On Anger

In 2002, when I started having anxiety attacks and fits of rage, I began seeing a naturopathic therapist (yeah, it as full of shit as it sounds) who diagnosed me with panic disorder and a side of anger problem.  At the time I blamed it on residual issues from my IBD, mostly the social barriers.  I had a lot of crazy friends in college that liked to have adventures, and a lot of those adventures involved road trips and traveling to places without flushing toilets and thus I got left out of a few things and developed quite the chip on my shoulder from it.  Don't get me wrong, I had myself a good ol' time in college and in retrospect I'm sure having IBD saved my stupid ass on more occasions than not- but sometimes when I'm in pity party mode I feel regret towards my disease-imposed sense of caution and the wild, uninhibited life style it's kept me from.  At any rate, it was my sophomore year in college when I started confronting some of this stuff, but in retrospect I've always had a temper.  I can blame the IBD all I want, but let's be honest- it's the Irish blood in me (thankfully my exterior qualities come from the French and Italian lineage hahaha).  But seriously, agoraphobia and other symptoms of social anxiety are not uncommon in people who run a higher-than-average risk of shitting their pants, but when I look at my family I realize my maternal grandfather's bloodline boasts quite a collection of shut-ins, recluses, drunks, and misanthropes.  So is it my IBD or my heritage?  Both, I'm sure.  The point is, anger and anxiety impact IBD and that can cause some real problems when you have limited control over either. 

In recent weeks I've been having some roid rage, which I like to think is distinct from my normal sense of fury and disgust towards those around me.  I already wrote an entry about the pharmacy bs that got me riled up, and I'm sure you picked up from the "waiting room picnic" post how pissed off I was about that.  I'm trying more and more to use this blog and some other creative outlets to redirect my hissy fits, but sometimes getting confrontational just feels best.  I think it comes from feeling invisible so often- I was raised with manners and I tend to take my conduct seriously and when I don't get the response I think I deserve I get Mad.  I insist on staying to the right on stairs and while walking down the side walk. I never block the subway doors.  I always make room for other people walking down the street.  I hold doors.  I don't know why.  No one ever pays me the same courtesies and that flames my fire because I am made of solid matter- you can't walk through me, rest your bags on my lap, elbow me while you read the paper, and think I'm not going to say something about it.  I might invite an unwelcome reaction one of these days, but people need to realize other humans do still exist and sometimes I can't help but be the one to remind them.

Oddly enough being on a high dose of Prednisone left me feeling kind of calm and serene at first, but as I taper off my fuse seems to be getting shorter and shorter.  For a few unfortunate days I was PMSing on 'roids and called more people "pushy asshole" to their face in that time than I have in six years of city life.  Every single one of them deserved it, but still, some things are better left said in your head because you just don't know who's packing heat.  But fuck strangers, the real victim lately has been my poor J!  Not that he's always innocent- we've honestly both got short tempers, and that's one of the things that bonds us.  We can both be irritable and pissy but it allows us to bitch freely and honestly about everything with each other.  For all the things we both like, there are just as many things that we both hate and it strengthens us in a way that, while probably a tad unhealthy, makes me smile.  But sometimes I just flip out at him because he's always around to be flipped out on and that's not fair.  It's really, really hard to find room in our apartment for the two of us and my disease.  I'm constantly keeping my eyes on Craigslist to see where bigger places (ideally with 1.5 bathrooms or more) are affordable and close to potential jobs.  More than anything I wish I could work remotely and just move anywhere without having to think about finding a new gig.  I guess on the flip-side being forced together in a small space leaves us no choice but to deal with any issues and conflicts as quickly and effectively as possible because there isn't anywhere to run, so that's a good thing.  

Well, this post was supposed to involve more embarrassing stories about past rages and blow-ups, but I think I'll save some of those gems for another time.  I'm back to feeling kind of peaceful right now, and I'm just going to take that and run with it while I can.





