They always come in threes

Things are going well with Captain SmartyPants, as a friend of mine approvingly calls him. Email led to a phone conversation which led to a date request which has led to texting until the date arrives. Captain SmartyPants is, from what I can tell, one of the best guys I have met in awhile. He's extremely smart, extremely cute, and extremely respectful and caring. A very hard combination to come by. I breathe a sigh of relief and my lips curl up in a perpetual smile when I think of him, especially after 2011's initial letdown with the dental student with a tooth fetish who wouldn't meet me until I sent him pictures of the inside of my mouth (I didn't), the Latin Lover who wanted to chat via webcam to compliment me on parts of my body and who said he wanted to sleep with me (not a way to get me to like you), the dreadlocked landlord who called me a prude for not being comfortable with his texts about my kissable lips, and the guy on IM who didn't tell me he is in the country for two weeks and MARRIED until half an hour into the conversation.

While I have strong feelings for Captain SmartyPants, I'm following the dating rules by not putting all my eggs in one basket, especially before meeting the basket in person. Therefore I spend tomorrow with "is he a friend or something more D", and I'm corresponding with someone else who contacted me on Match who I haven't thought of an appropriate nickname for yet.

The only problem with dating three men at once is that while it goes along with 21st century conventions, it goes against my sick body's need for long periods of doing nothing and seeing no one. And if I push myself too hard, my body will crash and all three prospects will come crashing down as well. Right now I could really use those relaxation techniques that my counselor wants to show me, and I could really use not having had three doctors' appointments and one therapist appointment in the past week. Tomorrow will mark my 5th day in a row in Seattle, an hour away from where I live, and while I am excited about marching with D in protest of police brutality, I'm hoping my legs will keep up with my desires. He, caring guy that he is, hopes the same.

This week, while busy, has been a breakthrough week in many ways. I spent another night at the sleep clinic and got fitted for my sleep apnea mask, and my sleep doctor was almost astounded to see how well my levels were with the apparatus. The next day (today) I saw my neurologist who filled out the work incapacity forms for state disability without blinking an eye, and his diagnosis of ataxia, along with the sleep apnea, is the first time he has used that word in front me, having claimed before that I did not have ataxia but somatization.

Sick me took a five hour long nap on the couch today, and I woke up in a panic at one point, dreaming I had received an email from Captain SmartyPants entitled "Regarding sickness and health," that I just knew was a rejection of my medical condition just like K had rejected it and me a year ago. But so far "sleep apnea" has not scared him off, and what he sees instead of a sick person is someone who is studying something fascinating, is a passionate English instructor, and has a "lovely voice." I always knew someone would be able to see the real me under all those medical appointments and slow days (and under my kissable lips and big butt and boobs), and I can't wait to be embraced by Captain SmartyPants' big physicist cape and meet the man behind the magnanimity.

Thinking of dating multiple people or already doing so? Here's a great article to help you along:

Dating Around Online

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.

Muse(ings)

After my diagnosis of somatization, I had one really bad day where turning my head made me dizzy and I felt like I was going to throw up. Of course that much of that was due to crying hysterically the night before (no pun intended). My best friend's words echoed through my head... "You need to sleep less hours a night... Everyone gets in funks... You need a boyfriend..." and I felt myself feeling guilty for being too ill to to anything but with not enough strength to change it. The next day, everything changed.

I woke up just after noon instead of around 5 o'clock, while still maintaining my regular 12 hours I needed by going to bed earlier. I subsequently got to enjoy the sun pouring into the house as I went about my day. I opened my blinds, and I listened to music on my ipod as I cleaned, something that I had stopped doing because the times I can deal with the musical stimulation are so rare. I jumped up and down at Muse's most electric moments, and aside from my birthday where I did the same with each peg knocked down by my bowling ball, jumping is something I had ceased to be able to do for the past few months.

This change was not because I'd willed myself to be better. It was because I had recognized those better moments and made them the best they could be. As my uncle advised me last night, my symptoms are real, they aren't out of laziness, and I do have a medical condition, but all I can do is keep pushing myself within reasonable limits and not party too hard so I don't crash too hard. And in that way my condition is better than it used to be. These days, if I want to be well for something I just make sure that I have nothing scheduled for the few days beforehand so that my stimulation receptors (or whatever the medical term may be) can cool and recharge.

