I'm going to try to work with the crazy.

This post is full of possible triggers. Protect yourself as you need to.

This tweet is the end of the story as of Tuesday, 11 August.

As someone who hit bottom and bounced just a couple of weeks ago, Imma go lay down.
— LKid (@LKid) August 12, 2014

***

I am not the biggest Robin Williams fan in the world.

But like with the deaths of Kurt Cobain, Alexander McQueen, Hunter S. Thompson, L'Wren Scott, Elliott Smith, Aaron Swartz, Wendy O. Williams, and Greg Giraldo; I have a difficult time dealing with the suicides of people far more talented, popular and wealthy than I am.

I mean, if these people can't find a reason to go on living for one more minute, what's my reason? 
What have I got to keep going for?

***

A little over two weeks ago I had to take my spousal unit aside and tell him that I was thinking about being dead.

I wasn't suicidal, per se, I was just at the point where if I didn't wake up tomorrow I'd be pretty okay with that.

"...I noticed myself wishing that nothing loved me so I wouldn't feel obligated to keep existing." - Allie Brosch - Hyperbole and a Half

It's the second step down the spiral of depression for me.

***

Before I turned 16 I had more dead peers than I had dead relatives.

I had all four of my grandparents and a great-grandmother. My parents are still living, as are all their siblings, and their children.

But I had 4 dead friends - 2 by suicide. 2 were murdered.

By the time I was 18, that number had doubled. 1 more suicide and 3 auto accidents.

***

I am having a very difficult time accepting that no matter how hard I work, it's never good enough. We've been teetering on the brink of bankruptcy for over a year. I really don't want to get into how we've managed to keep our plates spinning, but it can't last for much longer.

The past year has not worked out like we originally planned when we moved back east. That seems to be the nature of plans. This plan was supposed to make things better. Instead every thing is worse.

***

I first tried to kill myself in 1989 with an overdose of everything I could find in my parents drug cabinet.

I don't remember anything other than laying down in my bed. The next morning my mother was furious at me for drinking underage, after school, because I had come home, went directly to bed, and then proceeded to throw up for hours.

I would rather my mom think I was a terrible, irresponsible, rebellious teenager than know I was suicidal and had failed.

I was just immensely upset that I was still alive and absolutely disgusted with myself for failing. AGAIN.
I was so useless, I couldn't even DIE right.

***

It's difficult to have a conversation with someone who doesn't really understand how mental illness works, and is really confused because they thought that I was "over that". 

Like it was a phase, or had something to do with my level of maturity.

Trying to explain a broken brain to someone who doesn't understand can be an epic exercise of shame and self-loathing.

***

The second time I tried to kill myself was in 1990.

The rope broke. When I tried again, the branch broke.

The next day my mother was furious with me for trying to hide the "hickeys" on my neck.

I would rather my mom think I was big ol' slut than know I was suicidal and had failed.

I was so worthless, it wasn't something I think she should be worried about.

***

When I finally got it all out that I was quickly descending into depression and he, the love of my muthahfuckin' LIFE, needed to know that it was like a weight had been lifted.

Not keeping secrets really helps.

My mental health had to stop being a secret (or a big hairy lie I kept telling people) in order for me to start getting well.

It has to remain out in the open for me to deal with changes as they come up.

***

Suicide attempts obviously weren't the answer to my problems.
I was going to stop with the all-out *dramatic* attempts to kill myself.
I had a death wish. 

I regularly mixed drugs I knew were a bad addition to the copious amounts of alcohol I managed to consume.

I did drugs that I could not and didn't care to identify, though this happened less often.

I routinely got into cars with, entered the houses of, and had sex with strangers.

I was voted "Most Likely To Be Found Dead in a Dumpster" by my friends.

***

I was first hospitalized because of my mental state in 1988.

I lied to every doctor, nurse, social worker, and occupational therapist they had.

According to my mother, there was nothing wrong with me. I was just a bad, selfish, irresponsible, rebellious teenager that would grow out of it.

