Naming names is so passé.

I’ve spent the last two weeks of my summer working, painting, steam-cleaning, just cleaning, packing boxes, moving boxes, writing poetry, and seeing people for the first time in months (most likely the last time ever again).  I’m wishing my “old life” was gone.  I have one more week of work, and then I have to arrange my own transfer.  I still have to move all my belongings into my car so that I can drive them out of state.  I’ve already moved on; I just have to get all these things done and I’m gone.  Still.  So damned tired.

I have real life shit to do, emphasis on the shitty aspect of it.  I have this weird quirk, once I start looking at my dashboard I won’t stop until I’ve seen everything.  So all the people who spam my dashboard are slowly getting taken off as I figure out who they are.  After all, I need to sleep sometime.

I’m back from the doctor’s.  I don’t want to talk about it.  The end.

My appointment is at 10:45 and I just can’t take the uncertainty.  I’ve done this with one appointment already, they made it a ‘symptoms appointment’, something that infuriates me, mostly because I’m nervous as hell about the whole thing, but also because I’m paying for all of this entirely out of pocket and I have to take off work to go.  I know my symptoms are an important thing to know, but if anyone just read my family doctor’s page from my physical, I told her everything I told the cardiologist and then some.  And incidentally, the cardiologist kept asking ‘leading questions’, about the same way a con artist would.  

So yeah, stressed out with potential heart problems.  Stressed out and way too jittery to do this.  Oh well, at least the stress test will be accurate.  I get to run on a treadmill while they watch my heart flip out.  

As weird as this is to say, I’m looking forward to that part because I’ve had to refrain from running.  When it got to the point of blacking out on runs, I made the decision to stop them altogether.  I used to not like running in the least because I did it all the time (to train for soccer and things like that) but now I want to feel the strain on my muscles and that quiet in my head once I go past that final point and every effort is focused just on…forward.

Like really,

what if they don’t believe me

or worse yet,

they do?

What if

I fall down

and stay there,

admiring the ground;

or,

I’m so dead I don’t see the floor;

the worst though,

what if they don’t believe me,

when the pain is so bad

I can’t walk up the street,

roll over in bed,

or stretch when pulled from sleep;

I want to be believed,

I don’t think that my body can take much more of this,

though I haven’t been reckless,

so

please

dear doctor

do something

I took a picture of myself to save so I could see my hair, because I like the way it looks right now.  I saw the picture, saw how tired and sick I look, and deleted it without a word.  I don’t get hit on at work anymore either.  Ugh.