I realized after posting last night that my mention of giving myself a shot would confuse the one or two people who read this blog without actually knowing me. So here's the thing:
When I was seventeen and spending most of my time in a neglected stairwell of my highschool, (we called it "the cold cell", Marian and I, and drew all over the walls), I started having trouble with my joints. My shoulder would ache for a week, and then my wrist would get bad and I had no idea why. I was directed to a lot of different doctors. Some of them thought it was my bones, but a bone scan proved they were fine. Another doctor thought I just needed to eat better, get more sleep, and excercise more , which, while undoubtedly true, was just a little off the mark.
(I can't really blame that doctor, though. I went in for a morning appointment to meet her after spending the night looping the city in my car with Marian and never going to bed. I'd taken some pills to stay awake and hadn't eaten anything decent in days. I was going through a phase of wanting to be tough. I realize how pathetic that sounds, now, but there it is).
Then I met a doctor who told me I had rheumatoid arthritis. It runs in the family, but nobody expected it to kick in this early. Anyway, pills didn't work and it got a lot worse, fast, so I learned how to give myself injections. I do three a week, when I'm on top of things. I don't inject into a vein, but into muscle, or fat, depending on the type of injection (there are two). And it's A LOT OF FUN.
No, it blows. But I've gotten very chummy with needles. I used to hate them. And if I keep up with the injections, I don't have arthritis. I mean it's chronic, so I'll always have it, but I can keep it in remission, which is good.
So that's what I'm talking about when I mention needles, or shots, or joints. Not heroin, alcohol, and pot... but arthritis! Wee.
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8 comments:
You were like a super model in high school. Too bad the needles had to come later.
oh ok, yeah i was wondering about that!
She made the cafeteria line-up into a catwalk, she did.
yeah, me and my friends used to try and hang out in the cold cell after they graduated... but none of us took art, and it was connected to the art room, so people looked at us funny. plus they started to paint ugly things on the walls , some weird rainbow thingy... it made me unhappy
God damn it, sister, why do you always comment on Claire's blog and never on mine? Mum tells me you get home on Monday, though! Whee!
Yee. I didn't realize there were needles involved.
Ah, I suppose the perfect body comes with a price. It's like a turkish rug, with the single imperfection; so as to not piss God off by flying too close to the sun and mixing metaphors or something.
Poornie. I didn't know it was so serious.
Smoogie. That's the verbal equivalent of something, but I'm not sure what of.
Yes... the perfect body. That's right. Spread the word.
And narns, what are you talking about? Lepsy comments on your blog all the time!
I want to see this weird rainbow thingy. It can't have compared to our baby jesus and naked hitler. Ah youth...
Go home to your wife and your family.
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