My parents never missed an opportunity to remind me of my badness, selfishness, and irresponsibility.

Whenever depression becomes an issue (again) that's the mental narrative that begins.

I am bad, selfish, and irresponsible.

As it gets worse, it will become bad, selfish, irresponsible and attention seeking.

***

The last time I decided that I was going to die was July 12, 2004.

I had my plan. I was going to wake up in the morning and go at a certain time because, while this method was fool proof, it would inconvenience a few people, so I wanted to make that as least chaotic as I could.

I went to bed that night feeling like I was finally going to be free.

***

Here's the thing about crazy.

It's just crazy. 

It's no more selfish than cancer, or MS, or any of the other myriad of diseases and conditions that can fuck up your life and kill you. It's not attention seeking. It's crazy.

***

A friend of mine put this on Facebook: 

""Suicide is the coward's way out" 
translates to "My pain in mourning your death (is/will be) greater and more important than your current suffering which drove you to this place, so in an attempt to avoid future pain on my part, I will pile more shame on you and on all other people who contemplate suicide. You think you're lesser than me, and I think you're right."

***

There is absolutely no judgment or slur or negative thing you can say about me that I haven't already said to myself a thousand times.

There are more days in my life when I have felt worthless and that my life does not matter than there have been days that I have felt that I have worth and that my life means something.

***

On July 13, 2004 I was woken up, not by my alarm, but by a knock on my apartment door.

I didn't die because two people from the internet - One in Birmingham, Alabama, and the other in Sunderland, England sent me a bouquet of Stargazer lilies.

And then Margaret Cho told me I didn't have to die because I had failed.

So I went to the doctor the next day.

***

It doesn't matter that you love me now, or ever. Someday, depression is going to kill me. I know this. I have a plan for this.

It isn't going to kill me today. It's not even going to kill me soon.

Your love isn't going to save me. And as crazy as it may sound to you, and as angry as this may make you, my love for you isn't going to save me forever.

It's saving me right now. And that's what matters.

Right now.

***

I am only alive today because of Canada's strict gun laws, floral delivery, and SLUT PRIDE.

***

Which brings me around to that tweet.

A little over 2 weeks ago, I hit bottom and bounced.

I told my husband my dirty little secret.

I pulled out my notes from cognitive behaviour therapy.

I started writing again. I started adding structure to my completely unstructured days. I stopped thinking about it.

***

For a while.

***

“Anything, anything would be better than this agony of mind, this creeping pain that gnaws and fumbles and caresses one and never hurts quite enough.” - Jean Paul Sartre

***

This is how my brain works

Where I work has rental apartment that's under renovation now that it is vacant.

My boss hired a guy to come over and refinish the 100 year old oak floors.

My boss said to the Floor Man,

"We need to replace a few boards from that window to that wall."

Since Tuesday, this song has been stuck in my head.

Yes. Really. This is the song in my head.

You can shut it down after about 3 seconds.

In fact, I insist that you shut it down after no more than five seconds.

Supercranky

So the woman I was teaching to do my job quit today. Turns out, she's over half way through her training to be a certified general accountant and has never worked as an assistant before.

Why he chose her, I have no idea.

Actually, I do... but that's not something I can explain in a public blog post.

Anyway, in 6.5 days (maybe less, because if I can get in to see my GP on Friday, I'm going to take the day) it's no longer my problem.

If he can't find someone to fill the job for long enough after I leave, that ain't my problem.

***

This job is killing my will to live. I have so much to do, but I come home every day just vibrating in rage and disgust that I end up sitting with my laptop in bed making lists of shit that needs to be done before we leave.

And watching The Daily Show and Colbert at 9 PM because I can thanks to Time Shift.

***

If you have depression or a history or depression, READ THIS!

Really...

That moment when you realize that the person you're training to replace exaggerated their experience, skills, and capabilities.

In a week and a half this will not be my problem.

Hell, I'm pretty sure it's not my problem now.

