If anyone reading this is constantly sick, or in pain, I am sinicerely sorry for your suffering. But remember…you are more than just your illness. You are a person, a puzzle comprised of passions, dislikes, likes, memories, goals, and ideas. If you are having trouble remembering them, make a list. You deserve to be reminded that you are great and that you are important, and not just because you need medical attention. Even if you don’t feel like you are, you are.

I’m sure of it.

Joke me something awful just like kisses on the necks of best friends,

We’re the kids who feel like dead ends.

And I want to be known for my hits, not just my misses.

I took a shot, and didn’t even come close, to trust and love, and hope.

And the poets are just, kids who didn’t make it.

And never had it at all.

And the record won’t stop skipping

And the lies just won’t stop slipping.

And besides, my reputation’s on the line.

We can fake it for the airwaves, force our smiles, baby, half-dead

From comparing myself to everyone else around me.

-I’ve Got a Dark Alley and a Bad Idea that Says You Should Shut Your Mouth – Fall Out Boy

Ellie Vs. ALL the Doctors

I am currently at a coffee shop, wearing my (prescription) black-rimmed glasses, writing in my blog. I have never felt so fucking hipster in my whole entire life. Anyway!

Hello users of this weird thing called internet. I hope you are all well and happy and enjoying the fact that it is no longer cold as balls outside.

I have not written for a while because my life has gotten continually more and more overwhelming. The biggest thing I am dealing with is the very slight chance of possibly, maaaybe having my partial laproscopic hysterectomy here in California before I move to Missouri this summer. I mentioned in my post Ellie Vs. Pain, Pain, and More Pain, Period that after ten years of suffering excruciating pain from my periods, I have decided to have a partial hysterectomy to have my uterus removed. Due to my age, despite being two months away from 25 years old, I am still considered far too young to have such a surgery by most doctors. My regular Ob/gyn is completely supportive of it, but because of my age she is not allowed to do the surgery herself. It has to be an academic hospital instead, and around here, that would be Stanford.

Last Wednesday I went to Stanford to plead my case. The doctor I saw came in, introduced herself, and before she even let me say one word on the subject, denied me on the grounds that to her, I had not done everything I could, and the fact that I am far too young. I put on my best adult face and adult voice, trying to explain the situation to her, but I could tell that a meteor hitting her in the face wouldn’t even change her mind (I’m not sure what that has to do with surgery..but just go with it, okay). So, I sat in the room and gave up on trying to be a big girl, and instead burst into tears and cried for a half hour. Then I got my belongings, walked to my car, screamed to Green Day while driving to my favorite Gluten-Free bakery, and ate my weight in sweets.

This doctor recommended me to another surgeon I could talk to, but who she assured me would tell me the same thing. I really did not want to go back. I felt like I had been dumped, and didn’t care to relive that sensation. However, the nurse who called told me this doctor made special time for me in her otherwise swamped schedule, and if I changed my mind, I would not have another chance to see her again. So, on Friday, I reluctantly drove once again to Stanford, this time with my best stone cold bitch face, ready for battle…and defeat.

The second doctor came into the room, and believe it or not, sat down and began to ask me questions. I told her my situation, as well as my history. She asked me what my ideal timeline would be, what I wanted to happen, and if I had a good support group for recovery. I was honest with her and told her that my mother and brother, who I live with, did not support me, though my friends, sister and boyfriend did.  The doctor was worried about my recovery, and said that I would have to talk to a social worker to make sure that I could recover properly. I’m not sure why, but that part kind of gave me the creeps…but I told her that because I was tired of suffering for a decade, I would do what I could to make sure this could happen.

Then, came the exam part. The doctor laid me out on the table, and began to poke around my body. She was trying to recreate the pain I get on my periods, because she wanted to make sure that a hysterectomy would actually help, which I understood. She poked this spot and that spot and inside and outside, and I had no pain at all. Then, all at once, my back buckled, my legs gave out, my abdomen filled with agony, and I was overwhelmed with nausea from the pain. The same kind of pain, in fact, that I feel every single month (sometimes, more often then that!) Success! I think.

After the exam I got dressed again, and we sat down to talk. She told me that what caused the pain to surge was, you guessed it, her just touching my uterus. That being said, the hysterectomy could certainly help. Dear readers, you and your eyeballs cannot possibly imagine how ecstatic I was to hear this. However, it wasn’t as easy as just giving me the surgery. There were two catches.

Catch 1: Because of my age, while she approves of the surgery, she still would have to get approval from the entire Ob/gyn board at Stanford because it is apparently an “ethical conflict” to give someone as young as I a hysterectomy. If even one doctor strongly disagrees, I will be rejected.

Catch 2: Both the insurance company and the board of doctors want to be absolutely positive that I really have done everything possible to help myself. The doctor recommended I take one of two drugs to run as a diagnostic to prove that I need the surgery. One is called Lupron, which would, in short, send me into a full blown menopause for about a month. The other, Depo-Provera, is a shot of progestin, which is in most birth controls, but it’s a much larger dose. If this drug were to work on me, it would mean that my ovaries are the problem, not my uterus.

