Tuesday, September 21, 2021
This was a diary of sorts for a time. It's not the first public health diary I have had though the intent is it will be the last and I've redacted most of that.
I had fantasies that if I kept a public journal, people could follow the details and see what I saw and get some use out of it. That never materialized and I redacted most of it because it seems to be a lot of downside to have that out there with no real upside.
It is 4:29 pm right now. Around thirteen hours ago, I woke up after maybe three hours of sleep and began throwing up.
I likely spent two hours throwing up and showering and so utterly torturously miserable that I likely would have tried to kill myself had I not been certain the extreme torture would be short lived and this would constitute a sea change and I would henceforth feel better from here on out.
The "I would really like to be dead now" part lasted about two hours or so. For the next few hours, I would nap, wake up in pain and throw up some more. I don't know how long that lasted before I finally just slept.
I still feel like I need to throw up and also like I can't. I need fluids or food in me. I don't think I can throw up right now though I desperately wish I could because my gut is miserable and I would like the misery to go away.
This was likely triggered in part by me buying dry roasted macadamias a few days back to improve my selenium status and in part by the bathroom being cleaned. The plumbing issue that management has not fixed makes cleaning the bathroom all kinds of drama.
But while recent events likely helped trigger this, this is likely also the result of many other epic and cumulative events, starting with replacing particle board shelving and old curtains in the apartment back in the spring when I had stimulus check money and likely including the impact of the heat wave in late June or early July that was followed two or three weeks later by an epic traveling die-off rash.
Part of what I threw up was thick "ropes" of mucus. I've endured something similar in terms of how miserable I felt and the kinds of gunk I was bringing up only one other time: December 31, 2019.
At that time too, I wanted to kill myself but was clear the pure torture would be over shortly and then I would be permanently better and that is how it went down, though it also took me a month to recover.
My head space is more positive than it has been in some time though I am conteplating taking down or simply not further developing a site called Formulary of Life. I don't know how to help someone via blog post to recognize and endure what I have been through these past thirteen hours or so and I'm not sure I want to try.
I don't intend to recant anything but maybe I need to figure out how to shut up about that whole "I have CF and am getting well" thing. There is no upside to it. It's all downside.
I won't recant it because a. it's the truth and b. I saw a TV show once where someone speculated that when Joan of Arc recanted her claim that she was chosen of God while in prison, it absolutely didn't get her out of prison like she likely hoped and things may have gotten dramatically worse.
They surmised that the guards may have begun raping her after that and probably had not done so prior to that because "What if she really is chosen of God?" Her claim may have been some small protection while in prison.
I'm not in prison per se and I don't claim to be chosen of God, but I have certainly been given an excess of bullshit by a world that has some big problem with me talking about having CF and getting well. People have behaved so badly towards me, I can well imagine some people behaving even worse on whatever flimsy excuse they could come up with because, wow, the world is a shitty place full of shitty people.
I had fantasies that if I kept a public journal, people could follow the details and see what I saw and get some use out of it. That never materialized and I redacted most of it because it seems to be a lot of downside to have that out there with no real upside.
It is 4:29 pm right now. Around thirteen hours ago, I woke up after maybe three hours of sleep and began throwing up.
I likely spent two hours throwing up and showering and so utterly torturously miserable that I likely would have tried to kill myself had I not been certain the extreme torture would be short lived and this would constitute a sea change and I would henceforth feel better from here on out.
The "I would really like to be dead now" part lasted about two hours or so. For the next few hours, I would nap, wake up in pain and throw up some more. I don't know how long that lasted before I finally just slept.
I still feel like I need to throw up and also like I can't. I need fluids or food in me. I don't think I can throw up right now though I desperately wish I could because my gut is miserable and I would like the misery to go away.
This was likely triggered in part by me buying dry roasted macadamias a few days back to improve my selenium status and in part by the bathroom being cleaned. The plumbing issue that management has not fixed makes cleaning the bathroom all kinds of drama.
But while recent events likely helped trigger this, this is likely also the result of many other epic and cumulative events, starting with replacing particle board shelving and old curtains in the apartment back in the spring when I had stimulus check money and likely including the impact of the heat wave in late June or early July that was followed two or three weeks later by an epic traveling die-off rash.
Part of what I threw up was thick "ropes" of mucus. I've endured something similar in terms of how miserable I felt and the kinds of gunk I was bringing up only one other time: December 31, 2019.
At that time too, I wanted to kill myself but was clear the pure torture would be over shortly and then I would be permanently better and that is how it went down, though it also took me a month to recover.
My head space is more positive than it has been in some time though I am conteplating taking down or simply not further developing a site called Formulary of Life. I don't know how to help someone via blog post to recognize and endure what I have been through these past thirteen hours or so and I'm not sure I want to try.
I don't intend to recant anything but maybe I need to figure out how to shut up about that whole "I have CF and am getting well" thing. There is no upside to it. It's all downside.
I won't recant it because a. it's the truth and b. I saw a TV show once where someone speculated that when Joan of Arc recanted her claim that she was chosen of God while in prison, it absolutely didn't get her out of prison like she likely hoped and things may have gotten dramatically worse.
They surmised that the guards may have begun raping her after that and probably had not done so prior to that because "What if she really is chosen of God?" Her claim may have been some small protection while in prison.
I'm not in prison per se and I don't claim to be chosen of God, but I have certainly been given an excess of bullshit by a world that has some big problem with me talking about having CF and getting well. People have behaved so badly towards me, I can well imagine some people behaving even worse on whatever flimsy excuse they could come up with because, wow, the world is a shitty place full of shitty people.