***

Unless I can have Adderall and Valium to manage my days and nights until I stop hating my life, then I'll stay.

Um, whut?

Annette Funicello died today.

"Her family told Extra that Funicello passed away from complications of her illness, and they were by her side when she was taken off life support. Funicello had been in an MS coma for years."

What in the flying fucking fuck is an "MS coma"?

I've had MS for almost five years, I HAVE NEVER, EVER, EVAH, heard that this was a thing.

How is this a thing?

Why did no one tell me it is a thing?

***

***

My temp job gets easier but vastly more irritating as of tomorrow.

***

Barring something unforeseen happening, two weeks from right now I will be sleeping in a hotel in the Greater Missoula, Montana Area on the way to Ontario.

I have never wanted anything so badly in my entire life.

An Inventory

(Cross-posted from our Facebook event - SAY GOODBYE! TAKE OUR STUFF!)

Three weeks until we say goodbye and you take our stuff!

Some items that will be available:

Ikea kitchen table with 3 chairs
7.5 year old futon with black metal frame
Joe's desk
My desk
Two plain ol' standard tube tvs
An LCD monitor - c. 2008
OMG Books (no fiction)
OMG Notebooks (all unused)
OMG Resusable shopping bags and shopping totes
Craft supplies - some fabric. Some cross-stitching cloth, sewing notions, shinies, glitter, etc.
A bag full of random things - there some blowing bubbles, a monk with a cellphone drinking a latte, a pride flag, shell casings, random stickers, a devil ducky, post-it notes, some pens, buttons, a voodoo doll... yanoo, random stuff

An industrial rack Joe uses as a tv stand
An old desk I use as a tv stand
Black wooden coffee table
Small boxes and baskets used to store things ( I think there are 15 of them as of right now)
General kitchen stuff, including coffee maker, toaster, and kettle
Set of four martini glasses
Set of beach appropriate margarita glasses (Non-BPA plastic)
Set of inexpensive stemmed wine glasses
Shot glass
Martini shaker
queen sized bed - mattress wrapped in anti-bedbug cover, boxspring still in factory sealed plastic
two different book cases
six drawer dresser
four drawers - narrow and made out of wicker

PLUS SO MUCH MORE!

If you're in the market for something not listed here, let me know. We might have one we can put your name on!

***

If you want to come to SAY GOODBYE! TAKE OUR STUFF!, and you live in Vancouver, and you know me, or someone I know, hit me up on FB or leave me a comment and I'll make sure you get an invite.

Saying what I need to say.

Basically, here's where I'm at these days:

1. I have MS, and that fact colours every thought, decision, choice, and option I have in my life.
2. I am feminist. Full stop, without apology, and with as little explanation as possible.
3. I am an organized administrator; which is the least respected, appreciated, and rewarded of all the skilled labour sectors to be in.

Because I have MS, I have limits on what I am physically and mentally able to do. I have figured out work-arounds for almost all of the life situations I find myself in, and 99% of the time I am able to fully function in an abled world. The prospect of almost certain permanent, life altering disability hangs over my head like the blade of guillotine ready to end my life as I know it. I have to be real about my future and, barring some kind of medical breakthrough in the next 10 years, I will almost certainly be unable to work, support myself, or be a contributing partner in my marriage. In ten or 15 years I will be a burden to society, yet I will likely live another 35 or 40 years.

Because I'm feminist, this bothers the fuck out of me. I distinguish between my marriage and my relationship with my husband. I entered into my relationship as an equal partner who loved (and loves) him incredibly. I don't think MS has changed that emotional and loving connection all that much. However, I entered into my marriage as an equal in a legal partnership to allow the two of us to do greater things by sharing resources and expertise. Having MS means that I am pouring all of my current resources and expertise into educating and training for my husband, because he's going to have to make the big bucks over the long term. I am never going to be in the position to make my own life, set my own terms, realize financial independence, or get the degree that will allow me to be taken seriously professionally.