The biggest problem for me is these drugs. I have a long history of anaphylactic shock, as well as a long history of reacting terribly to anything other than anesthesia or pain killer. All other drugs have made my health worse rather than better. The doctor told me I didn’t have to take them, but they would greatly improve my chances. She told me to take the weekend to think about it, and get back to her on Monday.

Sunday morning I had some free time before my day started, so I decided to do some research. It may sound weird, but as I was thinking about them and reading about the negatives and positives of both, that little voice in my head, my Jiminy Cricket, if you will, was literally screaming at the top of its lungs, telling me not to take them. It was such a strong feeling, and that rarely happens to me, but in my past, when I didn’t listen to Jiminy, I found out in the hardest way possible that I definitely should have listened. Though most of the side effects are rare, I am usually the one person that actually gets them. Not only was I worried about what they would do to me, but I was also worried that they’d make me so sick I would have to change my entire plan, which has happened to me before as well. That being said, I wrote my doctor to tell her that while I understood the purpose of testing me with the drugs, I hoped she would already have enough proof, and that I would be accepted by the board. I sounded very professional and serious, guys. I didn’t even say “fuck” or “balls” once. I hope you are all quite proud of me!

While I am hoping that my life will, for once, work out super perfectly and I will be able to have the surgery, recover wonderfully, and then move, in reality, I fear I may have sealed my fate by deciding to not take the drugs prior to the surgery. I will obviously be terribly disappointed and saddened if I am rejected. But at the same time, I feel that if I had agreed to take the drugs, I would have betrayed myself, and I just could not bring myself to do so. I have never been very good at following instructions, really. Though this time I truly believe I am being sound of reason. I have done the research, I have done everything I can, and I have been painfully patient.

Now, we wait for the response. I don’t know when that will come, but I am anxiously waiting.

While I wait I am also dealing with the rest of my regular health issues, which despite being annoying are pretty much the same as always. My moving date is also only two months away now, and I am nervous about that. Finding a place isn’t exactly hard, but contacting the people that own the places is. I call and I e-mail and I get nothing in return. I am realizing lately how impatient my anxiety makes me, and I am trying to calm it and keep it under control, but normally, I’m just internally screaming while I refresh my e-mail inbox every two seconds. I’m…I’m sure it will all come together. Optimism!

There are still a bunch of other things I want to write about, but I admit, if you were to x-ray my brain, it would probably resemble scrambled eggs at the moment. I’m scattered, jumbled, and my favorite synonym, discombobulated. I’m told I am really dealing with a lot, especially a lot mainly on my own, but I have to wonder how much my sleeplessness, anxiety, and impatience effects me and how worse all those things make everything feel because of it. If only I could just program my brain to chill the fuck out a little…but sadly, I am not a robot. I’m just a human girl, who is a little more emotionally squishy on the inside than most, and who has an extremely exhausting life.

For anyone who thought the title of this blog meant THOSE doctors, sorry to disappoint. But I still think you’re…FANTASTIC (See what I did there? The reference..to…the Doctor? I…okay).

A world is waiting for me, a road that I rarely use
I start to feel my feet, they kick down walls as they move.

-Blink-182 – Natives 

Two Player Mode: Ellie and Han Solo vs. Childhood

If you think you might have The Force, please raise my hand.

Hehe. See what I did there? Anyway. Hi!

Life continues to kick my heart in the ass. So today, instead of talking about my current condition, we’re going to hop into a TARDIS and fly back to the 90’s, which for me, consisted of trolls (no, like…not the internet ones…like..the dolls), ice cream sandwiches, and, you guessed it, Star Wars.

Aaand now all the hardcore nerds are losing they’re minds, thinking, “HOW COULD THE 90’S BE ABOUT STAR WARS YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT YOU ARE TALKING ABOUT THEY CAME OUT IN THE 70’S FACTS FACTS FACTS FACTS THAT ONLY A FEW PEOPLE KNOW YOU ARE NOT A REAL FAN GO DIE IN IN HOLE AAAAHHHHHHH.” Okay. Calm the fuck down. Yes, I know Star Wars came out in the 70’s, but during the 90’s they re-released the films into theaters so all the little children in neon clothing could have their minds blown by Harrison Ford and cheap, yet effective, film tricks.

The first time I saw Star Wars was in theaters, between the ages of six and seven. I remember being absolutely terrified of Jabba the Hutt, and feared he would come out of the screen and eat me, but aside from that, I fell in love, especially with Han Solo. My mom raised her kids on Star Trek and the X-Files…so a movie trilogy about the adventures of space, my favorite theme ever? Pfft…I didn’t stand a chance.

