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Jagged Little Pill

24 Aug

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Contest ends TOMORROW!! Tuesday, August 25th at 9 p.m. I’ll announce the winner Wednesday, August 26th.

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In the newest update of Mama’s Butt and Anxiety Saga, I’ve now spent two weeks taking Xanax when needed for my explosive butt disorder anxiety issues.

It’s worked fairly well but the number of days that I need to take medicine (in a non-addictive, stomach-wrenching because of nervousness and stress kind of way) have definitely out numbered the days that I can not take it.

Basically, the only days that I don’t have symptoms are the ones that I stay at home.

So my conclusion thus far is that I have three options:

(1) Stop taking Xanax and all other medications to be as healthy a vessel for a possible future baby as possible.

This option also requires me to wear adult diapers and be bald, as I would have literally pulled all my hair out due to stress. Oh, and I’d probably turn in to an agoraphobic hermit, too.

(2) Keep taking Xanax, become addicted, quickly become a crack whore and die in a dirty alley somewhere giving a homeless dude a hand job for a swig of Pepto.

Not horrible, but not ideal.

(3) Switch medications to something daily to manage my anxiety and pair with therapy to gain coping and management techniques.

From what I’ve read online (because if it’s on Wikipedia, it must be true) is that this option means that most likely my future children will resemble a potato in form and have the intelligence of a moldy piece of cheese. If I’m lucky, I will be able to teach my misshapen potato babies to grunt the ABCs and how to do some menial yard work (because why else do people have children? I have weeds to be pulled, people.)

Man, doesn’t a baked potato with the works sound so good right now?

But I digress.

Actually, the anecdotal evidence online suggests that a medicine, like Zoloft, probably won’t horribly deform my future Cletus the Fetus any more than my natural genetics will so I’ve decided to make the switch from Addictive Pill Poppin’ Mama to Official Crazy Pill Popping Mama.

And, of course, I call them “crazy pills” with all due respect. “Happy pills” make them sounds like their made out of unicorn droppings by leprechauns and “brain pills” sound like some sort of futuristic robot experiment (Soilent Green is People!!)

The next step of the Saga is to get an appointment with a therapist to discuss coping mechanisms so (hopefully) I won’t have to take the crazy pills forever. While I’m totally surprised by how nonchalant I am with pill-popping, (because, well, who isn’t popping pills?), I’m hesitating on contacting a real honest-to-god psychologist. Because, therapy? Isn’t that for broken people?

This coming from someone with a B.A. in Psychology.

Yeah, I’m kind of an asshole. (surprise!)

But I swear I’m going to make an appointment to chat with someone in the next few weeks. Somehow I just envision laying on some sweaty dark leather coach while some creepy old dude asks questions about sexual repression (uh, none of your business creepy dude. I prefer to discuss private matters like that on my blog.) and my fear of clown dolls (because, well, duh. Poltergeist, anyone?)

'nuf said.
Song title: Jagged Little Pill by Alanis Morissette

Mommy’s Little Helper

7 Aug

Last week, right before the Auburn Road Rally of 2009, I finally had an appointment with a doctor to discuss my craziness anxiety issues.

After having the ass camera procedure and analyzing (and over-analyzing) my symptoms, I became 99% certain that I have some sort of general anxiety disorder that has been YEARS in the making.

The first time I remember having stomach issues was (surprise!) my first semester of law school. Things gradually got worse and worse until this summer when my stress and anxiety peaked and the stomach issues got so bad that I turned in to a hermit.

When I found out that I’d have to wait two weeks between my colonoscopy and my doctor’s appointment, my anxiety got so bad that I thought I’d have to stay in the confines of my house until the appointment. When the appointment finally arrived, I was convinced of my ailment and what I needed for it: pills.

Going in to the appointment, I was certain that I was going to come off as some addict that was begging for drugs. How do I tell him what’s wrong without it sounding like, “Give me Valium! Nom nom nom!!”?

When I sat down with the doctor, he quickly put me at ease. I mean, he wasn’t hard to look at either…


Sorry, Mr. Bee. You know that smart, nerdy white dudes do it for me.