Because I am a career administrator, I have gone 48 weeks unable to find a somewhat secure, non-exploitive, respectful, and progressive employer where my skills are needed and appreciated. Women, especially white women, who get into "clerical" work are expected to use that role as a springboard to something else, and be the doting and professional mother of two children while they're springing. I should have a degree in *something* and do admin for a (almost always) white, straight, cis-male, CEO while I work on an MBA that will allow me to access the halls of corporate power.

That's what a woman in my position as a white, cis-gendered, middle-class born, het-married, woman should be doing. To not want that is to somehow sell-out my gender. To not exercise my privilege is a waste of good estrogen, apparently. Yet, I have no designs on capitalist, corporatist power.

I just want to help people do their best work. That's all I have ever wanted to do for a living.
I work in administration because I am good at it and I think I offer good value to my employer, but women like me are the most expendable in the capitalist world. We're the first ones to go during economic downturns, we're the last people to be hired back when things start looking up, and we're expected to take less and less money with each successive round of lay-offs and rehires.

As an example, my first admin job in the early 90s paid $8 per hour. Today, 20 years later, I can find jobs doing exactly what I did in my entry level position that pay $11 per hour. That's $3 an hour in 20 years. I made $1.65 an hour more than minimum wage back then. That job now pays just $0.75 over minimum wage. If I want to make something close to a living, middle class wage in administration, I need to get a degree, and an MBA, and spearhead some sort of "corporate mission" that will add zeroes to the bottom-line and exploit a desperate workforce. I don't have the time, ability, money, ambition, or interest in doing that.

So, as a person with MS, who wants to be an equal partner, and has job skills and experience that are now subject to the law of diminishing returns, I really don't see what the point of my life is any more. I wish I could change the world, but I don't know how. I don't know how the world would take me seriously, given I have no credibility as a scholar, researcher, business person, or educated activist. Forgive me if I am not out there trying to save the world from sexist, racist, homophobic, fat-shaming, transphobic, ableist, slut-shaming, victim-blaming, theist, capitalist, fascist agendas. It's really hard to take to the streets when you're trying to figure out where the rent is coming from this month, or where food is going to come from if you make the rent, or making a choice between bus fare to a job interview or bus fare to the doctor because you can't afford to do both this week.

Forgive me when I say that I just can't keep up. I want to, but I don't know how.

Die Another Day

I didn't get the job, but they sent me an email asking me to complete the "next phase in the recruitment process".

I completed it.

I have no idea what this means going forward, but it looks like I may have to add a couple of days to the process.

Which is fucking maddening.

***

I am still missing two T4 slips to do my taxes.

That is also fucking maddening.

***

My house does not have enough booze.

And by "enough" I mean, any amount. I don't have any.

Weirdly Gruesome

I would like to think my fortunes are shifting. I think that I am being overly optimistic.

***

Reconnected with some of the people I used to spend every single day with back in 2002 to 2005. It's good to see that so many of them are doing well, and catching up on the changes in their lives has been enlightening.

***

Trying something new. Have no idea where it's going. 

Avoidance

I've been avoiding this blank text box for over a week.

Do you ever feel you just want to forget you've got MS, and for periods of time your body and mind don't act up, and with this cooperation allows you a short spell where you can live in that fantasy world?

I just had one of those, so I didn't want to look at my MS related blog.

The illusion of health started to fade yesterday afternoon, and by this afternoon I was mindful of the "residual deficits" MS left me with.

That sucks.

***

Quick update:

Still no job.
Still no prospects.
No work from my new endeavour.
Plans still on hold.
Losing hope, but it's not gone yet.

I seriously don't want to talk about it.

Well, Week 1 of 2013 is just hours away from completion and I am really, really not impressed.

2013 smells of 2012. It's like it's been contaminated by proximity.

Still no job. Still no idea where to find one.

***

I'm done. I need to change everything. How I do that is clear, but I lack the resources to do it right now.

Anyone got a spare $10,000 laying around that you'd like to change someone's life with?

***

YAY4HOCKEY!

Damn You Galen Weston!