Image Source: Deviantart.com

On Love and Pooping Part Two: FTW

And now hold on to your seats, because I'm about to get mushier than my own diseased stool.
One summer night I was walking home from work, and saw a new neighbor standing on the sidewalk and he gave me the most blatant elevator eyes I've ever received and frankly, I gave them right back. Tall and confident and slightly greying at the temples, I could've climbed this guy like a mountain. We said "hi" but I scurried past, knowing it was a bad idea to flirt with someone living three houses away (that didn't stop me from fantasizing about it frequently).  I started running into this guy semi-regularly, would see him pacing on his cell phone or riding his bike around the neighborhood. Once on my way to the gym he was sitting on his stoop and stopped me to ask what music I was listening to on my ipod. He introduced himself (you and I will call him "J") and we chatted it up a little bit- just friendly small talk. I saw him once more after that and he asked me if I lived on the block or further down the street. I told him just a few houses up, and he tapped the side of his garage and said "I live here." And with my special brand of humor I said, "Well, it'd be creepy if you didn't because you're always sitting outside," and kept on walking. And then I didn't see him again for almost a year. I thought of him on occasion, and even managed to e-stalk him on MySpace.  I actually started to think he had moved, but then I bumped into him on my way to the laundromat the following summer and realized he had just been hibernating for the winter. I started bumping into him again and made it a point to re-establish our familiarity.

One day shortly therafter I was on my way to a friend's house and it was blazingly hot. I had taken a popsicle with me to eat on the way to the train so I wouldn't get too hot. As I came down the sidewalk I saw J crouched with his fine ass in the air, arranging a spread of trinkets and things in a little sidewalk sale. I stopped to say hi, trying to look suggestive but not whorey with my popsicle, and he showed me a bunch of the stuff he was selling. I told him that I couldn't take anything then, but if he'd be out again the next day I would come back and he said "okay, and then maybe we could go get something to eat." It was the only time I've ever been point-blank asked out to my face by someone I wanted to ask me out.

J and I have been together now for two and a half years. He is hands down the most loving, caring, patient, and understanding man I have ever known in my life. My disease hasn't played a huge role in our relationship until very recently, but J's handling of the situation has been nearly flawless. I won't get into details out of respect for his privacy, but let's just say J has more than his fair share of personal drama on his own plate. Add to that a girlfriend who's been out of work and collapsed around the apartment in various stages of vomiting, shitting and sleeping for the past month. A girlfriend who gets increasingly bitchy and irritable and has no ability to hold her tongue or cut slack. And then try to get into the bathroom if she needs to go. Miraculously we've only had one blow-up over needing the bathroom at the same time, and it was mostly ugly because we had both just woken up and were barely coherent. We had to cancel our holiday plans to see my family, so my parents wound up coming down for a quick visit.  They could only stay for a day and a half, because it's blizzard season in their neck of the woods and they have my elderly grandparents to watch after.  While they were here J drove my dad to Costco and later took them both out in the neighborhood to the local bakery.   He helped cook a turkey dinner for all of us, and he even cleaned the damned place from top to bottom as I just sat around and watched him while curled in a ball on the couch.  He's gone to the pharmacy and grocery store for my constant varying needs, and he always does so without complaint.

Although we're not legally married, I do often regard J as my husband.  His fundamental understanding of "in sickness and in health" is a testament to the size of his heart and I have to be the luckiest gal in the world to have him in my life.  Awwwwwww.....told you it'd get mushy.

On Love and Pooping Part One: Fails

Having IBD in a relationship is always a challenge, and until now an unsuccessful one for me personally. I was a "late bloomer" which I always blamed on my dealing with my IBD. I was deformed by steroids during my teenage years and was a good forty pounds overweight for my height, as well as scarred by unsightly stretch marks. I had huge (DD) boobs, which most girls would have used to their advantage, but mine were a source of discomfort and embarrassment. I knew the rest of me wasn't sexy, and it made me feel like my huge boobs were a cruel joke. After high school, at the age of 17, I had a breast reduction. I rarely regret the decision- size wise I'm very content with my new C-cups, but I do wish I had less scarring and could feel more confident without my top on. I can't help but feel like there's a disconnect between my body and my breasts, which I sometimes jokingly refer to as "frankentits."