I was even offered an “annual exam” since I am behind in my womanly maintenance (otherwise known as “Yippee! I get to have my cervix scraped off today!”), but I quickly made a new rule that men, especially cute nice men, who aren’t my husband are not allowed in my vaginal region.

Okay, so that’s not exactly a NEW rule, but I have never really thought to apply it to doctors until recently. Is it weird that if the doctor had been some mean troll of a guy, I probably wouldn’t have had a problem with it?

Anywho, so Dr. McDreamy progressed to a dialog about my symptoms, every couple of minutes suggesting another physical ailment that could be the cause. Every time, I countered with, “yeah, but it really seems to happen when I’m stressed and/or anxious about something…”

He thinks I’m a druggie. He TOTALLY thinks I’m a druggie.

Off he would go with another medical rationale to explain my symptoms. “But it’s way more sporadic that that…I really think it might be anxiety related…”

Fuck, why did I have to dress up today. He totally thinks I’m some Housewives of South King County needing her fix…

Eventually, he came up with three options, the first of which was “You know that you don’t have something like cancer that is going to kill you so you could just learn to deal with it and not take anything for it.”

Uh, yeah. SO not an option.

Oh my god. He totally thinks I’m a druggie now. Am I acting like I’m begging for drugs? I feel like I’m begging for drugs. Shit. He’s probably going to call security now…

The next option is taking something on a need-to-take basis for anxiety.

Hmmm…well, yeah, I guess that could work…

Haha. Sucker. I totally don’t sound like a druggie now.

Shit, unless I’m a totally bad actress and that’s what druggie’s would say when they are trying to get their next fix.

Well, you get the idea. Basically I felt like some weirdo pleading for drugs, but hell, in the end I got some Xanax, so I guess I actually legitimately need it. Who knew?

So I am officially lumping myself in to that category of people. You know, the Pill Poppers. But you know what is really interesting?

During this whole process, I was really fighting against having to take medication for a problem that seems to be mentally associated. I didn’t want to be one of those people that have to take medication because that would mean that something was WRONG with me.

And you know what I discovered? When I started talking openly to people about my issues, practically everyone I know has taken some sort of anxiety medication or anti-depressant in their lives (and/or still does). This complex we give ourselves about how taking an anti-depressant must mean we’re broken or all alone with our problems is totally false!

Not only am I happier and less stressed now that I have something I can take when I need to, I realized that women I have known for years have needed to do to the same thing!

Not only am I helping myself, but I hope I’m helping those women, too, by being open about what I’m going through and saying, you know what? It’s okay that we need a little help.

And it’s REALLY okay to ask for help when you need it.

Song title: Mommy’s Little Helper by The Rolling Stones

Face Down Ass Up – The Reckoning

17 Jul

Due to popular demand from my stalkers fans (you know, the fans that wanted me to Skype the whole process), here is the continuing saga of, well, my ass (or more accurately, my colonoscopy).

When we left our ass-tastic story, your truly was settled up on the toilet with her laptop sitting on a chair in front of her, simultaneously being entertained by Dexter, Season Three, and water shooting out of her butt.

Okay, so the explosive diarrhea wasn’t so entertaining.

By about 11 in the evening, my “explosions” had calm down enough for me to get a little bit of shut eye. Lord knows I needed my sleep for Round Two.

Oh yes, my friends. There is a SECOND DOSE.

Not only did I have to attempt to stomach more of the lemon semen juice, but I got to wake up at 5 in the morning in order to have time to drink and poo for hours before we left for the doctor’s office.

And shut up, five o’clock in the morning is early! I know some of you (I won’t name names *cough*Jamie*cough* have inhuman little beasts that wake up regularly at 5 a.m., but my devil’s spawn little angel sleeps at least until 7. She’s been known to be hog-tied in her bed sleep until 9 or 10 some mornings.

Those mornings don’t come often enough.

But I digress.

So I woke up, cheerful and ready to tackle the day…oh wait, no. That wasn’t me. I was pissed, hungry and not ready to poo for another four hours.