The reason I love Star Wars, aside from it just being all together fanfuckingtastic, is because when I was little, my home was not exactly the best. While I was not nearly as sick as I am now, there were still a lot of problems. My mom was somewhat a young mother; she had my brother when she was only 21, and my sister when she was 23. She was married, but their father was in short, a truly horrible person. She got divorced, and then married my father, who unfortunately was an equally large douchebag, and was divorced again by the time I was 2. After fighting for custody for all three of us, she had nowhere to go, so her parents, my grandparents, took us in. The house was small, but they didn’t have enough money to buy a new one. So, we made it work with six people, in a small house, in a poor neighborhood.

My grandmother was and still is the heart of our family. She was a stay at home mother, and a stay at home grandmother. She made every meal for us, she cleaned, she took us to school, helped us with homework (as best as she could despite being an immigrant with very little education, that is), and was also my angel and my protector against the rest of my family. My mother and grandfather both had and still have horrible anger issues, and generally always made my siblings and I feel like we were burdens on them. Living in that house was constantly like playing with fire…any second, even a bit of smoke would cause an enormous explosion, and everything would fall apart. We got in trouble for everything, and it was a general nightmare.

On top of that, my grandfather was also an alcoholic. That meant he’d steadily get more and more angry as the day went on, because he started drinking around 9am and wouldn’t stop drinking until 9pm. There were fights every single day about all kinds of things. However, one of the most constant ones was on the subject of race, and about the fact that his grandchildren were terrorists and horrible, disgusting Arabs.

Let’s back up a minute to give you my racial and religious layout: My mother’s family comes straight from Austria. My grandmother is Catholic and my grandfather was Catholic until The War (In my family, The War meaning WW2) killed his father, and he became furiously god hating (I refuse to call him Atheist because surprise, surprise, not all Atheists are angry, violent, god haters). My mother, raised as a Catholic anyway, converted to Islam in college because, as she told me, she just sort of liked it better. She met my siblings’ father, who was from Jordan, and after that divorce was with my father, who was from Egypt. So, after all that, I ended up as a half Egyptian, half Austrian, raised very religiously as a Muslim, in an Austrian/Catholic household, in a predominantly Vietnamese and Mexican neighborhood in America. How’s that for diversity!

Nowadays, I just say that I was raised to be half Catholic and half Muslim, because at the end of it all I think that is the most true thing I can really say. We celebrated both types of holidays, and that really would have been okay if it wasn’t for my angry, alcohol-filled grandfather. As we grew up, my sister became more involved with Islam, while my brother became an All-American cowboy type in order to overcompensate for the fact that he attributes his painful past with religion and being half Arab, which in reality has nothing to do with our past at all. I know for a fact that you can be any religion, gender and race and still either be a giant dick or a wonderful person. I’m honestly not really sure what my mom is anymore, but as for me, I get the most out of studying all religions, because in reality they have a whole lot more in common than they are different. My grandmother would always tell me during the fights that there is one God, and that everyone sees God differently, but it doesn’t make them wrong. I think that’s a good way to sum up what I think.

Wait, wasn’t this supposed to be about Star Wars? Yes! It is!

The older I get, I find that most of my childhood memories are fading away. Which makes sense, because every day I get new memories, not to mention I’ve been told by most therapists that I’ve suppressed like 80% of it. One memory, however, still remains incredibly vivid. There was one night where my grandfather snapped, as always. Sometimes the fights would calm down, and other times they would erupt to where we would have to leave for a while until my grandfather went to sleep. This particular time was the latter. I heard my grandfather screaming at my mother, and her screaming back. I remember him calling us dirty Arabs, and saying something along the lines of, “I better sign up then, because otherwise we’ll all have our heads chopped off.” That was a pretty scary thing for a little kid to hear, because at the time, I had literally no idea what he was talking about.

Sidenote: Contrary to popular belief, being raised as a Muslim, I was never told to kill people, that others who weren’t like me were going to hell, or that I was supposed to take over the world. We mostly prayed for people who were suffering and were told to be kind, and that if you have the ability to help someone, whether with money, food, or just simply comfort, it is your responsibility as a human being to help another human being, regardless of religion or race. I didn’t stop being Muslim because it was violent, or dangerous. I stopped being Muslim because I was also taught that God knows what is in your heart, so he knows if you are doing something for the right reasons or wrong reasons, and if you are praying just to look devoted, or if you actually meant it in your soul. And for some reason, I didn’t feel like I did mean it, so I went to find out why. I also stopped going to Masjids because while the religion never really made me feel judged, the people in the particular community I was in did. Being mixed race was awfully hard, and made me an outcast in the community I was involved with. But it’s made me an outcast in most social groups I’ve ever been a part of…that’s why I don’t belong to any of them anymore. Anyway, I digress.

After all the screaming and slamming, my mother hurriedly grabbed her kids and packed us into her forest green mini van, and took us to the theater. We were all quiet with tears in our eyes, not really sure what to do. I was standing in the hallway watching my mom and grandfather fight, and I don’t know where my siblings were, but it was so loud you didn’t even have to be in the same state to hear them.

