Okay. So considering it's barely March and it was in the 70s today, I guess not that long. Really it has whizzed by, but so much has happened. I had to move out of the condo I was living in after the foreclosure. My Mother, once again blew up on me for no good reason & in her usual style, went for the jugular, and told me to get a job. See, she works once or twice a week watching kids, so apparently anyone with any disability should be able to, even though it was half killing her to do it. Also, to my surprise, she informed me that I'm not as sick as her. How about that? Just because she has the same bladder disorder I have, but worse (though not as bad as before, thanks to yours truly and her researching a protocol that helped) apparently none of my other illnesses count.
I suppose I've hashed & re-hashed, ad nauseum, the whole to attempt to work or not to work dilemma Lately, I'd become much less insecure about it, less liable to feel guilty or question if maybe I wasn't trying hard enough. It's not like I haven't tried. The last two times, part-time, even freelance, and resulting in disaster, and leading me to where I am now. I don't think it's wise at this point to risk it and risk losing any quality of life I may have in the near future. I don't want to end up one of those M.E. patients confined to bed, being fed by a feeding tube, barely able to keep that down, with the lights off and requiring total silence because their nervous system can't even handle those stimuli.
Just yesterday, in fact, I found something I could plausibly manage...but only if I didn't have to expend the effort in marketing and selling my services myself. Unfortunately, that is key.
So here I am. Finally. Homeless. I had my only friends in the area unwittingly volunteer for the grisly task of packing and moving me, realizing too late that I might as well have hired professional movers, because I really had to pay them about the same amount. I pulled a hamstring before even starting; wrapped it tight in an ace bandage, then later a knee brace. I started to panic, then realized, hey, what's the worst that could happen? Honesly? I could collapse, and have to be rushed to the hospital, a whole two minutes away, and my family might actually show up & help me out, lol. Alas, with the help of many painkillers, salt pills, and copious amounts of water, and quite a bit of bossiness, I got the job done. Well, mostly oversaw, but still was on my feet longer than I imagined possible. My brother of course, made things much easier by coming to give me moral support, his idea of which was to come, bringing along a friend who had to be at work in an hour, freak out because the truck with his stuff wasn't ready, and go home. I needed him there for two things: Moral support, and, to drive the truck with his & my Mom's things in it home. He'd hurt his clavicle and couldn't help move, either, but I wasn't even asking him to help pack, just be there, maybe give me a hug every now and then, or some input on which of my Dad's things to keep or trash.Too much to ask apparently.
Anyhow, the days after I was in a sort of shock, staying at my friend's house. Then I went to visit some relatives in Texas, which at first was wonderful. For a couple of weeks there, I felt accepted, like I could just be myself, my post-FM/ME self, and it was okay. I had a family, I was part of something, I could help them when I could the way they helped each other, and me, and it was oh-so-wonderful. I was even considering renting a place & staying there, but then expenses started to get the better of me. And they began going through even tougher times, and suddenly I didn't feel so welcome and knew it was time to go home. My original plan to just keep travelling...well honestly, by that time between the effort of trying to keep up with normal people activities, and the stress of feeling like a burden, I wasn't doing so good, sweating like mad non-stop, hot flashes, tachycardia galore, POTS in full-effect. And I kept getting "normal people" sick. Plus, Texas, at least the part of it I was in, seemed like another world, like a 2nd world part of America that I hadn't really believed existed, and suddenly travelling on to the 3rd World just seemed like a BAD idea. Plus, if I was going to be homeless, or collapse I'd rather do it in Southern California, where that ever precious commodity, my car, was waiting for me, as well as decent medical care.
So here I am again. Still sick. Still fighting the system (my appeal was granted, yay!) and once again, staying with people who more than likely are getting pretty sick of me. And all I want to do is go home, a place which doesn't exist, still occasionally puzzled when I wonder why my dozens of family members don't seem to care. I've always been strong, because I've had to be, but I am so over that. Why is it no one cares? Do they not believe I'm sick? Am I that awful a person? Are people really so self-absorbed these days? Even if I wanted to risk ruining my health completely, what would trying to work now accomplish? Not like I'd be able to afford a place on a part-time job. The lil devil on my shoulder says, c'mon do it! We'll show them, when we collapse and have to go stay in the hospital and truly need live in help, mabye they'll finally understand. But the rest of me says, no. The only one who suffers then is me...I think I need a nap.