Nothingness...

Every time I pull the computer into my lap to post, Amos crawls in, too.  It is near impossible to type with my arms around a fluffy white puppy dog.  Really, though, I have been riding waves of violent nausea and have little to say ... little to remember at the moment.  

My counselor tried to help with my longing to hear the Word of God by loaning me a set of CDs of the Bible.  However, I find them to be ... distracting.  They are narrated, scored, and acted out.  So, it technically is the Word of God, but is like listening to a movie of sorts.  It simply isn't the same as being read to ... at least to me it's not.

I have not read any further in the research book on shame because I cannot concentrate.  I actually have several pages of text someone is waiting for me to edit, but I try to do so and get nowhere.  That is one of the greatest changes in me since being felled by Dysautonomia.  Concentrating on something, studying or editing, writing even, is the most arduous activity I face other than trying to go up more than one flight of stairs at a time.  Really, concentrating is as physically arduous as my aching, feeble, quaking legs walking up stairs.

Back when I was a professor, I would often grade papers whilst listening to music or watching something on television.  The simple task of grading was not enough to really keep me occupied.  Now, the simplest distraction is enough to completely derail any task I am trying to accomplish, such as following a recipe.  It is why I become quite agitated whilst cooking if someone tries to talk to me about anything other than the recipe ... if I am concentrating on a section of it.  I know what will happen if I become distracted and, especially with baking, it is hard to get all the ingredients right ... near impossible to remember what I have added if interrupted.

Sometimes, the main problem is that I simply do not understand what I am reading.  That could be because I cannot hold one sentence in my mind long enough to connect it to the next sentence I am reading.  Or it could be that what I am reading makes no sense to me.  A part of me knows it should make sense, but it doesn't.  Frustration leads to an even greater difficulty in concentration and the act of reading or studying or editing becomes another experience of failure and an excruciating reminder that I am no longer the person who sailed through 50 graduate hours in her first calendar year of her Ph.D..

In this regard, sometimes I welcome the nausea.  I welcome a legitimate reason for not being able to read or watch television or edit something, as much as I desire to do anything that would make me feel useful.

This afternoon, I watched four episodes of the first season of Major Crimes.  I saw them all in the past year.  And yet there was not a single aspect of any of the cases that I remembered.  I vaguely remembered two scenes with Rusty, one with the insensitive D.A. and one with him regarding a threatening letter he received.  Odd that I remember something about what I would consider a minor character.

Now, I am simply lying in the GREEN chair, typing around my beloved Fluffernutter, having sat in silence for a few hours.  I do not believe I have ever found the right words to express just how ... blank ... my mind can be.  It really was staggering to not remember any of the plots of those shows.  I like "The Closer" and "Major Crimes."  I have watched the whole of "The Closer" three times through.  I should remember it, I think.  However, having just finished "Fringe" for the fifth time, I did not remember its ending at all.  In fact, the few things I remembered from the last season were that Etta dies, that the bridge had to be closed, and that Peter ran away for a bit during an episode that speaks to a longing to belong.

Gosh, I really didn't remember those shows!  

I think my remember is getting worse.

Sometimes I think it ... giving up ... for me to re-read as much as I re-read now.  Only, I find reading not pleasurable when I cannot follow a story and I think I have enough displeasure in my life now.  Reading ... books have been my closest companions, my family really my whole life.  It is hard to lose that ability, in part, now.  So, I stick with what I know ... knowing I will not really remember the stories anyway.  Some more than others, depending on just how much re-reading I have done with them.

Last night, in bed, feeling a bit guilting about simply restarting the Chronicles of Elantra series once more, I switched to Anne McCaffrey's early books about the FT&T.  You cannot go wrong with vintage Anne McCaffrey!

Yesterday, I drove to my new GP's office to pick up the samples of my inhaler that the nurse left for me at the front desk—six months of samples!!  That's it.  After sitting here, twining my fingers in Amos' curls and struggling to concentrate, that is all that I can tell you that I did in the past three days.  I try to picture Friday and nothing comes to mind.  I try to picture what I have eaten and nothing comes to mind.  

I could get up and go look at the dishes piled up in the sink, but I am not sure there is enough residue to ferret out my culinary consumption with a fluffy white dish pre-cleaner living in the house.  The dishes are piled up because I am so much more exhausted these days so I will wait until the sink is a bit full before standing and addressing dishes.  But I don't really want to play detective in my own life.

It is, now, 8:54 PM.  This day has been filled with four episodes of "Major Crimes" and ... and ....  I don't know.  I don't know what I ate either.  Nothing lingers on my tongue.  Not having any contact with folk until Tuesday, I have not rehearsed my days or taken notes to help me in conversation.  No alarms or remainders have told me that things need remembering (other than my daily medication alarms).  So, it is not, apparently, needful for me to be present or engaged.  Really, these days, I often exist in nothingness.  What I cannot decided is whether or not it is a good thing that I have become less upset about that state.

I could also point out, though, that I have become less upset about my hair falling out.  The integrated medicine specialist wanted me to try lowering my thyroid medication on the weekends.  What I have learned over the past eight years is that whenever my thyroid is lower than my body prefers (forget about the charts), my skin becomes ashy, my nails become brittle and start peeling, and my hair falls out.  

Oh, how I used to crumble over the latter. I know somewhere in these archives are a gazillion posts bewailing the loss of my hair.  However, when it started coming away in my hands this week, my very first thought was:  Maybe my head won't hurt so much if my hair weighs less.  Plus, I know that when I have my next appointment, I will be able to bring in a bag of my hair and the dosage will be changed back.  I have such a thick head of hair that I can go a couple of months like this and still have plenty of hair left.  This is also round 101 with strands in my hands, all over my body, and filling up the catcher in the drain.  

I am definitely more sanguine about some of the wretchedness I face.  Does that mean that I have matured or that I have given up somehow?  I honestly don't know.

Hey, I just thought of something.  If I want to remember what I have to eat each day, I should just start having pulled pork tacos every day!  Mmmmm...

I suppose I will stop rambling about nothing, really, and get back to twining my fingers in curls.  Or maybe I will light a fire for the rest of the evening.  Or watch some more of a show that is brand new for me once again.  Whatever I decide, chances are I won't remember on the morrow unless I take measures to ensure that I do.  With the fate of the world not hanging in the balance ... I doubt that I will.