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erikaI am getting old.
Now, all of you who know how old I am (and the rest of you, if you read at all, should be able to make a damn good guess, because I don't hide the fact, I just prefer not to broadcast) are out there, rolling your eyes.
What the hell does Erika think she's talking about!? She's not even hit 20 yet!
(Speaking of which, Señor Anonymous who asked me how old I was yesterday, without leaving a name or an e'mail address -- Guess what? You don't get to find out. I feel no need to share personal information I have not chosen to display publicly with people who are anonymous. The only anonymous comments I've received have done one of two things: pissed me off and/or jumped to conclusions and left me gaping at their complete and utter lack of understanding. Therefore: anonymous comments, off. )
As to all of you who are rolling your eyes at my claims of being old: I'll tell you what lead me to this conclusion.
My body is betraying me. That's right. Complete and utter revolt.
I thought my body and I had a working relationship. I didn't stuff it full of the utter junk I love to eat or force meat on it, in return it would keep me below my scare weight and allow me to get up in the morning without a head full of yucky grossness.
But more and more when I look back at the illnesses I've suffered, the random aches and pains I'm forced to endure... I realize no, in fact, my body hates my (forgive the expression) guts.
Case in point: When I was 14, I got whooping cough (aka pertussis). WHOOPING COUGH!? What the fucking hell?! I thought that was a medieval disease. To me, getting whooping cough was like getting the bubonic plague -- oh so so passè.
And when they had to stick what were basically needles the size of chopsticks up my nose -- well, then I knew the glamour of consumption & wasting away was definitely on its way out. (And the other major consequence of failing English 9 was so lovely, so so lovely, let me assure you, especially now as I make it up with all the annoying freshmen.)
It wouldn't've been so bad if it had just been over and done with quickly, but even now there are after-effects. For instance, if I get out of breath, I immediately assume I'm going to die. It's not a joke -- my doctors told me when I had whooping cough that I would have periodic spells of being unable to catch my breath for more than 5 minutes for the rest of my life and I had long-term damage to my lungs, mostly brought on by the fact my parents were too stupid to take me to the doctor until about 4 months after they determined I must've contracted pertussis. (AND they kept smoking even after the doctor told them that people infected with whooping cough are twice as likely to die or hemmorhage & go blind if they live with smokers.)
Blah. Basically: if I can't catch my breath, I freak. This leads to problems, especially if I were to be tickled -- I have to completely trust the person and even then, I might need a break. If I'm laughing hard, sometimes I have to lie down. It's pathetic and stupid and it makes me feel weak and lazy because I don't have the lung capacity I should.
Oh, and of course... I'm anemic. (This doesn't have anything to do with pertussis, my body just hates me.) Severely so. Which leads to lovely aches and pains and huge bruises that won't go away causing me to assume that I have leukemia and will, therefore, die a virgin. (Not to mention once that I had my period for TWO MONTHS STRAIGHT, yes, let me repeat that, TWO months -- from Christmas to February 26th.)
Oh, and depression: it's chemical, it's lovely, it won't leave me alone, and have I talked to a doctor about it? No.
And now, the latest ache and pain sob story to add to my collection: my neck hurts. My neck really really hurts. A lot. I don't know whether it's my posture or just vengeance upon me from God, akin to my computer -- karma smacking me for all the bad deeds and all the heartbreak I visited upon other people. (Right now, I'm in love with my heating pad. Sweet, sweet baby.)
Goddamnit -- the cold clammy worry that now, suddenly, when life has become worth living, I'm going to contract some horrible disease or the problems I've had in the past are going to flare up again and -- and. . . and -- ... gah.
It's silly of me, there's no way. But my illusion of being invincible was stripped away long, long ago, and I can't help but wonder what new trick my body will plague me with now.
But blood makes noise
It's a ringing in my ear
Blood makes noise
And I can't really hear you
In the thickening of fear
Now, all of you who know how old I am (and the rest of you, if you read at all, should be able to make a damn good guess, because I don't hide the fact, I just prefer not to broadcast) are out there, rolling your eyes.
What the hell does Erika think she's talking about!? She's not even hit 20 yet!
(Speaking of which, Señor Anonymous who asked me how old I was yesterday, without leaving a name or an e'mail address -- Guess what? You don't get to find out. I feel no need to share personal information I have not chosen to display publicly with people who are anonymous. The only anonymous comments I've received have done one of two things: pissed me off and/or jumped to conclusions and left me gaping at their complete and utter lack of understanding. Therefore: anonymous comments, off. )
As to all of you who are rolling your eyes at my claims of being old: I'll tell you what lead me to this conclusion.
My body is betraying me. That's right. Complete and utter revolt.
I thought my body and I had a working relationship. I didn't stuff it full of the utter junk I love to eat or force meat on it, in return it would keep me below my scare weight and allow me to get up in the morning without a head full of yucky grossness.
But more and more when I look back at the illnesses I've suffered, the random aches and pains I'm forced to endure... I realize no, in fact, my body hates my (forgive the expression) guts.
Case in point: When I was 14, I got whooping cough (aka pertussis). WHOOPING COUGH!? What the fucking hell?! I thought that was a medieval disease. To me, getting whooping cough was like getting the bubonic plague -- oh so so passè.
And when they had to stick what were basically needles the size of chopsticks up my nose -- well, then I knew the glamour of consumption & wasting away was definitely on its way out. (And the other major consequence of failing English 9 was so lovely, so so lovely, let me assure you, especially now as I make it up with all the annoying freshmen.)
It wouldn't've been so bad if it had just been over and done with quickly, but even now there are after-effects. For instance, if I get out of breath, I immediately assume I'm going to die. It's not a joke -- my doctors told me when I had whooping cough that I would have periodic spells of being unable to catch my breath for more than 5 minutes for the rest of my life and I had long-term damage to my lungs, mostly brought on by the fact my parents were too stupid to take me to the doctor until about 4 months after they determined I must've contracted pertussis. (AND they kept smoking even after the doctor told them that people infected with whooping cough are twice as likely to die or hemmorhage & go blind if they live with smokers.)
Blah. Basically: if I can't catch my breath, I freak. This leads to problems, especially if I were to be tickled -- I have to completely trust the person and even then, I might need a break. If I'm laughing hard, sometimes I have to lie down. It's pathetic and stupid and it makes me feel weak and lazy because I don't have the lung capacity I should.
Oh, and of course... I'm anemic. (This doesn't have anything to do with pertussis, my body just hates me.) Severely so. Which leads to lovely aches and pains and huge bruises that won't go away causing me to assume that I have leukemia and will, therefore, die a virgin. (Not to mention once that I had my period for TWO MONTHS STRAIGHT, yes, let me repeat that, TWO months -- from Christmas to February 26th.)
Oh, and depression: it's chemical, it's lovely, it won't leave me alone, and have I talked to a doctor about it? No.
And now, the latest ache and pain sob story to add to my collection: my neck hurts. My neck really really hurts. A lot. I don't know whether it's my posture or just vengeance upon me from God, akin to my computer -- karma smacking me for all the bad deeds and all the heartbreak I visited upon other people. (Right now, I'm in love with my heating pad. Sweet, sweet baby.)
Goddamnit -- the cold clammy worry that now, suddenly, when life has become worth living, I'm going to contract some horrible disease or the problems I've had in the past are going to flare up again and -- and. . . and -- ... gah.
It's silly of me, there's no way. But my illusion of being invincible was stripped away long, long ago, and I can't help but wonder what new trick my body will plague me with now.
But blood makes noise
It's a ringing in my ear
Blood makes noise
And I can't really hear you
In the thickening of fear