I told Joe that I wanted these. He bought them for me. I was excited. They have been advertising them more often on Canadian TV this weekend than Barack Obama approved that message a week ago on US TV. I'm no foodie and Galen makes some pretty fine products.

There are ten in the box. They come to you frozen with the instruction to thaw in the fridge for 25 to 30 minutes on a serving plate before "serving". (I guess they're an h'ors d'oeuvres, or something) Consume within 48 hours of thawing.

Joe hates cheesecake and I am NOT eating 10 cheesecake lollipops in two days. I've had them for two days, I've eaten three. I've taken them out one at a time and let them thaw on a sandwich plate in the fridge. This is what they actually look like.

So here's my review.

They're okay. More sugary than anything.

The toffee is not very salty.
The crunchiness isn't uniform; the toffee bits that have been enveloped by the chocolate coating that attaches it to the ball of cheesecake are sticky and chewy, which is disappointing.
The cheesecake is really sweet and not very cream cheesy.

Will I buy them again? Probably not.
Would I eat one if I was offered one at a party or something? Sure, but only one.

The idea of putting cheesecake on a stick is not a bad one, but the cake could have been better and the topping better prepared.

Sorry Galen.

Stuff that's got me thinking

1. I was told the other day that my biggest barrier to employment was that I was too awesome. For serious.
2. What would/do I consider success?
3. I need to make some time to change all my passwords to 14 characters or longer, including numbers and special characters (if allowed). When will I make that time?
4. I love The Container Store and they have no plans to expand to Canada at this time and that makes me sad.
5. Self-employment, even part-time hours and part-time income, is looking and sounding better and better.
6. I might have to learn to like people more than I do in order to be successful in business, even part-time.
7. "Everyone's a libertarian until their state is under 10 feet of water."
8. I wonder if I could convince Joe to change our last name to something cooler?
9. If it weren't for the internet my life would be totally different. I would not live in Vancouver, I would not be married to the person I am married to and would not have spoken to anyone I have spoken to (other than my mum and my sister) in the past two months.
10. I forget where I was going with this. I wonder if that is a problem like my word choice cognitive problem?

Fear

I hate being reminded that my life has an entire metric that almost no one else I know has.

Future plans - chances of MS relapse = reasonable expectations

***

Life changed on Monday night. I can't go into it in public, but the nearer future of my life changed completely.

I am not sure how I feel about that.

***

I have to rewrite my resume again. Thankfully, there's still some vodka in the house.

***

This is my brain on fear when I can't say anything out loud and have to edit my thoughts.

It happened again.

I went on "vacation". I went back to work.

I've just finished my second week back and I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror in the bathroom at work... and it hit me like a tonne of bricks.

Let me fill you in on this. I work for an elderly man who should have been retired 20 years ago. Or more. He has no clients come to the office. He solicits no new business. He has not changed his business practices since 1976 and hasn't upgraded any of his technology or software since 2003. His office is still on dial-up.

So, all I have to do is shut up and type, file, make statements and answer the phone. He does not care what we wear to work, he cares that we show up for work.

I'm fairly certain that his assistant accountant has come to work in her pyjamas multiple times.

I'm really certain that his office assistant who's working on the archival/document destruction project wore the same clothes to work three days in a row last week.

After looking in the mirror at work I'm pretty sure that I stopped giving a shit. My clothes are clean and I don't look like an unmade bed. I didn't, however, put product in my hair or put on make up. I wore board shorts and skate shoes, a tshirt and a hoodie, a baseball cap and a pair of knock off Wayfarers. I carried a massive black and white tote bag because it is big enough to hold all my crap AND two bottles of wine or four liters of soup.

I realized that I wore something similar on Wednesday and Tuesday and pretty much all last week. I stopped giving a shit about how I look the day after I returned to work.

I have been here before, and I'm kind of pleased that I noticed after only two weeks. I am treating this as a wake-up call. I need a new job. I need one now. I can't have this job suck the life out of me for a second time.