On the cusp on my 18th birthday I was beginning my first semester of college at a quirky liberal arts school. The student body was incredibly over-sexed, and also incredibly gay which was awesome being that I'm a fag hag, but miserable in terms of discovering myself sexually and finally getting laid. I spent most of my college years growing increasingly bitter, and it was also during this time (sophomore year specifically) that I began to develop severe anxiety problems. This further hindered me from developing emotionally and sexually- I was 21 before I finally discovered a look for myself that made me feel confident and roped someone into sleeping with me on spring break. I was 22 before I had my first real relationship (one I look back on mostly with shame and regret). My first boyfriend was someone I was friends with at first, and when we finally connected romantically I was on the cusp of a moderate relapse. On the second occasion that I saw this boyfriend after we had hooked up for the first time it was at a party as his place, and I crapped my pants and had to leave (I was able to keep this discreet thankfully). At any rate, my disease was active through pretty much all of our year and a half relationship, and at first I was so grateful to have someone that I thought was supportive to see me through. But the truth is this guy really wasn't supportive. He tried at first, but he was an overactive little kid at heart and really had no qualms making me feel guilty about my inability to keep up with him physically. He would constantly volunteer me for physical activity I wasn't up to, like playing basketball or going for a long bike ride, despite my protests that I wasn't up for it. He would accuse me of being lazy and milking my illness. He also developed a habit of pushing my hot buttons for the sole purpose of instigating me and this would further aggravate my stomach. I've given a lot of thought to what my headspace was during this first relationship, and my mistake was thinking that he was a catch because he had a girlfriend who shat herself and didn't run away screaming. The truth of the matter is, there's a lot more to loving someone with an illness than just not being grossed out by them. It takes a lot of patience, and I can't begin to pretend it's easy for the other person, but there have been some real dick moves I've encountered over the years, not just from this particular ex but from peers and friends as well. As a kid people would say things to me like "wow, it sucks to be you" and "you were more fun before you were sick" and to this day I have a huge chip on my shoulder from it. But back then I knew these people were also kids, and kids are assholes and I could get past it. But adults are still assholes I've come to learn, and I've got some real anger issues when it comes to being left out of things because my IBD limits me. Long story short, had I ever dated before I never would have stayed with this person for more than a few weeks. But desperation, insecurity, and and old fashioned Catholic sense of "gotta make it work" kept me where I was and, despite trying to be friends afterwards, I could stab this guy in the throat to this day if given the chance.

After that relationship I was really, really happy to be single and experienced a personal renaissance. I moved into my own place for the first time, and my health finally started to improve (my uncle later joked that the ex was so annoying it was merely his presence that made me so sick to my stomach) and I began dating casually and that was fine enough. It was tricky because I wasn't drinking and that made getting out and meeting people really scary for me. I'm not too keen on mingling with strangers to begin with, and am admittedly a bit agoraphobic. I've been able to drink alcohol at various points over the years, but partying really came to standstill after college. I had a few embarrassing IBD dating moments, like the time I farted not realizing it was going to smell so bad when I was on a date. The guy took it in stride and we got a few good laughs out of it, but we only saw each other once more and that was the end of that. After a while I started to get chummy with a guy in my neighborhood, and we had what turned out to be a really stressful fling. There was a lot going on with me at this time, as I had stopped taking Celexa (under the supervision of my doctor) and was using the NuvaRing for birth control- two things that made me completely and utterly batshit crazy. I was miserable at my job and having a "quarter life crisis" (I'm so sick of that phrase) and I had begun seeing a new gastroenterologist, who turned out to be just terrible. My IBD didn't come up too much while I was seeing this guy, but he did dump me the night before he was supposed to drive me home from a colonoscopy (which he still did, thankfully). I can't say we've stayed friendly, but there's not the same kind of hate that cultivated for the first ex.

I'm omitting a few minor ex-boyfriends here, and a long list of unrequited "loves" (most of whom turned out to be gay) but these few above are the real fails worth mentioning. Up next, the story of the win.