Don’t Call It a Comeback

….because it’s really not. I can’t promise to be on top of my blogging for the next couple weeks, there’s school and some other stuff going on that’s making me not too enthusiastic. But anyway. Here’s my latest short piece for my writing class (copping out hardcore on this blog post, I know, but I hope you enjoy the writing). OH and it’s about MS. The assignment was to reclaim something. Also, here’s the song that this post’s title is from, in case you were wondering.

Reclaiming a Body

My veins are easily accessible and the blood which flows through them has excellent pressure. The technician injecting my contrast material says I don’t look my weight and wonders aloud if she’s giving me too much by accident. The material flows into my vein, which was easy for her to tap, as she says this and I smile back up at her while lying on the table which is called a bed. It is not a bed.

When she is done, there is a snapping sound that I never understand and have always been too scared to figure out. I don’t look, ever. The snapping sound, she folds my arm over me, I am not allowed to move. She presses a button and the table/bed rises and then moves back inside the tunnel that is the MRI machine.

The headphones covering my ears play hip hop quietly and soon the noises of the MRI mingle with beats.

Ten more minutes, says the technician’s voice, I hear that through the headphones too.

I am alone.

My subcutaneous layer is too thick in some places and too thin in others. At the gym I’m not supposed to work out my arms because I already don’t have enough subcutaneous tissue there. There needs to be tissue there so I can do injections there, my stomach has already been eliminated as an injection site because of the long scar that runs across it.

Appendectomies done in small towns leave scars three times bigger than those done in big cities.

I am a collection of easily accessible veins and too much or too little subcutaneous tissue and a brain and a spine which get lesions sometimes and a long, thick scar across my stomach and a small, circular scar on my left arm and a small scar underneath my chin and a small scar on my forehead and a small tattoo behind my right ear and eyes which don’t focus well without corrective lenses.

I am identifiable. I am a body, I am the property of doctors who have been fixing me and testing me since I was just born and almost died and they told my parents eighty percent chance of death and if she lives she will be mentally retarded.

I am not mentally retarded, or they say developmentally delayed now. They still said mentally retarded back in nineteen ninety two.

This body though has been mine as well. It has grown and changed and stretched and sagged though puberty is not something I have ever been comfortable talking about. The word puberty has never been a fluent part of my vocabulary.

I think about in movies when someone dies and someone else has to go to the morgue and identify and claim the body. Because the previous owner has left, shall we say. If I were to die, I don’t know if they’d do that. Maybe the doctors would continue to poke and prod this body which is mainly theirs and my absence mentally would be not an issue. They would not need to call anyone, and there would be no body bag because I would be lying on another table which is not a bed being cut open and then sewn up again and fluids would be taken before they dried up and another MRI would occur and this time they would not need to tell me not to move.

I want my leg back plz

Things I think that I don’t like to say:

-I want my life back now

-I don’t feel like me anymore

-How did this even happen?

-This is not actually happening

-None of this is real

Because as my writing prof points out, those are pretty cliche sick person things. He says I’m pretty good at not being cliche otherwise.

Symptoms from the past 24 hours:


-my entire right leg being numb

-my feet being tingly

-my hands being numb/tingly

-my face being tingly




to which I say: please stop, I have a lot of work to do and it’s not fair.


Will go back to trying to be a sick person with original thoughts now.


Note to Self

Dear Self,

You’re pretty cute, did you know that? Your hair is really cool, I actually think the dye job looks kinda nice. And you’re like… smart and stuff. Maybe we should hang out some time? Go to like… a pizza place? A movie? My house? Hang out a bit?

You thought I was serious, didn’t you? F no bro, I’m so not interested. Here’s what you actually should know: your 40 page gov paper is not going to get written unless you start writing it. Please do that immediately. Or else.




The thing that happens when you brag about how awesome sauce-um your life is on your blog is that less awesome sauce-um things start to happen in rapid succession.

Oh well! Resilience is key. Hope your weekends have been fantastic, clearly you shouldn’t blog about them if so.

In related news, this is my guinea pig’s grave.

My mom and brothers buried her. She died on Friday the 13th. I guess this is kind of a silly thing to be sad about. However, guinea pigs are great pets in that they are always silly and worried and so no matter how silly and worried you are, they can cheer you up by being more so. Minnie was six years old which is very old for a guinea pig. A lot of things have changed in my life in the past six years.

