“It’s Just a Panic Attack”

I’m trying to remember when this occurred. I think it was as my partner was miraculously healed from his organ failure (see previous post), but not long after. At this point, I was aware of 4 of his family members being involved. One was about to leave but I didn’t know when. I thought he was still there.

I was getting pretty wound up. First, partner is dying, then he’s not. Keeping the house clean – BIL#1 was clueless, from how to sweep the floor to how to tear off a bag from the roll. He didn’t know how to call for an emergency. This became an issue.

I was having trouble breathing. Sweeping, pulling up heavy, full, bin bags, throwing out the detritus that collects if you don’t throw it away. Bending over is always a problem. I had to do it, over and over, and along with a dusty house, and the emotional stress, triggered a good sized asthma attack. I got panicky. I called my partner and asked for someone to come stay with me. Just in case it went south.

I thought two people were with him but it turned out, it was just BIL#1. BIL#1 arrives in the house about 10-15 minutes later. He didn’t know how to call emergency. I explained how it worked. He said okay and went to get a snack.

Now, I’d been sitting very still for at least 15-20 minutes. I was breathing ‘normally’. But if I’d tried to get up, it would have instantly been where it was when I called.

BIL#1 didn’t ask me if I needed or wanted anything. Water? Tea? Medication? Food? Nope to all. He did get his snack though. He comes back, says ‘It’s just a panic attack. I’m going back to your partner’, in a dismissive tone and leaves.

I was in shock. Pretty sure my mouth hung open. ‘Just a panic attack’ floored me. I know people who have panic attacks and it sure and hell isn’t something imaginary. It was insulting to the people who suffer from this, and hella insulting to me, as it’s something imaginary, just out for attention.

And second, he left me. He. Left. Me. Even now, weeks later, I’m shocked. If I had tried to get up, say to go to the toilet, I could have passed out, it was that bad. Just thinking of this day is tensing me up. Dismissive, ignorant and insulting, all in one easy sentence.

It took me 1 1/2 hours before I was able to get up and get a cup of tea.

I learned a lot about my BIL in that moment.

Catch up

I keep thinking, Oh, I’ll remember that! I’ll post in a couple of days.

Of course, I don’t remember.

I was in the hospital in august. Got out the 10th. I was triggered by the filthy house. Couldn’t breathe. They kept sending me home, and I’d be back in a couple of hours. The hospital system is so overwhelmed they do everything to keep from admitting people. When I was admitted, and then released days later, I was feeling pretty good.

The partner had to clean the house. Like, really clean it. Within a couple of days, he was sick. I was expecting this. He is the only person allowed to be sick in this household. If I’m sick, he’s sick in a couple of days, and it’s worse.

He went to bed. Whined continuously. Took little baby steps to get to the bathroom. Really milked it. I helped him, made sure he had food and water (something he doesn’t do for me) made sure he took his meds, etc. But honestly, I thought he was faking. Then he developed a fever. He wasn’t faking.

I kept trying to get him to call for an ambulance. He kept refusing. Until he couldn’t move, at all. Couldn’t get out of bed for the toilet and you can guess where that went. He didn’t tell me, but I found out when taking his temperature, he’d spiked up to 104f/40c. If I’d known, I would have called for an ambulance if he liked it or not. Finally, he admitted defeat and called for an ambulance. His fever was no longer too high, it was only 102f/38.8c. The ambulance service told him it wasn’t life-threatening and refused to pick him up.

So we called a secondary service – for non-life-threatening medical issues. They took him to the hospital for …what was the term? Public service or some such. Word got out quick and his family started showing up to take care of him. Which was good, he literally couldn’t raise his hand to drink and the nursing staff was so short staffed, they couldn’t care for him.

In short order, the oldest brother showed up. After a couple of days, he comes home from the hospital and says: he’s had a stroke and multiple organ failure. He has hours to days to live.

This was a lie.

It was gaslighting.

A couple of days later when I enquired about his organ failure, he says, quote. Orgain failure? He’s never had organ failure. I asked about his stroke, and my BIL waves his hand, It might have been a stroke, but MRI is indeterminate.

He gas lit me. For funzies. See, I can’t leave the house. I equate leaving the house with death. So I weigh each thing – is it worth dying for? Well, when I thought my partner was on his death bed, I said yes, it’s worth going out for. BIL says, but I thought you couldn’t leave the house? (but his tone was AHHA! I knew you could, you’re just faking it. Wanting attention.)