Having to deal with racism in general pretty much sucks. When it’s in your family, it sucks even more than usual, because you can’t walk away from it. Anyone who has dealt with racism knows you can never truly walk away because it always hangs over you, but in my case, I couldn’t even go home and shut the door and hide like I wanted to, because it infested my hiding place too. I had no escape from it. I dealt with it in school and I dealt with it at home…but home was worse, because the person who was supposed to protect me, who was supposed to be the closest thing to a good father I could have, absolutely hated me for something I had no choice in. That made my heart ache. It still does sometimes.

We sat in the car for a while, and my mom hugged my brother who was sitting in the front seat. Then my sister and I climbed over the benches, and hugged her too, and we cried more. My family’s life has always been painful and traumatic, and we hid it well, but sometimes it leaked out because it just became too much. Despite my mother’s anger, and me still not getting along with her even today, she sincerely tried in her own way to be a good mother, she tried to keep us safe, and tried be a strong woman. And every now and then, her hard facade would be let down for just a little while, and we saw that despite her being a mother, despite her being strong, she was ultimately just a scared human being, like us. And I could never blame her for that. I was scared too.

We finally composed ourselves and we went to buy tickets. I don’t think my mom really cared what we watched, but she happened to choose Star Wars: Return of the Jedi. We sat in the theater, our hearts rattled. We didn’t really pay attention to the previews, and we didn’t think we cared about the movie either. But then, that famous composition blared from the speakers:





And those opening lines started scrolling, which I probably didn’t read, because I was seven. But I looked at those words, and I looked at those stars behind them, and my heart stopped rattling, and instead sat still, and I felt like everything was going to be okay. At one point during the movie, I looked over at my sister, and then at my brother, and they were both smiling brightly, in awe of everything that was going on, their faces lit up by the movie screen. I looked at my mother, too. She wasn’t smiling…but I hoped she was on the inside…a little at least.

We came out of the theater, and my brother decided he’d call the movie, “Return of the Jenny.” We didn’t know anyone named Jenny, and till this day I have no idea why that was so funny. But at the time, it was hilarious. We walked out to the parking lot, and it was late, and we were small and tired, but the mood of my family had changed. The pain of what happened wasn’t gone…but Han Solo, Chewy, and Luke dulled the pain a little. I remember the sky being incredibly clear and black; it must have been summer. I remember looking up, and thinking that they were all up there celebrating the defeat of the Empire. I was so happy for them, but my heart sank a little, realizing that I’d have to go home to Vader. I wished with all my little heart that we wouldn’t have to go home, but I knew it was inevitable. That left me with one choice only; it was time to become a Jedi.

Well. This has by far been the hardest thing to write. I don’t talk very much about my past at all, for obvious reasons. But to anyone who read this in its entirety, I sincerely thank you.

And P.S. I know Han Solo isn’t the only hero, or even the main one. But to me, he is the coolest. Ever. And now, I leave you with a quote as always, one that is very, very dear to my heart.

Beep beep beep whistle, whistle boopdoop baboop whistle.

-R2D2, Star Wars

Ellie Vs. A Big Little Accident

Hello lovely humans and other creatures that enjoy blogging,

I have approximately five billion things to write about, none of which are related, but instead of just word vomiting like I so often do, I’ll try to keep it all organized in several different posts…emphasis on try. I have a feeling Douglas Adams told himself something similar when he started writing The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. If so, I might be in trouble, especially since I haven’t slept much. But let’s see what happens… I hope you have your towel handy.

First on the list: yesterday.

Yesterday started out decently. I woke up early enough to be productive, but not early enough to make me want to crawl out of my skin, went to the chiropractor whose office is near the beach, went to the beach to eat my lunch, then took the pretty drive down one mountain and up another to get to work. Work was easy, I got things done quickly, and then I started the always somewhat dreadful drive home in a fuck ton of traffic.

I am not a fan of traffic for several reasons, but mainly three; being in a car for extended periods of time make my back hurt more than it already does, I get bored and antsy, and people in big cities, like the one I was born and raised in, are very talented at bad driving. I don’t like dealing with any of these things. In fact, I hate traffic on the freeways so much that I will take side streets every chance I get, even if it takes double the time. I didn’t get that chance, though, so I reluctantly joined the clusterfuck and turned my music up to cope with the fact that traffic is just the friggin worst.

At one point, the traffic finally let up. Freedom! Well, for a second. The traffic quickly came to a halt once more, and so did I. I sat there, wiggling about in the driver’s seat to some good ol’ Franz Ferdinand, and took a sip out of a water bottle that is bigger than my face, when suddenly,

BAM! BAM! BAM! SHUGGASHUGGASHUGGASHUGGA (That’s how it sounds in my head. Don’t judge me).

I fuck you not, this all actually happened in slow motion. I am completely convinced that the universe accidentally hit the slow motion button on its remote, and slowed everything down. I pulled over onto the shoulder, and got out of my car, shaking and panicked like a wet puppy because that’s how I react when frightened, not to mention I actually was wet due to the water bottle flying all over my car. I looked around and saw that five other cars pulled over as well. Well look at that…my first pile up..hopefully the last.

