A different kind of pain...

I have heard that it is hard to read about my bodily suffering.  And I have heard that it is hard to listen to me talk about the abuse or the thoughts in my head for it.  But I think What about me?

What does it say about me that I no longer care if what I have to say about my suffering bothers you? It bothers me and I am trying very hard to endure it.  Part of that is learning to speak the thoughts in my head so that they stop making life even harder for me.

SIGH.

Four days of going round and round and round with Sprint trying to untangle my account finally came to an end today.  It bothers me that, over and over again, simple things, such as an upgrade, end up being a battle through which I have to slug for days, weeks, or even months.  It seems as if nothing comes easy any more.  But, perhaps, my dear friends Mary and Becky could remind me of some victory here or there that I am forgetting.

I do forget.
And misspell.
And wonder how to form letters.
And cannot recall words.
And struggle to comprehend.
And become confused.
And mess up my bills.
And miss appointments.

I am so weary of hearing that I cannot possibly have cognitive dysfunction because I am so intelligent.

Sometimes.  Sometimes I still long to shout these things from the top of the world.  But, more and more, I am learning to let go the desire to be believed.  I think that the more wretchedness I have in my life, the less I have the time and energy to argue for that.  Only, even though trying to make the other person understand is lower in my priority scale, it still hurts.  A different kind of pain to go along with all the rest of the pain I must endure.

SIGH.

Today, I started the increase to duloxetine.  It is my hope that the side effects will end as soon as possible with this increase.  It it my most fervent hope that I might have an increase in the help for the shocking in my hands.

Please!