One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

For the past week or two I've been hooked on Teen Mom. After watching a few of the episodes during random channel surfing, I watched Season 2 in its entirety on Comcast. Then I had to watch Season 1 of 16 and Pregnant, which is essentially Season 1 of Teen Mom, and now I am watching the real Season 1. Now when I yell at my roommate's cat Pixie I now feel like I sound like Amber, and when I state "No one helps me," I feel just like Farrah. But, let's back up a bit.

In a way I was a Teen Mom. My sister was born when I was thirteen, and I was mostly responsible for raising her during her first four years. Just like some of the girls on the show I had a non-traditional home life where I had to take care of myself. I wasn't encouraged or able to go off to 4-year college but instead find my own way in the world with bits of help from my family. When I left my sister at seventeen, I was filled with guilt at what felt like abandonment. I was her safe haven and I had no safe haven of my own, but instead greatly took what my extended family could give me and charged forward to make my own life. So when Farrah cries, "No one helps me" with her baby on her lap, and when Amber cries because her cheap car breaks down leaving her no way to get to GED classes, I completely sympathize. When they make breakthroughs against all odds, I cheer with understanding. (Though, to be honest, I don't have much understanding for Amber. See why here.)

Lately I've been going through a period of remission. Two years ago I had one that lasted six months, and I have no idea how long this one will last. Last week as I took out the trash, it suddenly occurred to me that I am probably well enough to work as a uniform attendant at the Space Needle -- a job I did seven years ago before going off to college (at the non-traditional age of 26). Before, the thought of work overwhelmed me, but with my bout of wellness it seems completely manageable, confirming my roommate's suspicion that my strong work ethic would return as soon as I had a strong body. With the trash taken out, I sat down at my computer, opened the Space Needle webpage, and saw to my surprise that there was indeed an opening for 10 hours a week. I sent in my resume and cover letter and got a call the next morning. Friday I had an interview, and today I got a call that I got the job.

I'd checked with my disability lawyers before applying, but I didn't check with the Department of Social and Health Services. Incidentally, because of that little bit of work, my cash and medical benefits will terminate at the end of this month. No matter that "uniform attendant" is the only job my body can handle and that it can't do more than the 10 hours a week. Instead I am being punished for not sitting home all day even though I can't be out full time. When I discovered this, and when I was also told that I'd be losing benefits anyway because of some sort mid-review failing, I got off the phone, chocked in my tears, and channeled Farrah by calling my lawyers. I then called my aunt and my public health counselor. A lawyer skilled in working the DSHS system will be calling me today, and my counselor, who has ever and increasingly been my rock, will send a letter stating that I need my medical benefits to last at least another six months.

Living as a single woman in these economic times is not easy, and living as a disabled one is even worse. Worse still is living as a single disabled woman without a correct diagnosis. Aside from the results of my sleep study which I'll get next week, all avenues geared toward finding out what's wrong with me have been exhausted. Either my remission will turn out to be a complete healing, or my counselor and lawyer will have to stress my need for benefits based on "psychological incompetency" and anxiety, even though the counselor -- and I -- are convinced that the anxiety is secondary to a real medical condition that hasn't been discovered yet. I'm fine with this, especially because I walk through the Seattle city streets and ride the city bus with a smile on my face, knowing that I am once again a productive member of society.

Next up on "Dating with a Disability" is a dentist with a fetish and Valentine's Day speed dating. Stay tuned!

Fight or flight

About thirteen years ago I enrolled in an advanced photo class in college. I'd taken beginning photography in high school, but I soon realized that I'd forgotten almost everything in the four years since graduation. My male teacher was friendly with the other handful of women in his class, all of whom he knew from beginning photography. As a newcomer, I quickly became the one who received odd looks at my lack of knowledge and comprehension -- mainly from the teacher himself. Instead of talking to him about the situation and what I could do to pass the class, I dropped, after the add/drop period, and avoided him like the plague. When my grades came I had no answer for myself or anyone else as to why failing the class was worth not talking to the teacher.