The man who hit me was a total sweetheart…I was standing there all wet puppy like on the shoulder of the freeway, and he asked me if I was okay and told me to breathe. I asked him if he was hit by someone else, and when he said yes, I looked back and saw that the car behind his was totaled. I finally remembered to breathe, and when I did my head replied with a big loud, “NO!” and started to throb and ache terribly. So…what exactly happened when the universe sat on its remote? From what I understand, because the traffic came to a stop so suddenly, the first man couldn’t stop in time, so he crashed into the car behind me, I crashed into the woman in front of me, she crashed into the man in front of her. When I was hit, I hit my head on the side of my car, then on my headrest.

I was dreading having to look at my car. The impact felt so violent I was sure the car was going to be smashed front and back. To my relief, my car was pretty scratched and my license plate bent, but aside from that, no real major damage. In my last car, which was a PT Cruiser (awful cars in general, don’t ever get one), I had two minor accidents, one being my fault and one not, but in both, the impacts were just as hard and my car had major damage. My new little Civic, however, took the beating like a Champ. You go, Olive (I named my car Olive for one of my favorite characters on a show, Fringe, and also because she’s green and I kind of suck at naming things).

So finally after the initial bullshit that happens during accidents, the cops actually shut down the freeway so that all cars involved could get off at the same time and reconvene in a safer area. We all talked about what happened to the cops, and the others involved in the accident were actually super nice. Coincidentally, we were all driving Civics, minus the man who hit me, who was driving an Accord, which is basically a chubby Civic. None of us had too much damage, and the man who hit us, despite having his car totaled, was as far as I could tell entirely unharmed. Thankfully, this was all actually quite minor even though the impact felt awfully strong. As things wound down, my headache did not, and my back was hurting more than usual. Next stop, the ER!

I went to the ER and realized that after the adrenaline was done flying through my veins, I felt kind of awful. My head hurt, my neck hurt, my back hurt, on top of all the pain I normally feel, and I was slightly confused. The doctors checked me out, and after waiting around for what seemed like a million years, they decided that since I only hit the headrest and the side, I at worst had a mild concussion. Treatment? No work or driving for two days, lots of ice, and lots of Ibuprofen. My neck and back were a different story though. Since those parts of me are already in constant pain, getting any type of hit or jolt isn’t exactly the best thing for me. I had JUST gone to the chiropractor, and I had felt so good, and now because of the accident I felt back to my normal awfulness plus some extra. Now not only would I have to pay $100 for the ER visit, but after already paying to see the chiropractor I would have to pay again to get myself all fixed up again. The whole situation basically made me feel like,


Old, but accurate. 

I was really trying not to complain too much when I was at the scene of the crash..I didn’t want to be that person that makes a big deal out of something small, you know? But, at the same time, I am not particularly well made and have a lot of wonky parts, so the impact probably did me in a little more than it should have, and that’s not exactly surprising. The girl I hit did say her neck and head were hurting too though, so I guess I’m not the only one. Overall, I am just glad everyone is okay and safe, if not a little banged up like our Civics are. This truly could have been much worse and we all could have been badly injured, especially the man that hit us first, but he is alright as well.

My head, neck and back are still killing me, but my back is exceptionally painful. The lower part of my back has a burning sensation and throbbing. I really hope there’s nothing wrong with me more than soreness, but I won’t find out until next week when I go back to the doctor. I’m about 90% sure I am okay, but since I was apparently put together with marshmallows and double-stick tape, I am hurting. Believe me when I say I’m definitely not looking to sue anyone or make a big stink about it…I have enough complicated things in my life as it is. I just would like to not have more health problems on top of the dozen I’ve already got going for me.

Well, today is all about bed rest and Netflix. The good news is, my boyfriend may have found us a new home. I wanted to work on the logistics last night, but he absolutely refused to because I needed rest. He knows I’m a stubborn little asshole sometimes, and that resting is usually the last thing on my mind, but even after I tried my best to convince him, his reply was, “You are my main concern. We have a back up to look into for a still very nice apartment if we need it. What I don’t have is a backup girlfriend.”  I was a little annoyed that I couldn’t get things done right away like I usually like doing. But mostly, I was warmed by his sweetness, and reminded by the fact that since I’ve known him, in most situations he does always put me first. I’m definitely not used to that since most people have never, ever treated me that way. So far, though, I’m kind of loving the feeling of someone making me important rather than putting me down like I am used to.

So, what does a minor 5 car pile up, moderate injuries, an awesome boyfriend, and sleep deprivation all add up to? Well it’s obvious, isn’t it? The answer of course, is 42.

And a whole lot of gratefulness.

So we stole and drank Champagne,
On the seventh seal you said you never feel pain,
“I never feel pain, won’t you hit me again?”
“I need a bit of black and blue to be a rotation”

In my blood I feel the bubbles burst,
There was a flash of fist, an eyebrow burst.
You’ve a lazy laugh and a red white shirt,
I fell to the floor fainting at the sight of blood!