Tonight I went out for Halloween -- my last big event outside the house for the next couple of months as I try to spend more frequent and less intense moments out in the world. I danced, I drank, I talked and laughed, and had a merry good time. I also returned to the dating world -- or at least the "physical" world -- without even trying. A guy reached for my hand as we walked along, squeezing it affectionately, and I squeezed back. We stood side by side, shoulders touching, and caste flirtatious glances at one another. Sure, he was drunk and will probably remember none of this tomorrow, and I agreed to take his hand only because he was part of our group and I was afraid he would fall over otherwise, but it reignited something in me, reminding me of the intimacy I'm missing. I'm unsubscribing from the disabled dating sites. If I fall in love with a disabled man, great, but I'm going to start seeing me when I look in the mirror again, not the disorder that has been threatening my identity. It's real, but it doesn't define me any more than my race, sex, or shoe size. As Muse says, "It's a new dawn, it's a new day, it's a new life / for me / and I'm feeling good."

Hysteria Lane

Last night I wondered if I'd ever be able to write a new blog again. First I had my second appointment with the specialist, who decided I have somatization, and then one of my best friends admitted he thinks I have it as well. As my aunt says, this is nothing new, I've been here before. But the fact that those who truly believe my case are dwindling is still a bit alarming, especially given the medical evidence of a cerebellum disorder. When I received a reply from my regular neurologist it all came together -- he had written in my file that some of my worsening may be an emotional response from starting a new path.

My neurologist didn't want to tell me this gut reaction of his, and neither did the specialist or my best friend, J.R. After my appointment and before the phone call with J.R., my roommate and I finished watching Sex and the City 2, where Carrie kisses Aiden on foreign soil and is contemplating whether or not to tell Mr. Big. The girls act as little voices on Carrie's shoulder, speaking aloud the debate that is going back and forth in her mind. "To tell him would only distress him." "It was only a kiss." But a bigger voice, the one she uttered herself, said that she and Big never keep secrets and that she wasn't going to start now. Mr. Big was hurt but came around, and Carrie realized that she needed to trust that her relationship was not turning into that of an "old, married couple," and that even if it did, that would be okay.

While Mr. Big didn't yell at Carrie, probably due to his natural elusiveness and her long distance proclamation, I did yell first at the specialist and then at J.R. "It's something to think about," J.R. said, and I assured him (while still yelling), that's it's something I think about every day. Whenever my legs won't work I wonder if I am creating this drama for myself, or if bad karma had come back to bite me because I used to love to pour over medical journals filled with gruesome pictures when I was a kid. But then those who have or do live with me remind me that seeing me day to day assures them that none of this is self-created. Those who see me periodically -- like he specialist who knows nothing about me aside from my complaints, and J.R. who I store up energy for in order to put on my best face -- don't see my day to day struggle that has everything to do with bodily responses and nothing to do with a sour or melancholy mood.

What's interesting about somatization is that it is merely a 21st Century term for hysteria. Much more women than men are diagnosed with it, and because it is defined as something the patient creates but ultimately has no control over, it's an infallible assumption. My aunt, who was equally outraged at the appointment, asked the specialist why we are supposed to go on faith when medicine is built on scientific proof. Somatization is in many cases another word for "I don't know," without the feeling of helplessness that doctors can feel with those words. Somatization really means, "We haven't figured it out yet," because if you look back through history, many now well-known disorders and illnesses were first said to be based on stress, simply because the medical profession didn't yet have answers. But somatization, like hysteria, is a dangerous term, treating the patient as a self-sabotager who back in the day would be forced to lie down in bed for months, see no one, and to live solely on warm milk. Sounds kooky, doesn't it? Now doctors take the opposite approach. Somatization means that you need to do more, be more, and just suck it up and move on.

Back to Carrie and Mr. Big, is honesty the best policy? Would it have been better if these men had not shared their perceptions with me? Absolutely not. If I did have somatization I would cast them from my life and insist that they were crazy. But because I don't, I can allow myself to see things through their eyes, to accept them for their human reactions, and to work with them to create an even better cooperative approach to my diagnosis, prognosis, and care. I've had many conditions that were first considered to be psychosomatic and that have since then been diagnosed medically, and I know this current condition is no different. Furthermore, while the specialist read my file and assumed that my case was all psychosomatic -- with a smirk on his face while he said that he's seen this many times before -- my neurologist and my best friend just want the best for me (the latter thinking all I need to cure me is a boyfriend). They just want answers, as do I, and I'll keep writing my story no matter what people think.