3 weeks on the AT - Part 1

I started hiking on March 8th. My dad drove me from Atlanta up to the NOC.

During that first weekend, I learned a couple things. My pack was WAY too heavy (so I sent a lot of stuff back). Hammocking is cold as shit unless you do it properly. Hikers are amazing people with amazing stories, and a kind word for everyone. And your ass will wake up with the sun, no matter what your normal sleeping schedule is like. 

I met a few really awesome people that first night on the trail. I ran into them again at the Fontana Dam shelter. My hike up to Fontana Dam that first week was the longest I had done, clocking in at 12.7 miles. About halfway up, I had to just stop and sit down out of sheer frustration. The inclines were hell, my body wasn't happy with all this new activity, I was hot and sunburned and exhausted. 

A man that lives in Fontana and runs shuttles for hikers was out on a day hike, and he came across me sitting on a rock, halfway to the summit, and very upset. We got to chatting. I told him about my frustration, and my uncertainty as to whether going on a long hike was a good idea (or if I could even accomplish the rest of that day's hike, much less weeks). We talked about his hiking eperience, and how conversations always turned to food on the trail. I said all I wanted was a cold Coke.

The conversation calmed me down fairly quickly. He gave me the card for his shuttle company, handed me an apple (which, at that moment, was the most delicious thing I had ever eaten in the history of my life), and gave me some encouragement before heading up the mountain. 

Then one of the older men I met on my first night, RedLeg, came up the hill. He and I hiked together for the rest of the day. He told me about how he thinks he's one of the slowest hikers on the trail. He said I shouldn't push myself to the point of being frustrated. The trail isn't going anywhere. The mountains aren't going anywhere. And getting upset or sad or discouraged was the exact opposite of what a trip like this is supposed to make you feel. He joked about "resting steps", where he tries to take the smallest, slowest steps possible to catch his breath. 

The approach to Fontana had a road crossing about 2 miles before you hit the shelter. RedLeg's son met us there because the two of them were going to go out to dinner that evening. On the steps leading down to the road, there was a 20 oz of Coke, with a note taped to it that just said, "Locke". It made the last 2 miles so much easier, just because it was the sweetest gesture, as well as my first experience with Trail Magic. 

We all got to Fontana Dam, and there were a few people I had already met hanging out. One thing that's awesome about the Fontana Dam shelter is that it has a bathroom with a hot shower. That's why they call it The Hilton. And that shower was amazing. 

I did laundry, we all talked and ate dinner, and everyone went to sleep. 

The next day was lovely. I hung up all my clothes, got some things in town, and did some reading. A good amount of hikers showed up that afternoon, as did Fresh Grounds. 

Fresh Grounds slackpacks up the trail every year, running the Leapfrog Cafe out of his car. He brings a portable stove, and all kinds of food and coffee and sodas and everything. He brought some chicken, potato salad, fresh rolls, and more soda and gatorade than anyone could consume. It was an amazing evening.

We got a great group, and made a huge fire that night. The wind from the storm knocked down half of a tree, so no one had to go looking for firewood. Then another Trail Angel showed up, with fried chicken and fruits and a cheesecake. 

I ate so much that night I thought I was going to explode. 

After two nights at Fontana, I was finally ready to attempt the snow-covered smokys. 

I fucking hate the smokys. 

More later. I'm off to bed. 

3 weeks on the AT - Intro

I left for the trail on March 8th. I planned to spend 6 weeks hiking. I had never done anything more than a 3 day camping trip (though I did a decent amount of day hikes leading up to my departure). I was dropped off at the NOC. My hopes were to make it to the Greyson Highlands by the end of my hike.