-The Fallen, Franz Ferdinand 

Ellie Vs. A Ticking Clock

Dear those looking at this with your eyeballs, (and ones looking at this with something else, I don’t discriminate),

My life has had quite a few technical difficulties this week, and these difficulties have been, well…difficult. It’s all left me exhausted, shaky and anxious, as well has more depressed than usual. When my depression takes over, it’s hard to do anything, including write, but I am trying to not let the little cloud over my brain dictate my life. So, this morning, while the cloud was saying, “Stay in bed, hide under the blankets,” my brain said, “No. Get up, do things, and it will make you feel good.” So here I am, doing things.

In the grand scheme of my situation, my life has actually got two really wonderful, life changing things coming up. However, the journey getting me to the wonderful part is terribly hard, and one is not guaranteed…though I guess that’s how life generally works out, isn’t it?

As I have said before, I desperately need a hysterectomy, because my periods drag me into hell and show no mercy. The pain I deal with is excruciating, to ridiculous levels. I can’t work, eat, walk, or function when they come; and they come whenever they wish, following no pattern at all. My periods have left me terrified of my own body, and that makes my anxiety worse than it already is. I have good insurance right now, all my doctors support it, and my friends and family do as well…except for my mother. Since I live with her, I am apparently also owned by her, and she decided early on that having a hysterectomy was not my choice and that I was not allowed to do it, even though I’d pay for it. I thought of just having it anyway, but recovering at home would be a nightmare, and she would make me miserable. So, I was stuck.

Then, the other day, I one of my friends gave me a grand miracle.

My friend is just a bit older than I am. Both she and her mother also had hysterectomies. After talking to her in depth about it, she offered to allow me to have the surgery, then recover in her spare bedroom that she normally rents out to people who travel through our city. I was so stunned by her kindness, and because of my independent (or stubborn, as most people like to say) attitude, my first reaction was to refuse. There’s no way I could ask for something so huge, and I have very little to give back. However, it clicked in my head that at this moment, I truly need help. I am chronically ill, I don’t have a lot of money, and if I were to not take this chance that my dear friend gifted me, I would have to wait much longer before I could get a different insurance and the money to pay for the surgery, since I am moving out of state. So, I told the stubborn part of me to shut the hell up, and I said yes.

I went to the doctor yesterday, and she was so elated that I had been given this chance. I have so many health problems, crossing just one off the list would give me so much more freedom. The problem, however, lay in my age. Because I am 24, and not over 40, this particular doctor is not allowed to perform the surgery. Instead, I would have to go to an academic hospital, and have them do it. This makes no sense to me, and frankly makes me extremely angry, being treated like I don’t have the power to dictate what happens to my own body, but if that is what I have to do, then I will do it. So, I called the other hospital, and after them running me around a bit, I finally got an appointment…in two weeks.

Normally I would not complain, since that is not too bad of a wait, but right now, it’s Ellie vs. A Ticking Clock. I am due to move in only four months, and I want so badly to have the surgery before I go, so that I can start my new life, rather than starting up then having to halt life once again to have a surgery. While I could move at a later date, I am not exactly happy where I live, and the thought of staying longer makes me cringe a little. As my boyfriend said, I have two very hard things to choose between. Stay in a place longer where I am miserable, but have a surgery that can change my life for the better, or move and be happier at home, but still be sick?

There is a chance that I will actually be able to have the surgery and still move on time, but I won’t know until two weeks from now, so I am currently just spiraling out of control and being an anxious little thing. I have to get everything lined up to work out; my friend’s place needs to be available, I have to be able to afford the surgery, it has to be enough time for me to recover before I get on a plane to Missouri, I have to pack and get a car mover at the right time, I have to put my one month’s notice in at work at the right time, and I have to make it so that I am well enough to go to my grandmother’s 90th birthday party while hiding the fact that I had surgery from my family. Then go to Missouri and start a whole new life. I’m…overwhelmed.

It’s not impossible for this to all work out, and I am really, really, REALLY hoping it does. I need to move, but I also need to be healthier. My superstition is making me nervous that just talking about it may jynx it. I think I can honestly say I have never wanted two things more badly in my entire life. Part of me is also extremely sad that I have to face such a big thing without the support of my family. I do feel alone in this, but I do have amazing friends and a boyfriend who, though is far away, is truly trying his best to be there for me as he can, while still trying to maintain his life and find us an apartment. I get pretty angry about the fact that the people who want to be there for me can’t be, and the people who can be there for me won’t be, due to their own choice. But, maybe instead of getting angry, I should be grateful for those who are supporting me. I like those people quite a lot.

Often in my life, things don’t work out how they should. Those negative parts of life are always so much easier to remember than all the times things do work out. But despite the negative being louder, my life hasn’t been total disappointment. There have been some situations that have worked out, and worked out well.  For now, I will try to be patient, be positive, and be hopeful. I really, truly hope this is one of the things that does work out well.

Here’s to my future, and as always, to yours.