This reaction of mine wasn't new. It's been a long established one after growing up in an abusive household and having an absent father. When things get hard, I often run away instead of facing the problem. For this reason, I wasn't too disappointed when my clinic said I had to return to see Dr. R because they only refer to him. This way I would be able to face the one who diagnosed me with somatization and prove to him that his assessment was wrong. The appointment I had with him in October was one of the worst I had ever had with any doctor, second only to the gynecological specialist who said my now-diagnosed vulvodynia was a psychosomatic condition and that I should just be glad I don't have cancer. (Being unable to have sex for the rest of my life understandably seemed just as bad.)

in my previous visit with Dr. R, when I told him about my neurological symptoms he gave me a look that I can't very well describe, but something akin to the look you would give someone if they told you they were born on the planet Mars. My aunt and I were so upset at his somatization diagnosis that the appointment ended with mild yelling followed by a breakdown in the waiting room. I was adamant that I did not to see him again, even though he wanted to see me to keep me from "doctor shopping." So when I did decide to return -- as this was my only option -- I took my uncle along and put on a brave face, knowing that facing this doctor would ultimately be good for me.

Thankfully the appointment went really well. None of us mentioned somatization, and when I described my symptoms once again, my doctor fought his doubts and listened. He agreed on a treatment plan consisting of getting a sleep study, which happens tomorrow, and going back on my anti-seizure med, at a lower dose this time. Even though my uncle didn't have to say anything I'm glad he went, and it looks like Dr. R will now be able to help me navigate my peculiar symptoms with medical professionalism.

I've never been easy around men aside from my best gay friend J, and I'm hoping that this experience will help me stand up for myself in the future. After years of verbal abuse I still can't look my stepdad in the face, and I was following in the same pattern with Dr. R, even as far as not being able to look at his portrait on his website page. Now I can face him with even less fear next time, and hopefully he and I can work together to heal my brain -- or at least give it a proper diagnosis that it deserves.

As Days Go By

So 2010 has come to a close, and with it my first year of dating after returning home from grad school. I casually dated more this year than I ever have before, rejecting men with much more alacrity than in previous years and taking my own rejections in better stride. After variations of time spent with O, J, K, and A -- and after random emails, IMs and texts with other men -- 2010 ends with about an equal number of rejectees and rejecters. New Years Eve found me on my couch with my roommate, sipping cheap wine and watching pigs synchronize dance in Nanny McPhee. I exited 2010 even more single than I entered it, and I was okay with that.

This past year has also been a busy one of progress and stagnation as I've gotten state disability and lost some of its benefits due to the bad economy, seen new doctors and had diagnoses presented and questioned by both them and myself, been denied social security and submitted an appeal, and put my name on the subsidized housing list with calls each month to keep it there. The year starts off with a bang as I see a sleep doctor to investigate the possibility of sleep apnea one day, and see my movement disorder specialist to challenge somatization the next, and lastly to see my general practitioner about the possibility of chronic fatigue syndrome one week after that.

I'm deciding to do things a bit differently in 2011. Aside from Okcupid I'm closing all my online dating profiles. Part of this is due to economics, but a larger part is due to the fact that I want to take a break this year and see what comes to me instead of searching for it. This blog will continue, if not with actual dates, at least with more insights and investigations into the dating world. I'll also most likely keep comparing real world experience to what I see on the TV screen, as I spend a lot of my time analyzing visual media no matter what my state of mental functioning. Before Nanny McPhee, my roommate and I sat down with Eat, Pray, Love, and until the end of the movie (which I won't spoil for those who haven't seen it yet) it seemed like the perfect way to end one year and start another. In 2011 I will Eat good food, Pray to the universe for wisdom, and Love myself unconditionally. In 2011, in whatever form, I will let love find me.