Somehow chugging the Devil’s Semen (trademark!) was way easier the second time around, even though I will admit that I only drank 75% of it. Even so, I got this comment on my discharge paperwork:

Proof that my ass is spectacular

So suck it, MoviPrep! I figured that if some 300-pound cheeseburger pounding linebacker would get prescribed the same amount of Shit Juice (trademark again!), then I shouldn’t have to drink the entire thing to clean out the pipes.

Butt (I know it’s getting old, I just can’t help it), in the “end” (seriously, I fucking crack {haha, I did it AGAIN!} myself up) that was the worst part.

Once we reached the doctor’s office, I was nervous, but mostly about my super hero ability to thwart the power of anesthesia. The nurse called me back and was quite possibly the nicest nurse I have ever encountered at a doctor’s office. I suppose that when your job is dealing with people who have just been through hell and are now going to have a camera shoved up their ass, it might help a bit to be friendly. And it worked!

She got me set up in a tiny curtained off area where I stripped from the waist down (bow chica wow wow) and I was pleasantly surprised when I was able to keep my tank top on (note to future patients: wear a shirt without sleeves and you’ll probably get to keep it on!). She even offered to let me keep my flip flops on, but somehow having flip flops on didn’t really scream of comfort (mentally or physically)! I’d just be that weird chick being pushed down the hallway with her flip flops on.

After the nurse got the IV going, she gave me some medicine to combat any nausea (due to my waking up and puking in the middle of IV sedation habit) and I think that helped calm me down a bit too. Well, that and the fact that I couldn’t get nervous diarrhea since I had no poo in my system.

Side note: Seriously, I can’t believe you people actually want to hear about this stuff. I really recommend a psychiatric evaluation…

Anywho (sorry, Kelcey), after a whooping five minute wait, I was wheeled back through the hallway to the procedure room. My nervous humor must have kicked in because, for some reason, I found it necessary to wave to the nurses getting out of the way of my bed like I was in a parade.

What can I say? It seemed funny at the time. Too bad I didn’t have the excuse of IV sedation yet to blame on my craziness…

Once I was in the procedure room, which was smaller than I imagined (Sissy suggested that due to my ass size, they had to reserve the extra large room for me), I was welcomed by the doctor and his assistant. By the time the doctor asked me what plans I had for the summer, I could already feel the anesthesia working it’s magic.

And let’s be honest, I’m fairly certain that I said some inappropriate things while sedated. I mean, let’s face facts: if the “average” person says embarrassing things, can you imagine what some unfiltered wacknut like me would say under the drugs? It probably went something like this:

Doctor: Okay, Mama Bee, we’re going to insert the camera now.

Mama Bee: Alright, Doc! Let’s make sure that thing goes in the right hole, okay? Heh heh.

Doctor: What we’re seeing now is…

Mama Bee: Have you ever shoved this thing up your own ass? I bet it would fucking hurt! Can I get a what what?

Doctor: Okay, maam. Let’s focus on the procedure now.

Mama Bee: Did you just call me “maam”?! If I didn’t have a camera shoved up my ass right now, I would punch you in the throat, mother fucker!

And so on and so forth.

Come on, you know I’m right.

Before I knew it, I was awake in the recovery area. No grogginess really. Just like I took a pleasant little nap. They fed me some apple juice, which I downed like a tequila shot, I was so fucking starving, and Mr. Bee took me on home to gorge on McDonalds and mini powdered donuts. I am the anti-health nut.

The rest of the day, my body took it’s time getting “back on track”. That’s a nice way of saying that I kind of had the shits until I got enough food back in my body to be on schedule.

While the results of the biopsies (taken just to check for cellular abnormalities) aren’t in yet, the overall outcome was that my ass, okay fine, my COLON, is it great shape and my unbelievable pooping issues are most likely not due to a physical ailment.

Next Chapter in Mama Bee (colon) It’s Complicated: A doctor appointment two weeks out to address my blossoming (wow, that makes it sounds lovely and not at all debilitating) anxiety disorder issues.

Waiting for two weeks with an ever-growing anxiety problem is going to be FANTASTIC. Really, I can’t wait. /end sarcasm.

Song title: Face Down Ass Up by 2 Live Crew