***

The last glass of wine (well a little shy of a standard serving) was not as yummy as the first and second nights, but still drinkable.

***

I have never considered doing improvisational comedy as a hobby or interest (I'm more of a stand-up kinda woman) but I am apparently going to the TheatreSports League Open Drop-In tomorrow afternoon. What the hell, I've got a husband trying to finish an album using his brand-new and completely awesome Reason software and who's started Week One of The Year of Calculus; it's not like we had plans.

Day Two of My Captivity

Getting up at 6:15 AM seemed like a really great idea. Going for a walk at 6:30 AM? Even better!

Having one adult beverage at 6 PM has nearly knocked me on my ass, so I'll be brief.

I learned two things today:

1. I still remember 90% of a job that I quit about 10 months ago.
2. Just because something happened doesn't make it interesting.

Because nothing interesting happened, I'm just going to sit here and read about creating a will, enduring power of attorney, living will and health-care directives.

Prepared. That's just how I roll.

Food for Thought

I am highly skeptical of people who claim they have "cured" their MS by changing their diet, because if it were just about food, that would be the prescription, everyone would do it and we'd all be fine. I suspect that a vocal minority will now fill my inbox with comments about how Big Pharma, price gouging neurologists and the Illuminati are conspiring to keep us all sick.

But all this reminds me of is how I hate food. Or rather... I hate dealing with food. I hate cooking, I hate shopping for it, I hate any kind of preparation and I resent the time I have to spend thinking about what I am going to eat. I even hate the time spent between noticing I am starving and dizzy but I know it's going to take the guy over on Main Street another 20 minutes to get my pad thai over to my house.

Even right now, my stomach is churning with hunger. Yet I think I will just write this post then go to bed because it's much easier to do that then to get up, go to the kitchen and deal with the idea of having to eat. If there were a daily pill that I could take to keep the stomach ache and headaches away I would do that.

My "mental block" about food drives my husband nuts. He says that if I really don't care about food I should just eat whatever he makes and not turn my nose up at it... but it isn't that simple. It's not like I can't taste food and don't know what I like to taste and what I don't. What it is like - if given the choice between food or expending energy to get food I probably won't bother and go to bed instead. I like when food gets delivered to my house, hot and ready to eat. I don't like it that I don't have a budget that allows me to make that happen on a daily basis.

I think about before I met my husband and before I got sick at times like these. I lived on tea, toast, breakfast cereal, 2% milk-double shot lattes and tuna-salmon combos from my local sushi joint, vodka-tonics and cigarettes. I would buy two orders of sushi, eat one after work and save the other for lunch the next day. I would heat the miso up and drink it before bed. Unless someone else cooked or made other dinner plans, this is what I would have 4 or 5 days a week.

I was also walking about 2 kms a day from the train to my office and back and spending most weekends running around the city or climbing the hills and walking the dells of Bowen Island in ridiculous shoes and boots. I probably wasn't the strongest person, but I looked great, my hair was shiny and my skin was fantastic. It wasn't until I quit smoking and tried to eat a more varied diet that I got sick and was forced to stop walking.

Ironic, huh?

Wellness check

Insomnia. Unemployment. 75% vegetarian diet. Insignificant birthday in a couple of weeks.

Bought two hats that are necessary for my enjoyment and/or survival of the summer months.

Happy Pride Week, Toronto!

Not dead.

Check ya laterz.

I don't fucking know.

I have been having a difficult time stringing words together into cohesive sentences this week, and I know exactly why.

I have been moving very little and sitting or laying down a lot.

This is why unemployment is a killer to me; with no reason to get up in the morning... I don`t get up. I mean, I wake up between 8 and 9 every morning, but I don`t get up until I either have to pee, the low-caffeine headache starts or I`m so starving I will collapse.

For the past couple of day I have been making a concerted effort to move, with or on purpose, for at least 15 minutes a day. As a result, I've been able to get some things done today. Like get a start on my backload of laundry that piled up just because I didn't want to do it last weekend. I didn't want to do it last weekend because that would have meant getting out of bed and putting socks on. And last weekend, sockless was just the way things rolled around here.

