-10.
The baby's kicking away, doing great-- and I'm just thinking about how he'll get fed up with me and take her away, and if he doesn't, I'll make a mistake and CPS will find out I'm autistic and that will be the end.
The dog's coming along nicely-- bearing weight on his hind legs for longer periods of time, voluntarily moving his bowels and bladder, aware of when he needs to "go" and motivated to go to his usual spot if someone points out the non-verbal cues in time for me to help him get there. His tail was still fully paralyzed yesterday. Today he has control of about 2/3 of it-- lifted it to poop twice, switched it out of my fingers when I messed with it, wagged it once, and almost managed to tuck it.
I clipped his toenails today-- which he savagely hates. Usually the vet gets paid to do it, but my mother-in-law needed proof that he really did have feeling (and therefore nerve function) in his hind legs, so I got out the doggie clippers and did my best. On his right hind leg-- the worst one-- he looked around when I clipped the first one, winced when I clipped the second one, tried to pull his formerly totally paralyzed leg away and actually succeeded in moving it when I clipped the third one, and tried to bite me when I clipped the fourth one (his normal reaction as well as one that that, a week ago, required the vet squeezing the crap out of his toes with hemostats to elicit).
He ruptured two discs and went through spinal surgery a week ago. These behaviors on this timeline are excellent indicators that the vet is right-- we have every reason to believe he will make a full and complete recovery in a matter of weeks.
Too bad it's not fast enough for my father-in-law, who just can't stand watching me take care of him and watching him struggle. Not suffer-- the dog is happy. Head cocked, ears up, good appetite to the point of getting on our nerves begging-- as happy as I've ever seen the obese, anxiety-ridden, ill-trained, badly spoiled weiner dog. Acting like HIMSELF in every way-- he just can't walk. Yet. If he keeps struggling and making progress, my guesstimate is that he'll walk well around the middle or end of May.
Too bad we're not going to put in the time, 'cause that's too much trouble for a damned dog even if he does love it very very very very much. It hurts the old man's pride too much to watch the dog fight to walk when HE HIMSELF won't do it-- change his diet and take care of his heart and either learn to live life from a wheelchair or get the pacemaker to help with the atrial fibrillation and the prosthetic and PT to learn to balance minus the three smallest toes on his left foot.
You know, I didn't pay for the damn surgery and agree to do the PT with the dog for a couple hours every day for a measly six or eight or twelve weeks because I thought I'd get gratitude. I didn't do it to buy better treatment from my in-laws. I didn't do it so they'd like me more. I don't expect those things. I wasn't trying to buy that stuff-- I'm smart enough to know that you're either likable or you're not, and that stuff isn't for sale. I do enjoy doing it-- it's gratifying to see the little improvements day after day after day and to see the things I learn as we go-- but that wasn't what I was thinking about.
I didn't do it so they'd consider the debt for taking care of my kids while I was in the happy house and in therapy paid off-- or so I could consider it paid off. There isn't any debt, it can't be paid off, I'll always feel guilty and be grateful, and that's just what good families do when it becomes necessary. Some really smart Jewish guy from Nazareth told us to be good to each other and help each other out-- some people say he was, like, God-in-the-flesh and I'm not sure about all that but I definitely believe in what the man said.
I didn't do it so I could feel like that dude. I'm not that dude. He was Jesus Christ or Yeshua ben Yosef or whatever the heck his name really was-- he died a long time ago and I never actually met him. I'm BuyerBeware, Big Al's daughter, and that's all I ever really wanted to be (although I did hope to do a good job of being some Aspie hillbilly human girl from West Virginia).
I did it because I didn't think it was fair that they should lose a very much beloved pet that could realistically be not merely saved but restored to full functioning simply because he injured his back at a bad time-- when money is low and bills are backed up (hello-- welcome to the postindustrial economy-- it happens to everyone!) and neither of them have the strength to do the work themselves (one recovering from open heart surgery, the other recovering from a partial shoulder replacement-- hey, congratulations, you took pretty sh***y care of yourselves and still lived into your 60's-- it happens, wish it had happened for my folks). I thought it would be really cool if they could see their dog recover and have their dog back and pet him and coo at him and overfeed him and fail to discipline him for a few more years instead of putting their dog down and grieving over it and having TIMING-- not the dog's best interests or what is humane or even, "Sorry, Boy, but we've got to pay the mortgage" but TIMING-- be the factor that made the choice. I thought it would GIVE THEM SOME JOY. Something to BE HAPPY ABOUT.