Ever since then, he has literally ignored me. He does not respond when I make a comment. He looks either through me or not at me at all. I’m not invisible. I do not exist.

There are many things I can bring up about my BIL, and I will. I don’t know all the ends and outs of what abusive behavior is, but I figure one or two things he’s doing would qualify.

I will be going into that in the next post. Hopefully soon. I have no one to talk to, so this is it. No one to talk to here, either, but better than just sobbing all day. I’m tired of crying.

My kitty still here :)

About a week after my previous post, I did have something happen. I was asleep and unaware of how much trouble I was having breathing. Then I felt my cat leap from my hip (the left leg was weaker, that’s how I knew it was her). I also hear the hiss of moving beads in my weighted blanket. This woke me up and I was able to deal with my breathing problem. Then for a long time, nothing from her. I felt she was gone.

This morning, I’m awake in bed but not wanting to get up. I hear a meow from the hall. (in her last year, she was a bit senile and would cry when she got lost in the hall.) At first, it didn’t register. Then she meowed again, much louder. I called “I’m in here, baby” then remembered.

I’m not dealing well with her loss. This might be my brain giving me hope she’s still around. I’m okay with that.

I’ve been trying to find another kitten. Not to replace her, nothing will do that. But to fill this cat-shaped hole in my heart. It’s amazing how difficult it is to find a kitten, they’re always gone by the time I find the ad, or they’re too far away. Not driving 6 hours to get to a kitten, then have 6 hours of screaming kitten back.

The universe is against me at the moment. No kitty for the silent scream.

Ghost Kitty

I’d had my best friend for over 20 years. She was my heart, the reason I kept struggling, the reason I stayed here. But her pain became too much and I finally did the unthinkable. I put my kitty to sleep. Oh, god, the pain is still too fresh.

I told my family, I hope the hell she comes back and haunts me, because life without her would be unbearable. So this might be wishful thinking. It might be my mind protecting me from life without her. If so… sure, okay, I’m in.

The day after she passed, I hear a meow. About four feet from me, at ground level, but so faint it sounded like it came from outside. I turn and look at the spot. I say “hey, baby“. And that was it. The meow sounded a little frustrated, as if she’d been trying to get my attention for some time. The interpretation would have been: ‘WTF happened? I wake up from a nap and the world has changed. Mom, are you listening to me? Mom!‘

Then nothing more. I figured that was it, I got a meow, and count myself blessed.

And then – last night.

As usual, I wasn’t asleep. It was so late, it was early. I’m curled up trying hard to go to sleep. I hear a faint meow – coming from the hall, just outside the bathroom door. My heart literally stopped. I debate with myself. The one, single, blessing I got from her passing, was I didn’t have to get up in the middle of the night to feed her. She was a night eater. It was hard enough in the last couple of years, but I’d be damned if I was going to get up for a cat that doesn’t need food!

This has been her routine for a couple of years. Go use the sand box. Announce it loudly, until someone (me) came and inspected it, told her she was a good girl (and yes, I was blessed she remembered where her box was. She was going senile at this point. And yes, she wouldn’t stop yelling until I told her she was a good girl.)

So I debate, get up or not? And I concluded I would hate myself if she made the effort to appear and I ignore it. I check the time. 5:30 am. Her usual time for wanting to be fed. I got up.

I have not gone to the bathroom alone in over 20 years. The last couple of weeks has been rough, not having her guard me as I did my business. I got up, used the toilet, said; ‘Okay, baby, let’s go to bed.’, in the hope that 1) she wouldn’t demand I ‘feed’ her and 2) she might actually come. I get in bed and hope I feel a little bounce and weight movement – but nothing. But I had a meow! And that made me happy, even if it was at the crack of dawn. I fell asleep.

A couple of hours later, I wake up, bladder insistence. I lever myself up, so I’m sitting on the edge of the bed – and freeze. Again, my heart skips a beat. Under my palm was a wet spot. It was freezing cold.

She didn’t do it all the time, but she frequently drooled in her sleep. And my bed has an electric blanket – there are no cold spots on my bed.

I turn the light on and check the sheet. There is no way a ghost kitty could leave physical evidence, right? I mean, I really don’t know, but I checked with the light on. There was no wet spot. But it was cold there, warming as I touched it.

