Braintox Part Two
So yeah. Bummer.
For your own protection, and the protection of those around you, DO NOT for the love of whatever, GOOGLE THE SYMPTOMS, you’ll think you are dying. DO NOT GOOGLE YOUR TEST RESULTS, you’ll think you are dying horribly. And NEVER EVER GOOGLE BLUE WAFFLE, it’s just gross. You have been warned.
A couple of weeks ago I wrote in anxious anticipation about maybe possibly finding a sliver of a chance to cure this nagging headache issue I’ve been having, via an unexpected article about using Botox to treat bruxism [teeth grinding] in “Glamour Fucking Magazine,” as I believe you kids call it. My ingenious plan starts here and continues here.
I have to admit, it was a good plan. My dentist was behind it. My GP was not opposed. Even my boyfriend was behind it–and he doesn’t trust doctors. Like, at all.
When the first round of shots had little to no effect on my masseter muscles, I was not surprised. Neither was the aesthetician who administered the shots. “I’m not surprised,” she said, “your masseters are massive!” Who doesn’t like to hear that? [I’m thinking about having that embroidered on a pillow.]
So, two weeks later, I had another round of shots. Another set in my massive masseters, and a set across the top of my skull. [Those were delightful. Not.]
Long story short, did it work? Nope. I did experience a change in the character, frequency, and duration of my headaches [yes, worse, worse, and worse]. Did I stop grinding my teeth at night? I don’t know, I’m usually asleep.
Should you be bummed out by it? No, of course not. If you grind your teeth, it’s certainly something to consider. I’m just thrashing about trying to get rid of these stupid headaches. It just seemed like there was a connection, but I was wrong. So I, and my newly less-massive masseters are going shopping for a neurologist, and, failing that, looking for LSD to microdose, because there’s research that suggests it reduces the frequency and intensity of certain migraines.
It’s science, bitches!
This has been about the headaches, which aren’t particularly visible as an illness. I also have Type 2 Diabetes, major depressive disorder, arthritis, and degenerate…um, degenerative discs in my upper and lower spine, blah blah blah, who are you, my doctor?! None of them are particularly obvious. I don’t need a cane or a wheelchair or leg braces. Aside from neck and knuckle cracking, knee bending, the occasional “ow, fuck!” as I grab my neck or lower back, and generally being a beardy weirdo, I look pretty normal. If you squint. And don’t ask too many questions.
It is unbelievable the amount of shit people give you for being tired, or having a headache, or just being fucking in pain when they can’t see some obvious sign of it. I’d love to make a show of it and scream “OW!” all the time, or mutter, “fuck this arthritis” under my breath, or scream about my itchy spleen, burny chemical imbalance, or whatever. But I can’t. I’m of the “stop yer cryin’ or I’ll give you something to cry about” era of parenting. I don’t complain much. Hell, I barely talk. [“Children should be seen and not heard” is total bullshit, too, IMHO.]
My mother used to complain that people never gave her any sympathy after her triple bypass because she looked so damn good after. True story.
So, whiny bitches who complain about everything get the sympathy. For a while. And YOU just get bogus bullshit thrown our way. From loved ones. [Drink more water, do yoga, meditate, you should just get over it, did you try…, I had a friend who died of that, blah blah fucking blah. Shut the fuck up.]
Go back over the last two stories here and here and show me on the dolly where I didn’t try a fucking thing to make this all stop, or go away, or behave. Don’t ask me if I’m taking my meds, I’m the one who tells people new to psychotropics to put Post-It Notes ™ © ® on their medicine cabinets that say IF YOU THINK YOU DON’T NEED YOUR MEDS ANYMORE, IT’S BECAUSE THEY’RE WORKING. TAKE THAT SHIT.
How about, instead, doing what I ask? If I ask you to stop yelling, or not talk so much, or turn down the television, or whatever, maybe just do it. Don’t do more of the thing I’m asking you to stop because I’m not the boss of you and whatnot. I’m trying to take care of this shit and you are not helping.
If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the precipitate. No, wait. If you’re not part of the solution, you’re part of the problem. Don’t be part of the problem.
Also, technically, alcohol is a solution.