Can’t promise I’ll be blogging a lot in the next week, as I have a 40 page paper due the 23rd which is already kicking my ass. Blogging is my favorite form of procrastination though, so maybe you’ll be hearing from me a lot.

I do have a ray of sunshine (not the literal sunshine) (there is so much sunshine here now) (that’s also really good) in my life though in the form of mah boyfran visiting 🙂 he’s been here since Friday and he’ll be here til Thursday and we are all happy and whatnot to be reunited.

Also, my gov class is doing a simulated election right now. Here’s the webpage for the campaign I’m involved in. Suzy fo’ Prez.

Love and Friday the 13th,


Das What’s Up

Hi guys! I have some exciting news!

I’m so happy 🙂 and grateful and stuff 🙂 Any of you want to tell me what’s up with you? Any exciting news with yall? Tell me in the comments!


Hello and welcome to the Procrasti-Nation. Our credo is something along the lines of “We’ll do it tomorrow” but the great thing about tomorrow is that it’s always a day away.

But really, we’ll do it tomorrow. Except that midterm, which we’ll actually do in 11 hours. Only trust us if we specify, otherwise Shit. Just. Will. Not. Get. Done.

The Procrasti-Nation is characterized by tables with extra chairs pulled over in the Science Library ringing with loud laughter. Are you laughing about Physics 112? I doubt it. There is nothing funny about Introductory Physics II, my friends. Nothing.

Here I am, a secret member of the Procrasti-Nation. You might thing I’m working. But I’m not. I’m blogging about procrastinating. Which is kind of meta-procrastination, right?

Text Messages Between My Mother and I:

Mom: How are you?

Me: If I say stressed is it just stereotypical?

Mom: It’s just April in academia

Me: I hate April in Academia. I want Valium or Adderall or both.

Mom: Yeah it’s rough. How about water and sleep?

Me: I guess that’s like the same thing but not drugs.

Now I’m going to go do my favorite kind of procrastination: Doing Other Work That’s Not As Urgent. In this case, it’s the Gov 245 paper that’s due April 23rd. What day is it today? Just barely the 11th, thanks for asking. And what day is my Physics midterm? That would also be the 11th.

Proud citizen of the Procrasti-Nation, signing off.

Vacation? Heyyo

I went on a brief vacation. Not to anywhere, per se, but from something.

Due to some mix-ups with prescriptions and shipping I got stuck without my meds for a couple days. I know I should be upset, even a little scared (because my meds are protecting me from The Relapses).

I’m just mainly happy. This is what I’ve been asking for since I started on Copaxone a year ago (pretty much exactly a year) because Copaxone sucks. I’ve just been wanting a couple days where I don’t have to worry about injecting, or about needles and sharps containers and do I have alcohol swabs? Is it safe to use Purell instead? Can I use a tissue instead of a cotton swab? A water bottle instead of an ice pack? Clearly I’ve gotten less scrupulous in my injecting.

There is literally nothing worse than the moment every night when I realize that I have to do my injection. There is nothing more annoying than the fact that it’s not already in my consciousness. Maybe if I woke up every day already knowing, already remembering, it wouldn’t be so awful. Or maybe it’s good that I don’t spend all day dreading it.

When I get my MS tattoo (which won’t be until at least October), it’s going to be a set of commemorative arrows. The arrows are going to be

a) going from left leg to right

b) from right leg to left arm

c) from left arm to right arm

d) from right arm to right hip

e) from right hip to left hip

f) and then back to left leg

My mom pointed out that maybe someday I won’t be on Copaxone and the arrows won’t be “useful” anymore. They’re not there to be useful. I am not an instruction manual for my medications. What I mean by it is that for me, it was really hard to start injecting. I spent the first four days crying for half an hour before I even injected (and then, being inexperienced and badly taught, crying for a while about hitting muscle) (if you’re just starting out on Copaxone, you really don’t want to hit the muscle).

They are there to say I am Brave. I spent the first 18 years of my life passing out and having seizures (convulsions? terminology? it means the same thing, @parents) every time I needed a medical procedure involving needles. Now I inject myself every day. I am Brave.

It’s been a nice vacation. The white box on my porch made me half relieved, half terrified all over again.