In the three weeks I spent on the trail, I met a ton of incredible people. I hiked 12.7 miles on my third day. My all time best day was over 16 miles. I did some night hiking. I only saw one snake, and he was irritable and adorable. I wandered through the snow-covered smokies. I woke up in the middle of the night one evening to coyotes yipping and howling next to the shelter I was trying to sleep in. I didn't see any bears, but I heard some incredible stories about them. I also heard some incredible stories about things other than bears. I tented with some amazing people, and found myself in a winter wonderland the next morning (long after the smokies, thank god, because the smokies totally blow). I sang show tunes at the top of my lungs while wandering alone up and down mountains. I discovered that the most difficult thing I will ever have to overcome is myself. I ate the shittiest, most delicious food without a thought (hello Snickers bars and honey buns!) and still came home 20 lbs lighter.

The view of the lake at Fontana Dam, as the snowstorm started to hit the Smokys.

I have so many stories I want to share. I also have a new perspective on a lot of things. I'm going to share some of my experiences here, I suppose. It's as good a place as any.

I don't want to come off as some preachy asshole, though. I mean, really, how much can one person grow and learn in the course of just several weeks?

Each story deserves its own entry. So there's more about my trip to come, very soon. I miss the trail something awful, and I'm hoping that writing about my experiences there will cushion the blow of being forced to come home early. I can't fucking wait to get back out there.

I can't seem to break the habit of waking up with the sun, and once it gets dark I start yawning. So, for now, I'm going to go snuggle my furbabies and get some sleep. It's WAY past hiker midnight.

-L

BIG NEWS!

I've been in quite the funk, lately. I was laid off, and felt unsure about what the fuck I'm doing and what paths I've chosen, or not chosen, etc.

I ended up being awake all night a few weeks ago. I just couldn't sleep. I was upset, and frustrated, and felt directionless.

I sat down and started painting, while listening to a favorite show of mine. The show mentioned something that led my train of thought to hiking. I've been doing a lot of hiking with Lucy lately, and my mind leapt to the Appalachian Trail.

I put down my paintbrush, got up, and started doing some research. I used to date a really interesting man named Nads. He has hiked the trail quite a bit. I recalled some of our conversations, and delved deeper into the plethora of information about hiking the trail that the internet provided.

After doing a fuckton of research, and figuring out whether or not I was able to pay my bills and fund the hike, I made a decision.

On March 8th, I will be dropped off at the start of the trail. My darling grandparents are going to buy the pack I was recently fitted for. I have probably 50% of the things I'll need. I'm going on overnight hikes between now and then. I'll be on the trail until Easter (4/20), when Ida will pick me up in Tennessee.

So that's what's up. I'm super excited, and terribly nervous. Six weeks on the trail will be difficult, and painful, and I'm determined to make it all the way through.

My friends Amanda and Kei-Won-Tia are able to loan me some supplies. If anyone else has any lightweight camping/hiking gear that I can steal, I'd be eternally grateful. Email me at LockeMiddleton@gmail.com. I'll cook you dinner, and totally bring that shit to you.

I'm so fucking excited.

All my love.
-L

It was recommended that I post a place for donations. I don't really like asking for money for anything, but if anyone feels a desire to help me with funding this 6 week adventure, I'm more than willing to provide the ability to do so. Also, for any and all contributions, I'll gladly offer drawings or art by request, or even photos of things I encounter on the trail. Or a combination of the two (meaning a photo of a sketch and personal message, with some insanely lovely woods in the background).

Regardless of whether you'd like to help fund this trip or not, my email address is listed above and you're more than welcome to request a shoutout from the AT. I'd love to oblige.

<3 p="">-L

"And they say that passing time is just a bastard. It collects our griefs... makes them into its coats."

I was recently laid off. I've found myself in one hell of a state of transition. Lucky for me, I can hold the fort financially for at least a couple months. And there are a few irons in the fire, in terms of finding a new position. Which is hopeful.

The thing is, this state of transition has given me far more time than I'm comfortable with. Time to reflect, and untangle any feelings or thoughts I've put on the back burner over the past year or two. It's been ages since I had so much time to just mull over all of the personal and emotional bullshit that I've previously ignored because I was far too busy just keeping up with life.

Now that I find myself with so much unoccupied time on my hands, I find my mind is forcing me to reexamine situations and relationships and conflict that I originally felt forced to gloss over during the last two+ years. 