There’s the strangest excitement today
If you’re awake, then you’re welcome to hear
I got a gift and it blew me a way
From the far Eastern sea, straight to here
Oh God I feel like I’m in for it now
Its like the rush has gone straight to my brain
But my voice is as lonely as loud
As I whisper the joy of this pain

-The Gift, Angels and Airwaves 

2 Player Mode: Ellie and The Easter Bunny

Just a quick little post to say Happy Easter to my dear readers. I Started this blog just a few weeks ago, and I didn’t think anyone would read it, honestly. But I have gotten a few followers and a few likes and I am so very grateful for every single one of you. Thank you for listening to me, and hearing my story. I hope everyone has a really lovely holiday, and if you don’t celebrate Easter, I hope you have a lovely day in general.

Last night I made a gluten free Easter Cake. Chocolate cake, filled with whip cream and iced with homemade buttercream. The eggs look a little weird though, because due to the whole constant awful pain thing, I was really exhausted and sort of forgot what eggs…looked like. I’m still pretty proud of it though, I think it’s pretty okay. I really need to learn to make fondant…That would make the world so much easier!


I also made a huge mess in the kitchen. I usually do that, but it’s worth it. (Also, since this was a two layer cake I had to shave the bottom layer and got to eat all the shavings. You know…testing the cake to make sure it isn’t poison. I am a HERO, guys.)

I’m still on my horrible period, and my family is kind of insane and beyond overwhelming which makes most holidays a giant shitstorm, but I am going to try to take it as easy as possible and not lose my mind. But hey, at least there is cake involved. I’ll look forward to that. As well as going to take the leftover cake to my best friend later on. She usually makes everything a little better.

Happy Easter Everybunny! See what I did there? Every…bunny? Hehe. Okay. Sorry.

Ellie Vs. Pain, Pain, and More Pain, Period.

Hello, dear friends.

If you have not guessed it, I am in pain. I’m always in pain to an extent, but every now and then the level is raised to such ridiculous levels that I feel like I may just burst. It reminds me of those thermometers in old cartoons that get so hot they shatter. I am currently that thing, and it is not a good feeling.

Most women have pain on their periods. Cramps, nausea, back aches, stomach pains, you name it. Some women, though, have worse periods than others. Lucky me, I am one of them.

I have actually never experienced abdominal cramps on my period. I got it my junior year of high school, when I was 16 years old, ironically, right after I just finished reading Stephen King’s book Carrie.From that day forward, instead of getting cramps, I got pain in my spine, swelling and bruising in my lower back, blood clotting, and horrific pain in my legs. I tell people it feels like my spine and legs are being twisted around like a wet towel, while at the same time being stabbed with knives. It gets so painful that I frequently fall or even black out entirely. It’s the main reason I nearly failed high school as well; twice I was given a court summons, and my mother had to go to court and tell them, “hey, my daughter isn’t a truant, she just can’t really walk or function once a month, sometimes more. So back off and let her go to school, asshats!” Okay. She may have not said it exactly that way, but something along those lines, I’m sure.

I have tried a number of different treatments and methods to control of this pain, and everything has failed. Birth controls, physical therapy, acupuncture,surgery, shots, and so on. Then, two years ago, I had several ultrasounds which discovered that I had ovarian cysts on both ovaries, as well as a tumor wrapped around my fallopian tube. I had a laproscopy, and the doctors swore that those were definitely the problem. Who wouldn’t think that? Sure enough, after the surgery which left two small scars on my tummy so that it now looks like a smilie face, I still suffered. Not even a little change. The OBGYN actually told me, “Well, it’s probably just normal then.” Uhm…excuse me? Pretty sure it isn’t normal to not be able to walk on my period, or you know, black out and hit my head on the bathtub. I’m not a doctor, but, I’m pretty sure. I was so incredibly angry at her, and when I disagreed with her she actually yelled at me and said that was all she could do. I currently have the urge to flip a table, so I’m probably still a bit angry about it. I just wonder how she could just try one surgery then give up. I’m baffled.

Next, I had cortisone shots in my spine, while still messing with my birth control dosages to try to see if any of that happened. I ended up not only getting no improvements from the cortisone shots, but I had an adverse reaction to it, which included a major fever, severe nausea, pain all over, and even hallucinations (but I’ll write a post about my hallucinations later, because that’s a good story in itself). The doctor said that despite being injected with cortisone, my body reacted like I just drank a whole bottle of it, and that was pretty rare. Considering everything about me is pretty rare, it wasn’t really a shock. But it was awful.

I then went to a different OBGYN, and I finally had the big discussion I had been wanting to have for many years. I wanted to talk about having a partial hysterectomy, which meant having my uterus removed but keeping my ovaries. Considering I don’t want to have children due to having two genetic diseases, and the fact that my body wouldn’t be able to actually handle a pregnancy, having a hysterectomy still seemed like a big deal, but it wasn’t going to ruin my future plans of having a family. I’ve always wanted to adopt, and I don’t need my uterus for that.

