The Hunt

I have been plagued with the task of finding therapist aka psychologist that takes Medicare.

I didn’t think it would be this difficult, but it is. I have a few requirements that make it tough.

I went on the medicare website. I found that most of the provider phone numbers listed are disconnected!

I must have a female therapist. See the last paragraph in my post Change published July 24, 2012 and it will explain why.

I refuse to travel over 10 miles from home. This is Los Angeles and gas is not cheap!

And lastly, I must be on the same wavelength. No New Age or read my book crap!

Is all this too much to ask for? Probably. Oh well, I am a strange bipolar bird in need of a realist shrink.

Some Ha Ha Funnies With Crazy On The Side

My bipolar tendencies are coming back to mess with me. For the pass week I have been on this uncool rollercoaster.

And like the 50-year-old virgin said to the hooker, I need to get off! So here I am.

I’ve been addicted to YouTube and watching female comics do stand up. It made me think of my life.

It made me think of the funny yet harsh truths about my existence. So it transformed into jokes. Enjoy, you lovely weirdos!

Things I love to say to bigots …

Who else is gonna do your dad? We take the jobs no one else wants!

We won’t betray your carne asada secret to you vegan vieja.

We make your kids bilingual so that they can run the sweat shops after college.

Imagine a world without tamales, booty and carpet munching gardeners.

The joys of hysterectomy ….

Think of it as evicting the bully from the playground.

No one will ever say, scoot down to the edge, again.

You can give your kids the unused tampons to construct a tampon cabin.

Your pads are super absorbent. Great for wiping up the red wine, emergency diaper and car washing.

Now you can date that 12 incher! Senor Cervix has been deported.

Run through the flowery meadows in a cotton dress like in the those damn tampon commercials!

The Rant Is Back

I realize I have been away for a while. Please forgive me loyal followers. Events have been unfolding in my life and the world.

As far as my life, beloved individuals that were taken from me over 25 years ago are now present in my life.

Reasons for our separation isn’t important. The fact that I have access to them now matters most. My heart is happy.

Love, kindness and bravery were gifted to me by my spirit big brother. I’m truly thankful.

Friendship and kindness were offered and received by my two sisters in Christ. God bless them all and their offspring.

 

As far as the world, there is pain, suffering, hatred and war. This isn’t new. It will always be around. Sad but true.

That said, I look to myself and others in my life in search of commonalities. Basic things that make up who we are as people.

Most people are kind, compassionate, respectful and mind their own business.

 

And then there’s the ones who are not. The Westboro Baptist Church with their stupid signs and their blameless targets.

Never in my life have I ever heard of protesting funerals of dead children and soldiers.  Apparently, they’re insane and/or evil.

According to them, God hates gay people (won’t use the other word), the USA, the media, Hollywood, soldiers, children.

So God is hate monger? Wow! What’s next? God hates the world and/or The Bible?

 

There is no remedy for their hatred. They hate everyone, maybe even themselves. Churches, I thought, minister to their flock.

How many WBC members are alcoholics, unemployed, abused or homicidal? Probably a lot.

But their leaders are probably too blind with hatred to care. And who cares for the children they have?

 

I’ve seen the agents of bigotry, ignorance, violence and rage in my life. They had a basic thug slang and uniform for the most part.

But these guys have the nerve to call themselves a church! Talk about blasphemy!

If the Supreme Court rules that same-sex marriages are legal, the WBC is going to implode. Cross them fingers!

 

 

 

 

 

Real Love – Happy Valentine’s Day

World, please Love

The unnamed, find Recognition

The angry, seek Solace

Poor sad swim in overflowing Joy

Dear Kind, find many looks of Kindness

May the lonely be housed by good Friends

 

She’s Alive!

Slowly but surely I am coming out of my post-op hell. I have left my home three (maybe four) times.

Each outing requires a bit of ache and/or pain. Still, I think it’s worth it. Cabin fever equals depression.