Is this something that other people experience occasionally? This weird resurgence of emotions/situations/choices that weren't fully dealt with in their immediate past? It seems so bizarre to me. I'm not used to this overwhelming wave of my more recent, swept-under-the-rug personal history.

I find this unexpected introspection has been leaking into my dreams. I had a dream about an ex of mine just a few nights ago. It was so odd, and the situation involved was surreal. I miss his company on occasion, but, to be honest, I hadn't really thought about him for several months. The dream has stuck with me, and I find myself wondering how he's doing, and what his life is like these days. I wonder if things turned out the way he wanted, and if he's still the person I knew less than a year ago. 

And then I end up thinking about the other loves of my life. I wonder where they are in their plan for life. I wonder if they're happy. I wonder, if they aren't happy, what they would do to make themselves happy. I want to know if they have any thoughts in regards to how I might improve myself, or how they might have been more faithful to themselves during the relationships. 

[For the record, I don't think there's such a thing as one true love. I believe that all most love is true. The trick is finding a true love when you're both in a place to share that love, and grow in it together. In my head, it's like one person being a clutch and one person being an engine. You have to find that sweet spot when you let the clutch out, so the revolutions match up. If they don't you'll stall the engine. That doesn't mean you'll never be able to put the car in gear. It just means you need more time to figure out how your clutch works, and how to match your clutch with an engine.]

I know that romance and dating and "being involved" ought to be the last of my concerns at the moment. And believe me, it's close to the last of my current concerns. But I've just found myself missing these people that were so close to me for so very long. I'd love to learn from their perspectives of the experiences we had together, and gain some deep insight about how they grew from said experiences, or how they think I could grow from the same experiences. It would be grand to gain that new perspective from these people that knew me so incredibly well, and in so many different aspects. 

Maybe I should extend that desire for constructive criticism to my friends and family. The thing is, I loathe asking people for shit like that. "Oh, hey, what do you think of me and how I react to certain circumstances? What advice could you give me so I can be a better person?" 

That's ridiculous. The only world where I'm the main focus is the world I live in, in my head. I would feel like a self-centered asshole were I to ask anyone else (save a very small group of people) to comment on my feelings, or actions, or comment on how I'm perceived.

So, I suppose that I'll just keep on keeping on, for now. I'm not on the wrong path, but I'm not sure I'm on the right one, either. I just hope I can make it the right one, or see that it isn't before I'm stuck here. 

Love to you. 

People come into our lives for a reason

So, I was laid off. The club I worked for has had shit revenue lately, and the partners decided to sell the business, and get rid of all of their staff.

Happy new year to me, I have no job. Oh, and my birthday is in January, so I get to do that jobless, too. And pay for my cars tag registration. And get my license renewed. And apply for unemployment. Turning 27 is just the best, right?

I know I'm so much better off than many people that find themselves without work. I have an incredible group of friends. I have a stellar family. I have more support than most. But I still feel so terribly lost. The light at the end of my proverbial tunnel is getting fainter by the day. And that frustrates me to no end.

Usually, when I find myself frustrated, I spend time figuring out how to change the circumstances that led to said frustration. But, right now, I feel like I'm doing everything that can be done, and still failing at creating a solution. What else can I do to solve this problem? If I apply to all the open positions that I'm qualified for (and even some that are a bit out of my league), and I get no response, what else can I do?

I'm feeling more lost than I have in a while. And more frustrated.

I have so much in my life to be grateful for. Which makes my tragic feeling of hopelessness even worse.

Fuck. 

Thanksbirthing (or: Why You Shouldn't Let Your Step-Mum Name Holidays)

I spent Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday stuck at home, in bed, with a horrible cold and fever and all that nonsense. I managed to go through 2+ boxes of tissue. I killed so much DayQuil/NyQuil that I'm certain they'll see a 25% rise in profits this quarter based on my consumption, alone (hahahaha, consumption! That's totally a pun right? Because "the consumption" used to refer to some horrible illness? Yes?)....