My periods are sporadic, so I many times can’t even tell when I will get them. Sometimes they last a few days, sometimes one week, sometimes several weeks without stopping. I live in constant fear of my own body because when they come, I am bedridden. I’ve missed work, I’ve canceled parties, I’ve missed events, I struggled to complete both highschool and college, all because of the pain I have to endure over and over again. After ten years of everything I could, both my doctor and I agreed that this was the best option for me to finally live a healthier life. The basic idea is that if I get rid of the uterus, and I stop the periods, my body won’t have a cycle to react to, which means less pain. But, by keeping my ovaries, I can still produce hormones which are needed especially in young women to stay healthy.

However, this particular OBGYN completely disagreed for one reason and one reason only- I’m young. Which clearly means I am naive and idiotic, right? She told me she would not sign off on the surgery, and instead told me to get an IUD. Frustrated but more desperate than ever, I agreed to try it. She told me to come back the next time I got my period, and she would put it in for me. So, I did.

The day I went back, thankfully, I got a different doctor because the first one had been out. I was in a ridiculous amount of pain when I went to the hospital that day. I couldn’t sleep and was barely walking. I walked down the freakishly white hallway, trying to talk to the nurse but having a hard time concentrating. They sat me in the doctor’s room, got me some water, and I waited. The new doctor came in and I had no idea what to expect, nor did I care. I truly just wanted relief, and the IUD was supposed to give me that. I sat on the bed and I couldn’t stop crying because, obviously, I hurt. I hurt more than I thought the world could ever understand, more than my spine could take, more than I as a person could take. But this doctor understood. She was so amazingly warm and sweet, and I ended up telling her my whole story. She carefully listened, and when I was done, she told me not to get the IUD.

She informed me that IUD’s take months, sometimes even a year to settle, and can be extremely painful. Aside from the pain I already have, I also have Vasovagal Syncope, meaning I pass out if I feel too much pain or discomfort. She told me I would be passing out nearly every day and on top of everything else, since I generally react poorly to, well, everything, she didn’t want to take the risk of putting an odd object into me. The first OBGYN told me none of this. When I told this one that I was not informed at all about it, she said the other doctor was being biased, and that while she believed the best thing to do was for me to have the hysterectomy, it would be harder for me because I am young, and doctor’s biases would get in the way.

What. The. Fuck.

After all that, she told me she would put in my medical records that she supported the surgery, and that the next step was to go to Stanford to have their blessing as well, that way when I move to Missouri in the summer, I would have several doctors behind me, and it would hopefully make the whole process easier. She told me I should have the surgery here, as soon as possible, but I explained that my mother, who I live with and who currently provides my health insurance, was entirely against it and told me having a hysterectomy was not my choice (Who does get to make that choice, I don’t know, but apparently it isn’t me, according to her). So, I have to wait till I move out, find a job, get insurance, and save enough money to actually pay for the surgery. For now, as this doctor advised, I am doing as much as I can to support my cause here.

Whether I have a hysterectomy or not, I can never have children. Considering I do want a family, it is a little heart breaking, but I firmly believe that just because a woman can’t have a child from her own body, doesn’t mean she shouldn’t be a mother. Likewise, some women who do physically have the ability to have children aren’t always fit to be mothers. It goes both ways, I’ve learned. I also decided a long time ago that getting pregnant, having a child, and then dying or being permanently damaged from it would not at all be worth it. Why have a child if I can’t be alive or well enough to be a good and attentive mother to it? The risks for even perfectly healthy women who give births are already high. For me, they’re out of this universe.

What troubles me more than anything about my situation is not the part where I cannot have children. It’s the part that at nearly 25 years old, both my own mother as well as some doctors put their own biases above my health. Because of that, I have to suffer for Glob knows how long. The severity of this pain is far from normal, and no one deserves to feel like their body is being torn apart. The pain is truly unbearable and people who hardly know me think it’s “normal.” Well, for lack of a more sophisticated phrase, fuck them. This is not okay. I am not okay.

This may be one of the hardest fights I’ve been challenged with. But it is one that I will fight hard in, because I am not living a healthy life this way. I can’t be social or work or cook or drive. Instead of that, I lay in my bed, and I cry for a week, and occasionally sleep when I exhaust myself between the constant mental and physical pain. Then I wake up, and my body feels like it’s being torn to shreds, and I cry more. Not because my period causes mood swings, or because I’m a girl. I cry because my body fucking hurts, I am sick, I am frustrated, and I am scared that I will one day just break apart because of it all. I hate this, and it has to get better. It has to. I’m going to make sure it will.

For now, it’s really Ellie vs. Ellie. I sure hope Ellie wins.

Let’s break the window panes
and separate the walls from all the nails
Cuz maybe if we’re loud, we’ll stay alive
While everybody wants to join the fight
But even if we barricade the door and seal it with the
Blood found on the floor
We’re always going to cross the finish line
While everybody wants to run and hide
But now it’s too late.

Silversun Pickups – Common Reactor