I have also been writing my poems on http://medicatedwordzallowed.wordpress.com/.

That matters a lot to me. Monica The Writer trumps Monica The Patient every time.

In two days (Valentine’s Day), I celebrate my 13th wedding anniversary. I must be a lot better by then.

Pain meds will definitely be taken and I must be as attractive as possible. My husband says I am already.

But I am like most women, skeptical of men’s opinions on beauty. Still, it’s nice to hear.

Monica The Patient

Diamonds are made via time and pressure. If this is the case, then I should be the Hope Diamond!

Okay, maybe just a tiny cubic zirconia. Point is, I miss driving, feeling normal and okay my sense of wholeness.

I am under complete bed rest at least 2 more weeks. Fun, right? Color me cabin fever!

And Valentine’s Day is my 13th wedding anniversary. I’d like to my husband something.

That’s it for Monica The Patient!

 

This Patient Is … Not

Altered, adjusted, hollowed out. That’s me. I guess that’s me. Maybe it’s who I am today.

Four days ago I got my hysterectomy. Today, my abdominal muscles loathe me.

Every single movement hurts like the devil. Before this, I thought I knew what fatigue was. I didn’t.

Sleep a little pointless sleep. Then move a bit more because it hurts, but you control it.

It’s insane to those from non-surgical realities. For me it’s a prison.

I am so off on several levels. I feel stupid, uneasy and scatterbrain. My memory is unreliable at best.

What is the upside? Love. Lots of love from husband, family and friends.

Everything is brought to me. I want for nothing but the eviction of pain.

I even got 2 dozen roses from sweethearted friend. Still, I want to recover.

 

Color Me Rampage … AAAARRRGGGHHHHH!

I was good today. Well, most of it. I made breakfast and dinner.

Babysat my sister Carmen while my mother and Scott went to Sam’s Club.

She shattered her ankle in 4 places last week and is in a wheelchair now.

I kept it together up until about 30 minutes ago. I had to cry. So I did.

I have to be at the hospital at 10:30 am on Friday. I doubt that I’ll sleep the night before.

And …. It started up again. Damn fibroids always making itself known!

I’m sure an ultra-Christian Republican invented fibroids!

Update

I’m temporarily back. I was dealing a plethora of minor disasters. My own medical status is one of them.

So the update on me is I am having my pre-op tests tomorrow and on Friday I become a surgical quasi-female.

I will be in the hospital at least overnight and severely missing my DVR and PC. Oh well. Such is life.

I am trying to make light of my hysterectomy. I am to lose my cervix as well as my uterus.

I am 43 years old, bipolar, Latina and will soon be relieved of my womanly organ.  I want this surgery.

I just hate what this surgery means to me. Sounds stupid to me when I say it in my head. Don’t worry. I’ll be okay.

Prudent Choice

The Bible has had points that I often refer to in my life. Matthew 5:30 currently applies to me.

It reads: And if your right hand causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away.

It’s not my hand that has caused me sin for over 25 years, in one way or another. It’s what determines my gender.

Today I told my gynecologist to cut it off, once and for all. My reasons for this extreme choice are valid.

In the past 6 to 7 months, I have endured 3 gynecological surgeries. I thought the last one would end it. It didn’t.

This one is sure to end it. A uterus can’t grow back. So that’s it. End of story.

I’ll have my surgery and my life will be great, right ? The answer is yes … but. I feel this pain in the ass void.

I’m 43 years old, childless and seeking physical peace.  I know it sounds like I’m complaining.

Truth is, I don’t want to be pregnant. I don’t think a kid would be happy with crazy me.

I don’t think I have the emotional fortitude to deal with the terrible twos, sullen teenager and possibly a mentally ill child.

I am bipolar and mental illness is hereditary. All are logical points and I accept them.

Still, I am permanently altering my body. I’m killing the child-making variable and deep inside it hurts a little.