I may or may not currently be addled by all the cold medications and lack of sleep my brain has been forced to deal with. So, you know, there's my disclaimer in regards to this post.

Yesterday was Thanksgiving. It isn't really a huge holiday when it comes to my family. My father's birthday is late November, so we usually just meet up for dinner at some point during the last two weeks of the month. That's pretty much our celebration of Thanksgiving and (mostly) Daddy's birthday.

Because my family is fairly small (it consists of my dad and step-monster, my two younger siblings [Mar and Bug], Dad's parents, and the step-monster's folks) things are pretty flexible during Thanksgiving/Dad's birthday (or, as my stepmum lovingly dubbed it, "Thanksbirthing"... though I think that sounds totally gross).

Since I spent the past few days dying of consumption (or just a cold... you never can tell) and don't want to pass that on to the troops, I'm going to try to gather the family unit at my place this weekend for a Thanksbirthing (ew) dinner.

Last night, I went ahead and wrote a list of things I'm thankful for. Things I'm Thankful For lists are all the rage this time of year, and I need to at least keep up with the trends. Plus, I was drinking a bit and felt it was the perfect time to write a post (and by "write a post" I mean "write half of a post before falling asleep").

Because not everyone may be interested in my sentimental, heartfelt, not-at-all-funny-or-entertaining list, I've stuck it below. I hope that visiting relatives wasn't too brutal for anyone, and that your Thanksgiving Recovery goes well.

Oh Bebe. Your kids are so crazy.

I had the strangest childhood.

After my parents divorced (when I was 2 or 3 years old) I went to live with my dad. My biological mother floated around from place to place for several years, after which she found herself living with her next husband (in what became a long line of fiancées / husbands/ etc.), as well as their two children (my brother is 4ish years my junior, and my sister is 5ish years younger than I am). 

Bio-mum and (ex)step-dad finally ended in a crappy apartment in the northeast suburbs of Atlanta (from what I can remember). Some of my earliest memories revolve around that apartment. 

I remember being around 7, and celebrating Christmas at the apartment. I can see the stuffed leopard I got so clearly in my minds' eye. 

I remember my little sister learning how to walk. She fell in the living room and chipped off more than half of one of her front baby teeth. She was missing half her front tooth until it finally fell out when her adult teeth started to come in. 

I remember my brother waking me up in the middle of the night because he couldn't sleep. We snuck into the living room and I put our VHS copy of Aladdin on the tv. I think it was during the big parade scene (after Genie makes Aladdin into a prince) that our mother woke up and came out to yell at us while dragging us back to bed. (Funny side note about Aladdin: It was my brothers favorite movie when he was 4 or 5. Because of a quote in the movie, any time anyone asked him to, "Say the magic word," instead of replying with, "Thank you," he'd always say, "Genie, I wish for you to make me a prince!" It was fucking adorable.)

One other thing I can vaguely recall about that apartment was the fact that across the hall lived two fabulous gay men. They were my first experience with a gay couple, I suppose. They were sweet as could be, and would keep an eye on us heathen children every once in a while, whenever our mother had to work and my stepfather was too drunk to responsibly supervise any living thing. 

It's funny how the simplest things can hold such sentimental value.

I still have the cheap, silly little gift they once gave me when I was around 6 or 7 (shit... like 20 years ago...). It was a wire stick-figure couple, sitting on a park bench. It sat on a stand, and had a counter-weight on top, so that you could just rock it back one time and it would keep itself swinging for a good long while. 

One of the guys brought it over to me, and his boyfriend got super excited and came to sit with us. Went on to explain to me that it used to represent the two of them sitting together. They said I should keep it always, because one day it would be me and my sweetheart rocking on the bench. I can specifically recall one of them using the phrase "you and your sweetheart" in a southern accent that would almost put Scarlett O'Hara to shame. 