Well, I was wrong. I should have known I was wrong-- it was a textbook stupid f*****g Aspergian thing to think. Saving the dog just caused more stress that no one but me was willing to deal with. I didn't think of that when I said I thought we should do it. Way to go, Rain Man.
Then DH drives all the way down here because he needs someone to patch up his ego after six months of being alone-- even though I call him multiple times a day and try to sound upbeat-- because, let's face it, after fourteen years of loving The Creature from the Aspergian Lagoon, his ego's not in that great of shape anyway. He needs to be romanced and pursued so he can feel like a man again.
Instead of giving him what he needs, I offer up an unshaven woman in baggy PJ pants and a sweaty T-shirt that I'd been wearing all day. I don't remember what we were eating-- something I'd made, but it really wasn't very good. The meat was tough and the veggies were overcooked. I didn't even offer to get him a plate-- I hugged him and kissed him and squealed that I was glad to see him and asked why he'd come and if everything was OK about three times and told him he was welcome to fix hiself a plate in the kitchen and I'd love to have him eat with me. I didn't even think to make polite, pleasant small-talk like, "So tell me about your drive." I started right in with, "It is SOOOO good to see you-- just to see you and touch you and know that you're with us! I don't know how much I'm going to have to offer-- I'm afraid you're going to be disappointed-- but it's awesome you're here! Oh, thank you so much for coming!" Me, me, me, me.
Then I left him sitting on the couch to go outside and have a cigarette because I was totally shocked and overwhelmed and needed a couple minutes to get my head together and figure out how I was going to integrate him into my 18-hour day with something like grace-- or just reassure myself that I'd figure it out in a day or two. Me, me, me. What a completely f*****g Aspergian thing to do-- exactly the reason, as he points out, that experts and NTs see us as callous and unempathic.
And then I give him tired old same-position-we-always-use sex, after he has to hint around for it for way too long, with insufficient foreplay, and too much pubic hair.
And then when he yells at me, I actually get upset about it. I cry and bawl and apologize profusely and beg to know what the hell he expected. Instead of sincerely-but-without-emotional-charge saying, "You're right, Honey. Gee, I'm really sorry I hurt you. Thanks for the input. I promise I'll do better tomorrow." Like I know I'm supposed to. And making damn good and sure I deliver on it-- hey, I had 16 years of following my cousin around in which to learn how to pretend to be a sex goddess. She might be a cold-hearted self-serving b***h without a drop of human decency or compassion, but she makes people happy and I used to pray to God every night to show me how to be more like her.
Yup. I'm definitely a f**kup. The more I try to be a functioning person, the more evident it becomes that I'm a f**kup.
I hurt other people when I try. I mean to help them, to do things that make them happier and their world a better place, but it usually turns out wrong.
I HAVE to make myself remember and accept that I am broken and cannot, should not, must not try. That I am capable of only a very menial and limited life. That I have far, far more than I should and must be very careful lest I lose it all.
I HAVE to make myself remember and accept that, because of my disability, I am fortunate to be a member of a servant class. I cook meals and clean floors and scrub toilets and wipe butts and do what I am told without comment or question, and THAT IS ALL.
Can anybody help me figure out a way to accept that and NOT get angry because I know in my heart I am capable of so much more?? Accept that and NOT stim/cry myself to exhaustion (but not, I note, sleep) and then start planning my suicide because I don't want to live that way??
Guess Risperdal will help me with that, right?? I wasn't overmedicated-- I had lost the ability to articulate my feelings, but I still felt. I was undermedicated. I'll learn to tolerate the sedation eventually, I'll relearn how to do chores eventually, it doesn't matter if I can play with my kids or not as long as I follow the program, and I can take Neurontin and muscle relaxers to help me deal with the pain. Tardive dyskinesia is really just embarrassing-- it's not life threatening, it's not that big of a deal, I'm sure someone will politely ask people to excuse my twitching and drooling because I can't help the fact that I'm a-u-t--i-s-t-i-c and this is caused by the medication that makes it easier. Diabetes and hypotension are managable. NMS is pretty unlikely-- but hey, if it happens, I keep my mouth shut until it kills me and don't have to live that way any more!! !!
That's the way it is. That's the way it has to be.
Someone PLEASE shoot me and save me from this Hell, or help me find a way to accept it with a willing, happy, grateful heart.
God, please make me mute and invisible.
_________________
"Alas, our dried voices when we whisper together are quiet and meaningless, as wind in dry grass, or rats' feet over broken glass in our dry cellar." --TS Eliot, "The Hollow Men"
Last edited by BuyerBeware on 19 Mar 2012, 3:33 am, edited 2 times in total.
18 Mar 2012, 6:22 pm