I applied for a job this week and they called me to ask a couple of questions that seemed completely unrelated to the position at hand; i.e. where I saw myself in five years - but the job is only for a 6 month maternity leave. They said that if I am going to move on they'd contact me on Monday or Tuesday of next week. Not holding my breath.

I've been trying to figure out what kind of classes I could take that would improve my job prospects in a year or less and then maybe work part-time and get some kind of training, but I haven't figured that out. I wish I had a clue what I wanted to be when I grow up, but no one wants to pay me to be interested in what I am interested in in any kind of meaningful way.

I guess I am just going to have to wait until Joe turns me into The Real Housewife of, well, wherever we end up settling. I will be The Real Housewife of My House.

Why I am Still Alive

In exactly four weeks I will turn 38. I will have officially lived 20 years longer than I had planned on. It will also mark the 8th anniversary of the day I decided I wanted to live.

“That’s a little over-the-top, hey, Drama Queen.” I know that’s what you’re thinking. Hell, it’s what I am thinking. I detest Past-Me and the person I used to be.

I know what stopped me from killing myself in the summer of 1992. I decided to live for someone else who really needed me to take care of myself. I didn’t do that well, but I really tried. I tried harder at that than almost anything I had ever tried at up to that point. We got through it. I made good choices then, and I have absolutely no regrets. But I didn’t really land on my feet. I made some awful choices after that.

I followed that up with more terrible choices, the worst kind of choices and finally started to move forward with merely bad choices. My choices got less bad over time, until the week before my 30th birthday. I had received some rather devastating news with regard to my health, I was unemployed, I was off-again with the guy I had been on-again with for the better part of a year, I was living with my ex-boyfriend who was trying to get me to snap out of it and being super unhelpful about it, and I had never, ever, felt more alone in my adult life.
I started planning. I started trying to figure out a way to die that would inconvenience the least amount of people. I started writing wills. I started listening to Portishead, Tori Amos and Sarah McLachlan (The Triumvirate of the Suicidal Female).

A friend I used to have on the internet sent me a birthday package which included I'm the One That I Want. Margaret Cho spoke to me... DIRECTLY TO ME... when she said:

I am not gonna die because I failed as someone else. I am gonna succeed as myself. And I'm gonna stay here and rock the mike until the next Korean-American, fag hag, shit starter, girl comic, trash talker comes up and takes my place!

I was in tears. I sobbed and sobbed and sobbed my heart out there in my roommate’s bed, because the only TV in the house was in his room. I did not stop crying for 20 or 30 minutes.

I am not gonna die because I failed as someone else.

The very next morning, on my 30th birthday, two people I knew only from the internet and had never met in person conspired to have me woken up by the floral arrangement delivery man. A bouquet of 4 amazing star-gazer lilies and other flowers arrived at my door. I cried some more.

That is the moment I decided that shit just HAD to change. I got a sucky job that I turned into a slightly better one by October of that year. I dated some. I went back on-again with the guy I had been off-again with and we did that off and on thing for a few more months, until I finally decided I just didn’t want to do that anymore. I was finally making good choices.

A twenty-year-old choice and Margaret Cho are the reasons why I am alive today, for better or worse. I’ll admit that there are times, especially when I think about how MS has changed my life and how it is probably going to steal everything I love about my life in the not-so-distant future that I regret making that decision. The two people I love the most wouldn’t even know me if I had and there wouldn’t be a whole lot of people in the world who would miss me at all.

But I’m here and, though I make better choices these days, I am still trying to figure out what the point of it all is. I don’t have a career. I have a boring life with a man I adore. I’m 25 lbs overweight but I have good skin and pretty good hair. I listen to electronic music and do cross stitch. I write words sometimes. I erase or fail to save most of them. I have MS. It has stolen many of the things I used to love.

I’m almost never happy. But I am hopeful that someday I will succeed as myself.