One time, we were left with these men across the hall for a good couple hours. I'm pretty sure my sister was taking a nap. I don't recall if my brother was up wandering the apartment, or sleeping as well. But as the eldest, I didn't always have to take naps, and certainly couldn't be bothered to keep up with the schedules of Those Who Must Nap. 

I don't know if they did this because it was the only animated movie they had, or if they figured there's no cartoon that a 6ish-year-old wouldn't love, but that afternoon they introduced me to Bebe's Kids.

For those of you who have never seen this movie, it's on Netflix streaming as I write this blog (in fact, this evening I decided to revisit the film after 20ish years, which was what prompted me to post). 

The interesting thing about showing a movie like Bebe's Kids to an impressionable 6 year old is that she's going to absorb it. If she's raised in a household that promotes the idea that all people deserve to be empathized with and treated like human beings (regardless of skin color, or country of origin, or native language, or differing culture) then she won't understand why her white, Atlanta-native ass is told to be quiet anytime she tries to reference a quote from that silly cartoon she watched that one time.

Needless to say, my 6ish-year-old brain was baffled as to why certain things were SO hysterical when spoken by these cartoon characters, but god forbid I ask anyone why they're funny, or reference anything from the movie in passing. I didn't understand why things worked that way. Sometimes I still don't. The world is such a weird place. 

Well, with that being said, I'm going to go to sleep. It's bed time (the earth-shattering snores that are coming from the unconscious Great Dane laying next to me is the best indicator). But before I go, I'll leave you with a taste of the 1992 classic, Bebe's Kids. 

"She so fine she makes me wanna get a job... with benefits!"

"If you don't tell me where your brother is I'm gonna beat the black off you, and you're gonna look whiter than Michael Jackson!"

"If you tried to phone hell from here, it'd be a local call." (It's sad that no one born after 1990ish would get this joke, because who the hell pays different rates for local vs long-distance anymore?)

And finally, the yo momma jokes. Because who doesn't love the shit out of some yo momma jokes?

Until next time,

-Slagathor 

Bourbon sucks at hide and seek.

It's funny how quickly circumstances can consume everything around you. They can completely blur the path you've been trying to carve out for yourself, so much so that you end up wondering if that's really where you wanted to be, or if it's just random fog. Circumstances can cause you to neglect the person you've strived to become for so long that you end up devolving into some flawed version of yourself that you swore you'd never be. They can distract you to such an extent that sometimes, on rare occasions, you can't even find your whiskey after coming back inside from a 5 minute, impromptu smoke break.

And where the fuck is my whiskey, anyway?

...

Despite the perpetual stress, the anxiety, and even the AWOL beverage, I feel that there is solace in the constant whirlwind. You can find anchors, even if they're short-lived. Whether you find yourself momentarily grounded by friends, silly conversation, odd but wildly entertaining situations, or just by snuggling your obnoxious, loud-ass, snoring douche bag of a dog, you can always manage to find your core (some people call it "inner peace", but I think it's just the root of who you are).

I could go into a detailed pity party about my current job bullshit. I could whine about my personal relationships and their shortcomings. I could spend days lamenting over my insecurities that constantly tell me my life is beyond reparation...(too lazy, too unattractive, too young, too stubborn, too comfortable with cursing like a fucking sailor, too sensitive, too emotionally flippant, too undereducated, too... well... anything) to accomplish my personal goals (both old and new). But fuck that.

I can do anything I like. Not regardless of my shortcomings. Not in spite of them. But because of them. They comprise the person I am. I'll admit this, despite how smug my father will be if he reads it, but struggle builds character, damn it.  And while some things I'd like to do may take eons more time, patience, effort, exhaustion, and perseverance than I'm willing to offer (or even capable of offering, at this point in my life), I can still, one day, accomplish any goal I put forth. As can most. The hardest part is accepting that I can actually do whatever I want, and committing to it enough to make it a reality. Does that make sense? Maybe?

You know, they say a positive attitude can do wonders. At 26 years old (almost 27... christ...) I'm starting to tentatively agree with "them". I mean, shit, I just found my fucking whiskey (and I'm way more excited and proud of my ability to find beverages that I put down mere minutes ago than I should be.... Be excited with/for me, damn it). And what better symbol of hope and positivity is there?

