Drunk Post

Hi. I'm in a bar. Too tipsy to drive home after work, so I deem, and so I'm sitting here after my more tolerant co-workers have left...still drinking. Yay iPhone.

Today a customer at another server's table told me I'm stern. He's in customer service, you see, and knows about such things in a professional way. I went over to his table to apologize for the discretions -- sorry, in-, told you: tipsy -- he had voiced to the other server, and he demurred, later led me away, and said he didn't want to say so in front of the whole table but my demeanor since they'd walked through the door...

First I would sass, but, employed, I only half-sassed, as much as allowable, then ran off to beat the stream of tears when my boss came to my defense.

Thank god my boss is awesome -slash- thinks I'm the nicest person alive.

The thing was, I realized sequestered in the thickly stocked back office, though my days are smoother, I am still under so much frickin stress...and to hear what amounted to arrogant, opportunistic waxing in the middle of brunch, albeit solicited by my apology...

Since I've come to what I figure is "acceptance" about my vulvodynia, my pain has become a sidenote. I don't really notice it. But the fact remains that my pain kept me up all last night, my clitoris burning bright through every leg orientation I tried, and I blamed the non-sleep on so much Effexor-induced day sleep until I admitted that yes, this is my crotch keeping me awake.

It all fell on me when I ran away from that customer. It wasn't his comment -- fuck that, been up against that too many times. It's genetic, got it from my mom. You know how Michael Jordan hangs his tongue out when he dunks? We furrow. Deal with it.

And seriously, if I were a furrowing man, would you care?

What if I had Asperger's, you judgmental dipshit?

But this other stuff...erupted. I thought it was under control. I thought I wasn't this upset about my life.

Honest: on the anniversary of my 3rd vulvodyniaed year, I promised myself I wouldn't live to see a 4th. I don't recommend this pact to anyone; I mention it because I'm convinced honesty heals ALL overall, eventually.

That's what I thought of sequestered in the office today during brunch. My pact.

I've been having dreams that I have to move back in with my parents because I can't afford my life. I'm off the school's health insurance because I'm not taking classes and I'm not sure what I'm going to do. I can maybe afford to get insured thru Ohio's open-enrollment program -- passed Jan 1 -- but the numbers aren't overwhelmingly convincing. My co-worker goes to the county hospital and says it's okay, though, which makes me feel less like I'm falling off the no-insurance cliff.

The end on that.

There are a lot of life-beaten people at my job and in my neighborhood. Like this guy who just ate this ginormous salad. Actually I just mention him because I told him I would. But anyway....once in a while my mind does a minute or so cha-cha over "THERE'S NO WAY OUT OF THIS PAIN?!?!?"

And it seems that the only feasible way to handle the pain is to ignore it. Or, through medicated mood, to be more or less ignorant of it.

To forget it exists.

It's just this hum in the sidespace, like an evening bullfrog.

The question of the day is, do I eventually go insane?

I thought no, but given its proximity as proven today....

I just feel really shitty about ME. I wanted to tell you about my post-urologist visit but I never did. I remember shouting at my dad in the car that all abnormalities that befall me should be a form of POWER, not deficiency. All this over pelvic-floor dysfunction. Because somehow bipolar is a POWER but PFD isn't?

I've tried not to feel shitty about me but it keeps creeping back.

This post must be getting long. And I'm sobering up. So.

Please no pity. I'm writing this for all my chicas who understand...as someone here just mentioned, something like Charlie's Angels...but please not beholden to the service of a man...