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Jan. 22nd, 2021 10:19 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
omnia_mutanturI've been saying I think my feelings are broken. Not like I'm broken-hearted, more like they got stuck in one gear and I can't shift. The inauguration had me everything from silent tears trickling down my cheeks to full on soblaughing/laughsobbing. I still tear up at seeing pictures of Biden with a mask on, and I think the past four years have lowered all my expectations down to sea level, but it's still a delight to see them achieved.
Someone else said "we gloat, we breathe, we organize", someone else said it needed to be cross stitched and voila, I made the thing. I can't find the iron to press it, but it exists and I'm quite proud of myself (and able to give it to the person who said the thing). The kerning on cross stitch alphabets vexes me greatly, but not enough to find a font on a large enough scale that the problems are more correctable.
I know I'm not going to write about it, I know I'm not going to read it, so why do I get angry at other people's BRCA memoirs? I wonder if there was a time when I was going to try to write about it, I suspect there was, but I think I didn't notice the time when it was raw enough to talk about with passion and not raw enough to send me into tailspins. which isn't exactly true, I still spin out some days, worrying that I'm still traumatized by something that I've run out the clock on, though I don't think I'd ever tell someone else that it was time for them to stop having feelings about something.
I had my scary appointment, it wasn't as scary as I feared, I learned my skin cancer risk is slightly elevated and got another fact to try to shove in my little brothers' faces to see if they'll get tested and find out (currently, they both believe that telling their doctor that they've got a BRCA+ sister is as good as getting the test themselves). But I also found out that Aetna will cover the HRT I'm currently on only if I try and cannot tolerate three alternate medications first. Which is a lot of time to spend potentially crashing back down into depression, so I'm not sure how hard to fight or if I'm going rest on the unreasonable amount of financial privilege I've got and pay out of pocket until I feel like I'm in a place with a little more stress tolerance (which I can't see happening sooner than a year or so out).
The dishwasher might come tomorrow between 12-4. My superstitious brain is telling me that I should play some weird sort of chicken with the delivery window, like at a restaurant going to the bathroom as some waitperson-summoning ritual, if I stay downstairs and behave as if it's not going to show up, maybe that'll be the incantation that makes it show up. And it turns out I'm having some pretty strong feelings about the idea of going to a place with fancy napkins and someone bringing me my food and filling my water glass and I think most of them are wistful or whatever backwards facing incredulity is called, unable to believe that was really a thing I did.
Someone else said "we gloat, we breathe, we organize", someone else said it needed to be cross stitched and voila, I made the thing. I can't find the iron to press it, but it exists and I'm quite proud of myself (and able to give it to the person who said the thing). The kerning on cross stitch alphabets vexes me greatly, but not enough to find a font on a large enough scale that the problems are more correctable.
I know I'm not going to write about it, I know I'm not going to read it, so why do I get angry at other people's BRCA memoirs? I wonder if there was a time when I was going to try to write about it, I suspect there was, but I think I didn't notice the time when it was raw enough to talk about with passion and not raw enough to send me into tailspins. which isn't exactly true, I still spin out some days, worrying that I'm still traumatized by something that I've run out the clock on, though I don't think I'd ever tell someone else that it was time for them to stop having feelings about something.
I had my scary appointment, it wasn't as scary as I feared, I learned my skin cancer risk is slightly elevated and got another fact to try to shove in my little brothers' faces to see if they'll get tested and find out (currently, they both believe that telling their doctor that they've got a BRCA+ sister is as good as getting the test themselves). But I also found out that Aetna will cover the HRT I'm currently on only if I try and cannot tolerate three alternate medications first. Which is a lot of time to spend potentially crashing back down into depression, so I'm not sure how hard to fight or if I'm going rest on the unreasonable amount of financial privilege I've got and pay out of pocket until I feel like I'm in a place with a little more stress tolerance (which I can't see happening sooner than a year or so out).
The dishwasher might come tomorrow between 12-4. My superstitious brain is telling me that I should play some weird sort of chicken with the delivery window, like at a restaurant going to the bathroom as some waitperson-summoning ritual, if I stay downstairs and behave as if it's not going to show up, maybe that'll be the incantation that makes it show up. And it turns out I'm having some pretty strong feelings about the idea of going to a place with fancy napkins and someone bringing me my food and filling my water glass and I think most of them are wistful or whatever backwards facing incredulity is called, unable to believe that was really a thing I did.
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Date: 2021-01-23 01:51 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-01-25 04:55 am (UTC)