Goodnight, and all the best.
-L

This has nothing to do with the bassist for the Red Hot Chili Peppers

That's right. I'm talking about fleas.

Up until June of this year, I was living alone in a duplex in Candler Park. Well, not really alone. Lucy was always around, and I had foster dogs and foster cats in and out of the place. There was also my terribly angry, sassy, tailless cat named Rabbit (who was eventually adopted by an old lady down the street, and would only occasionally wander back to my place in order to gloat about how much better her new mum was. Rabs was just a bitch like that).

I was there for four years. In those four years, I never had any issues with fleas. Despite all the animals coming in and out of the house, despite not always being able to afford Frontline for all of them, and despite the backyard being this huge, overgrown mess that was undoubtedly chock full of all kinds of horrible bugs, fleas were never an issue.

Maybe the flea gods are punishing me for having managed to avoid the little pests for so long. I can just see them, sitting on their animal fur thrones, with little flea crowns, discussing the fact that some silly girl in Atlanta managed to evade them for too long. Clearly they need to set an example and teach people that you can't just have furbabies and plan to not have fleas.

"Feel the wrath of the flea king!" 

The frustrating thing is that Lucy, Jizanthapus, and LouieCatKitty are all current on their flea meds. Lucy rarely has any issue with fleas, anyway, because Great Danes don't really have a coat conducive to a flea's extravagant lifestyle. The kittens are indoor cats, and still get their flea meds on the regular.

The Game Plan

Once it was discovered that there were fleas (for the record, it isn't like you walk into the house and have little bugs jumping everywhere. My roommate saw a bite, and checked the kittens where she saw a few of the bastards scurrying around. She also saw one on her arm later that day) the roommates and I coated the house in diatomaceous earth, ran a ton of laundry, washed the furbabies, and vacuumed everything. We thought that would be the end of the problem.

But the flea gods were not finished punishing me for having avoided them for so long. About a week went by, and it was discovered that there were still hoppy little bloodsuckers, ignoring all of our efforts to wipe them out and just living their stupid, annoying lives like nothing had happened.

So, again, we sprinkled the house with diatomaceous earth. We vacuumed. I bought some Death to Fleas spray, which we used on the upholstery and carpets. I also got some serious flea shampoo, and gave the animals another bath (this time with more scrubbing).

Washing the Kittens

It was actually pretty hysterical bathing the kittens. Louie meowed a lot, but eventually realized that he wasn't going to escape the tub and resigned himself to sulking, and occasionally making half-hearted attempts to climb out of the water. Once he was toweled off and set down, he noticed that the end of his tail looked like a string. He then spent 25 minutes spinning in circles in the bathroom, chasing the wet, floppy end of his tail. I thought he was going to make himself sick (but I still laughed when he spun his face right into the wall, gave the wall a dirty look, and then continued with his spinning).

Jizanthapus, on the other hand, was determined to outwit this evil bath thing. He flailed all of his legs out, trying to grab the edge of the tub. He picked up the towel that was placed in the bottom of the tub several times (my step-mum informed me that doing that is supposed to make the cat more comfortable. Something about them not being able to get purchase on the bottom of the tub freaks them out). Each time he flung it around, getting sudsy water everywhere until he eventually dropped it back into the tub and continued his weird, spastic, I Hate Baths dance.

By the time I was finished washing him, the bathtub was filled to the brim with bubbles. In fact, he was so good at agitating the water that if our washing machine ever breaks down, tossing the kitten in with my clothes, some water, and some detergent would be a good alternative until it's repaired.

I got Jizanthapus out of his bath while Louie continued spinning around the bathroom. I wrapped him up in a towel like a baby, and tried to calm him down. I could tell that he really enjoyed being wrapped in a warm towel, because he would occasionally forget about plotting to kill me in my sleep and actually purr. The sound of his own contented purring would snap him back to reality, though. So he'd immediately stop purring, and just glare at me with the most vexed, enraged expression he could muster.