Did my baby sleep with me? I want to say yes. But if she didn’t, if it’s just my mind protecting me from the grief, I’m okay with that.

I’m so sorry

I’ve been gone for so long. Yikes, over a year! I’m alive, which is saying something in these times.

I’ve been meaning to post for months but keep getting interrupted. And I think, ‘oh, I’ll remember that, it was pretty nasty, it can wait‘. But I don’t remember it. Them, rather.

I need a place to vent and this is the only place I have, where I am not known or where I don’t have to be a Smiling Sally. I can be mad here. Snarky. Sad. So, very, very sad.

Things to say, so there might be a blitz of posts. I will do my best not to disappear again.

If there’s anyone still here, thanks for sticking around.

Recording Interruptous.

I’m pretty sure I’ve mentioned I do art, watercolors specifically. I have a youtube channel where I post my works. This involved planning, painting, editing and uploading completed video. I try and do one a week. I do more when I’m well and schedule them out, so when I get sick, things are still going up.

I’m not the greatest artist – only been painting a year – but I put a lot of effort into it. And learning editing isn’t easy. Even though my subscribers are really small, I do my best.

Three or four video’s back, I realized something. Whenever I’m recording, partner comes in and makes noise. I have explained to him this creates a lot of work for me and please don’t come in when I’m recording. So this one video, he comes in and starts talking. I tell him I’m recording, he says okay, and continues to talk. Again, I said I’m recording – and a third time. He just continued. It made me realize – he does this all the time. That one recording was so corrupted with his talking, I actually just said screw it and didn’t post it at all. He’s come in, made tea (kettle sounds, sharp spoon on cup crashes), smoked, washed dishes, walked across the floor with sharp crack sounds of flip flops (he never before or since made that sound).

This last video, he comes in and stares at me. I continue painting, I say not a word. After about 1 minute, and I’m starting to get creeped out, he walks over, lights a cigarette. He slides glass things across the counter. Turns on the kettle. Makes tea. Washes a pan, slaps it onto the stove. Comes over to me and says: I washed the frying pan for you. I nod, silent. He comes closer, blocking my light. Stands there a minute. Grunts and leaves. This is the eighth video he has interrupted. Eighth. You need to realize, I can’t complain. He was doing something nice! Washing a frying pan, unasked. Or he would have said, if I’d made a fuss. I wonder if my silence cock-blocked that strategy?

He does everything he can to disrupt, break or corrupt my possessions or work. Then praises my art. There’s got to be a word for this, but I don’t remember or know what it is.

Here’s another example. I’m doing a recording, he comes in and starts the clothes washer. Never comes back. Next day, I’m doing a second recording. He opens the washer and starts snapping the wrinkles out of the clothing. Really loud. I’d swear he threw out a shoulder. I say, I’m trying to record! He says: I’ll just be a minute. Twenty minutes later, he’s finally run out of clothes to snap.

Eight videos in a row. That’s two months of uploads. Every single time I’m recording. What a dick move.

Well, this is new.

I’ve been sick since march 14th, 2020. Covid. Although at the time, they weren’t testing anyone who wasn’t a movie star, athlete, military, medical or political figure. I was a classic case even with their ever changing symptoms list. Ever since then, I have had fatigue spikes. Basiclly, I’m exhausted 3 weeks, then get a week that reminds myself what human feels like. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

I am reluctant to talk to my partner about this because he believes if you have/had covid, you’re dead. If you’re not dead, you don’t/didn’t have covid. We’ll get back to this.

Seven days ago, I couldn’t breath. Went to hospital where they said, yo, lookit that, your white blood cell count is high, wonder what that could be? Well, off you go home, be sure to come back if you know, like, die. No covid test was done and I honestly have no fucking clue why.

Three days later, my nose starts running. Now, by that I mean not the sniffles, but when you look down it’s like turning on a faucet. Running. Get (or continue?) fatigue, the usual symptoms for me, yadda yadda, ad nauseum. As I said, I’m reluctant to bring it up with partner. But I do.

Me: I got a runny nose …
Him: you don’t have covid.
Me: I don’t have covid.

And that was pretty much it. I noticed a couple of days later, my emotions were riding a little high. Higher than normal for me. I was getting angry. Like, really angry. And sad. Really sad. Nightmares about skinwalkers and trying to kill them. My hearing was super alert. Falling asleep is hard, but once sleeping it’s good – but fatigue still grinding me down. I’ve been sick for what, 7 months. I’m exhausted. And angry. I’m not being listened to, even the doctors don’t fucking care.

