Room

6:59 a.m.

So my boss was awesome and gave me a small paycheck advance and told me to get thee to the pharmacy! And buy the rest of your drugs! She had asked a lot of questions about it, and about my drooping in the late afternoon, and then went and typed up the check when I said I was going to buy the rest with my next paycheck. I've never taken a pay advance before, or asked for one, or even thought about asking for one. I felt sort of dirty about it. But the last two days that I've taken my afternoon dose I've felt good in the evenings and not like I was going to die. I haven't crawled miserably into bed at 8:30, mumbling about feeling sick. So I guess I'll ignore my pride on this one.

The doctor gave me his okay, and so we're sending in the paperwork to get the meds at a discount for six months. Again, ignoring my pride. These pills are $4.56 each. It shouldn't even be a pride issue, it should be an outrage-at-the-pharmaceutical-companies issue.

Anyway. I promise to stop publicly agonizing about medication costs now.

Should I talk about my uterus? Yes? No? Maybe I will. YOU KNOW YOU HAVE BEEN DYING TO KNOW ABOUT MY UTERUS.

I'm on the third week of the pill pack the doctor prescribed. The one that's supposed to stop my bleeding. I started on the Sunday of my period. The first week was good, no bleeding. The entire second week I had a period, complete with cramping and mood swings. I'm hoping this third week will be normal, and then I'm supposed to have another period the fourth week during the inactive pills. After this first cycle I'm supposed to just start taking the active pills back to back, and the idea is my lining will be so thinned out the crazy bleeding will stop happening. So that I won't be wearing the Diva Cup on my honeymoon. In Hawaii. On the beach. That was the temporary fix the doctor and I decided was most important. A period-free honeymoon.

I sometimes think the Two Periods a Month Plan my uterus has opted for really exhaust me.

Let's just think about Hawaii.

Mmmmm.

Hawaii.

Which reminds me, what do you guys think of this hairstyle for the backyard wedding? Minus the flowers, but maybe with some combs or a brooch nestled in to match the dress? Also, is it silly to go get my hair done for a backyard wedding with a keg and cupcakes? I sort of think I have pretty hair, and I'd like it to look nice. And I'll be busy creating a cupcake tower and spazzing out about where to put the keg. It might be nice not to have to worry about it. But it also seems extravagant to get it done professionally.

I've been doing really well regarding the wedding. I know there's not much I can do until May, and so I haven't been worrying about it. Every now and then a little thought will pop into my head, and I'll remind myself that it's not May, and it works. In May certain things will be done, and I can focus on the wedding. Prioritizing! It's awesome!

Let's see, I've hit on drugs, my uterus, and the wedding. The only other topics that I have been babbling about the last few months are a) listing the house and b) the dog and c) my emotions about moving, so I'll go ahead and talk about one of those, too. Lucky! You guys are lucky!

The realtor is coming this week to appraise the house, and then we will list it. I want everything ship-shape by the time she comes to appraise, so we've been laying down rock in barren flower beds and ordering sod and taking down everything off the walls and hiding our massive book and DVD collections. We've rearranged furniture, thrown things away, given things away, emptied off counters and end tables, cleaned out the garage, used space bags to shrink down winter clothes. (Which I have mixed feelings about, because space bags? ARE SO AWESOME. I loooooooove watching sweaters shrink up. But it's not really warm here until June, and what was I thinking?) Yesterday our completely wonderful neighbor let us load a disgusting upright freezer (it had been left here by the previous owners after being promised repeatedly they would come get it, unplugged with meat in it, and the mold, the things growing in it, were so horrifying we vowed never to open it again and just prayed we would be able to borrow a truck at some point to dispose of it) into his truck, and also a ton of our tumbleweeds, and some other things we couldn't just throw out in the normal trash, and he and Justin drove them out to the dump and got rid of it all.

Isn't that nice? I am not even lying when I say that I cried, I was so moved by that kind act. Then I tried to make the neighbors brownies as a thank you, and ended up with a goopy chocolate mess that is only fit for eating in crumbly spoonfuls over the sink. Maybe I'll get them some daisies.

Where was I going with all this?

Oh! So everything is barren and empty. And sort of annoying. I foresee little actual cooking during the house selling process, because to do that we would have to pull things out of where they are hidden, and dirty dishes, and that would make it look like people lived here! We can't have that! Today I have a little more barrenness to create, and then the rest of the work is actual scrubbing and vacuuming and mopping and washing walls and doors and windows. The rest of the rock will be delivered tomorrow (when Justin defends his thesis, hooray!) and we have Pet Evacuation Plans in place for viewings. Everything is staged and empty. So, so empty.

The house is a strange place to us now. It doesn't feel like home at all. Even the dog is stressed out by it, panting anxiously as if the changes are weighing him down. We feel like strangers in strange rooms, unable to relax without our scads of books and paintings and knickknacks to comfort us. It's an interesting situation for me to be in. Before this medication, I always yearned for outside barrenness, constantly battling room clutter to ease the clutter in my mind. I remember once, in college, freaking out so much about my life clutter that I randomly stayed up all night to paint my purple bedroom walls white and throwing away practically everything I owned because I needed order. This side of me has always battled with the artist me, the real me, who is a little messy and a little forgetful and loves color and visual stimulants. I sometimes would torture myself with this thought: "If I could only live in one room for the rest of my life, would it be white and empty and stark? Or would it be full of clutter and color and a little messy?" And I could never decide, and would nearly go mad thinking about it.

I'm not exaggerating.

Hi!

I'm crazy!

But the meds are really helping clear up mental clutter, and my real self is shakily coming into view. And the empty sterile rooms, that even a month ago would have been a superficial and temporary relief to my brain, are foreign to me. They aren't right, and this isn't who I am.

I'm not a white empty room devoid of even curtains, is what I'm saying.

I'm the room that's got falling stacks of books and mismatched rugs and a ratty couch and a few dirty mugs lying about.

And I like it.

Love,
black sheeped