I finally set Jizanthapus down, and left him to help Louie catch his tail.

The Aftermath

When Lucy gets out of a bath, she kind of loses her mind for a bit. She tears through the house, stopping suddenly before bolting into another room. For some reason, I feel like she's trying to outrun the feeling of being wet. She hates water. She refuses to step foot in any lake or pool. She will absolutely not go outside if it's raining. In the tub she just stands there, head down, wondering what she did to be forced to go through such an ordeal, but she makes sure to let everyone know she's positively despondent about the whole thing.

So after bathing the kittens and leaving them in the bathroom, I come back into my bedroom to see Lucy running laps around the room, tilted to the side like a racer taking a turn in a motorcycle grand prix. This went on for a while, and I worked around it, spraying things and gathering laundry, and all that good stuff. By the time I was finished, Lucy was passed out in the floor. I went into the bathroom to check on the kittens, and put on their new flea collars.

Louie was laying in the floor, occasionally spinning 180 degrees in an attempt to catch his tail. He was purring and generally enjoying himself. Then I see Jizanthapus. He was sitting on the rug in the floor, licking his tail. The rest of him had dried off, but his usually fluffy tail was still pretty wet. He made eye contact with me, moved his tail so he was laying on it, and glowered at me from across the room.

Moving Forward

The kittens are going to live in my bathroom for a week or so, so we can see whether or not we need to hire an exterminator (and also so Jizanthapus doesn't try to slit my throat in my sleep). Lucy is being kept either in my bedroom or in the backyard. And that's that. Hopefully we managed to catch the issue before it became a big issue, and won't need to deal with any of this anymore.

-L

3 Libras

I'm up rather late for me, because my joints are fucking killing me tonight. While this isn't a new thing, it is something that doesn't fuck up my sleep schedule on a regular basis.

Oh, yeah. By the way, I have lupus.

A couple years ago, I was diagnosed after being hospitalized a few times for spontaneous kidney infections (it seems lupus loves to try to fuck with your organs, especially your kidneys). Autoimmune disorders are far more likely when the person has someone in their immediate family that also has an autoimmune disorder (my grandmother). The majority of people with lupus (actually, 90% of people that have been diagnosed) are women. Most of them develop symptoms of the illness between the ages of 15 to 44. Between that, my ANA test, my rare but noticeable butterfly rash (a reddening across the nose and cheeks, in the shape of a butterfly), my joint pain, my occasional fatigue, and my numerous, hospitalizing kidney infections that seemed to come out of nowhere, I was diagnosed. 

It's interesting to watch people react to my explaining to them that I have an autoimmune disease. Some people are overly sympathetic. Some people come off as really uncomfortable about the whole thing. Some people decide to quote Dr. House and tell me it's never lupus (which makes me want to give them the worst of all of my symptoms, if only for an hour, so they'll never say something so terribly insensitive to anyone with any disorder ever again). Some people read me well, realize that it's just something I live with and am okay with, and smile and continue whatever conversation we were having that led us to that topic (those people are my favorites). 

I rarely talk about being in pain, or feeling fucking exhausted, or being frustrated because I can't paint or play guitar due to my joints trying to kill me, or my worries about encountering anyone with any kind of communicable sickness (that I will inevitably get, and be stuck with for weeks), or my embarrassment that forces me to hide out in my house when my face gets that ridiculous butterfly rash and I really don't feel up for explaining to people why it looks like I'm blistery and perpetually blushing. 

I loathe feeling like people feel sorry for me. And what I hate even more is coming off as a weak, pity-seeking woman. 

Don't get me wrong. I'm sure there are very few people in this world that truly enjoy being viewed as weak people. But my aversion to being viewed that way is huge. 

So there you have it. My forced inability to sleep gave me time to write something down. Thank christ that it's only my hips and elbows that are acting up tonight. Otherwise I wouldn't be able to type worth a damn. 

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-L