Then something happened that I wasn’t expecting. I stopped feeling my emotions. I could tell they were still there. I ‘felt’ the angry. But I didn’t feel it at all. ‘Oh, there’s a spoon on the counter’ gave me the same emotional punch as the anger. It feels blank. Distant. Muted? I can still tell there’s an emotion, but it doesn’t affect me. And I know what triggered this.

A few hours ago, partner comes up to me and starts telling me how the pains in his back are concerning him, cause he doesn’t know what it is, and what if he’s having a heart attack and can’t tell?

I just looked at him, nodding, emoting, you know how it goes. And in my head, I’m saying: Well, when I came to you asking about possible heart attacks, you’re response was: it’s a good way to die. It’s perfectly in my personality to have said it out loud. But I didn’t. The anger needed to say it wasn’t there. Well, it was there, but it was…blanketed. It was just – not sure how to put it. Pointless. The anger is pointless. The sadness is pointless. Fear is pointless, I can’t control anything – not the covid, not the doctor, not a sociopath partner who’s trying to kill me. It’s all just pointless.

Covid or not covid

Sunday last, I was in the hospital all day. Couldn’t breathe, called emergency. Blood tests showed elevated white blood cell counts. Blood ox 95-97, no temp. Took an Xray. They didn’t give me a covid test.

Someone put up a big red notice on the door across the hall, saying it couldn’t be used until it was deep cleaned. A woman went in with a bowl of something, guessing water and bleach, and a sponge. Came out 5 minutes later, wiped down the door and left. A ‘deep clean’ it was not. If they didn’t deep clean that room, they didn’t deep clean the room I was in.

Of the four people who saw me while I was there, only one washed their hands when leaving. All wore masks.

So, 3 days later and my nose starts to run. Not the sniffles. Say, you tilt her head down and a tap is turned on. That was my nose. Checked temp; normal. Checked blood ox, 93-97.

Today’s conversation with partner.

me: I got a runny nose.

him: you don’t have covid. (note; with him, if you have covid, your dead. If you’re not dead, you dont have covid)

M: I dont have covid. (been here, done this, dont need the rodeo again)

H: do you have a fever?

M: No. Runny nose, sore throat, new cough, bad wheeze.

H: new cough? Not your normal cough?

M: no. New. Not triggered in the lungs, more like the throat. (After this convo, coughing now hurts my lungs like a mo-fo.)

H: want me to sleep here tonight? (kind of surprised at this.) (He’s 90% deaf, he couldn’t hear me unless I screamed)

M; I just took all my meds, lets see how it goes.

I’m feeling okay right now, but before I took my meds, I didn’t feel so hot. I keep hearing about groups for people who have long term after effects of covid, but I’m not in any of them. Never been tested, so it’s only going by what I know of the symptoms.

I’m fucking exhausted.

Nope, not dead.

Although you would be excused if you thought I was. I’m not sure how long it’s been since I posted but figure it’s somewhere between Forever and The Dawn of Time.

I hade covid19 in march, took 6 weeks to get over it and recover. Had a good month after that. Then I got a fatigue spike that lasted a week. Then two weeks to recover from that. Then I had another good week! Then it was lather, rinse, repeat for … 4 god damned months. I am currently in a ‘good week’. I’ve been thinking of this site so decided it was time to make a post, even if it’s brief.

It’s hard to recover when you have the energy of a wet noodle. Hard to cook for yourself. Asking my partner to cook is pretty pointless when he has about 5 things he can, or at least is willing to admit to, being able to cook. I can’t eat that many eggs or tuna sandwiches. I finally bought some super quick meals – like ramens, instant oats and polenta – and I’ve been able to cook a 3 minute meal. I’m hopeful having a full belly, and rest, will enable me to actually recover.

I’ve been painting a year now. Although not that much lately. But it’s honestly the only thing keeping my sanity. The bottom line, however, is I’m tired. And depressed. And sad.

Maybe I’ll get over it. Maybe I won’t. But I ain’t dead yet, so there’s that.

Egypt

Didn’t make the impossible challenge.

When I completed the first impossible challenge, it was changed to a truly impossible one. Didn’t even try to do that one – the goal post would have just been moved again.

The point was for me to fail so he wouldn’t have to fulfil his promise. What happened was he exposed his nasty little soul.