I don’t even watch The Walking Dead and I think it’s funny.

Well, one thing came easily. I have an appointment at the ID Clinic on February 10. I don’t think they’re going to spend an hour and a half telling me I’m nuts. I do worry that they will attempt a spinal tap, in which case they will simply have to pump me full of Ativan and hope I sit still. Ditto an MRI, come to think of it.

But therapy this Saturday scares me.

The resentment I bear toward my father has built and built and now–I can hardly stand to be in the same room with him. He wasn’t much of a parent. He couldn’t provide (that was Mom). His behavioral science training fell totally flat when I began having psych issues. Actually, he coerced me into breaking up with a girlfriend while I was starting meds, along with the son of a bitch who first prescribed them. The incident that got me in to see a doctor in the first place? Yeah, that was on him, too. I panicked so hard before a concert that I knew I wouldn’t make it through the whole thing. I wanted to bow out gracefully beforehand. He insisted I go on. “Mr. B will hate you!” I ran offstage anyway, and that was the first time I seriously considered suicide: because I thought the last least judgmental person in my world hated me.

My grandfather died that summer, and I am more over that than I am over the things my dad did that spring.

I also have significant issues around the whole college-or-die philosophy. Nobody ever told me I could go for a trade and put off college (and make money!) until I knew what I wanted to do there. I hadn’t the faintest clue until sometime in 2007. What, was Guidance actively trying to fail me? I also knew, a year too late, that I should have had an IEP when my depression took hold.

For the record, parents? “But she has so much potential!” is the biggest cop-out on the books when it comes to coaxing your kid in the direction you think is right. Potential what? Potential earning power? If I had been remotely interested in/able to enter high-status fields, sure. Lots of that. But I wasn’t. Potential genius? Too bad about that missing catalyst. How, exactly, was I supposed to turn potential genius into kinetic genius, real, working genius without some kind of career path? I wish someone had pointed me toward editing, not writing. Fandom makes editors of laypeople; by the time I was eighteen, I was on par with my own mentors in that respect.

I could’ve taken a gap year to explore that world instead of going away, getting assaulted, and attempting to starve myself to death. But that would’ve been so easy! Besides, who gets a National Merit Scholarship and then throws it away? Oh, right: the student who, after one semester of hating everything about university, cracks up and has to go home and stare at a wall for three months.

Want better for your children. But clear the specifics with your kids first. Bounded choice does not count. Here. Read more on that subject while you’re thinking about it. Lalich draws on Lifton, among others, and I tend to like Lifton’s work.

So, faced with the cult mentality of college-or-die, I chose to die. The only reason I’m still alive is that spark in me that knew there was something wrong with that mentality. Now I’m going to face how my father, in particular, got caught up in that mentality, and what it did to me. And I’m going to face it with his therapist and with him. I intend, in short, to testify, and if that’s not what he’s expecting, it is at least what he will get. I can’t go any further with him until I make damn sure he’s been told. (Oh, snap.)

Then we can try to work out what went wrong from there.

Time is running out on my insurance. I’m using it as best I can. My best may not be enough. The night before last I dreamed that I got my appointment with Dr. ID (for Infectious Diseases, see?) and he found me perfectly healthy. Which, ha. This morning, Dr. ID’s office returned the message I left Friday: would I get my GP to fax over my case history and identifying details?

I hate not knowing what things mean. I don’t know what this means. Ergo, I hate it. But I called my GP and set that ball rolling. I don’t know when Dr. ID will decide whether I’m interesting enough to take on. The trouble with being referred to someone good is that he’s got to pick and choose his cases, and this guy is scary good. I need to get my foot in the door before I can hope at all. Then I have to pray he’s got appointments before April. Aside from the insurance fiasco, this can’t wait much longer. I bought myself time with those seven days of doxycycline, but not much time. I’m already declining again. Dying, some corner of my mind whispers, and I try to shut it up, but that’s how this feels. Like I’m going to keep sliding downhill without intervention, down into my own grave.

Rather annoying, considering how much I want to live this time.

I might break down completely if I’m shunted off into CFIDS/ME/fibro-land without a fair shake. The two people I know who are functioning with these illnesses are married (one woman twice over). I have no husband. At this point, a) if I look for one, my judgment is skewed by my need for help and b) I don’t want just any damn husband. I want one I choose freely, after I’ve had a chance to live on my own, only I’m having a devil of a time functioning well enough to escape my parents. I want a career, but how do careers happen when your ability to think is sliding from your grasp like Jello off a child’s fork?

Also, anxiety. Know how I spent my morning? Tucked under my blankets, kinda trembly, face buried in the cat’s fur, trying not to freak out. My fault. I’ve had Pepsi within the last 48 hours. Still not fun. Doesn’t bode well for the typical stimulant-drug therapies for CFIDS/ME/fibro. (Hint: N and D are not fun components for me in an antidepressant.)

The only way I will be able to accept what is essentially an incurable illness is knowing that I have ruled out the curable. But if I’m not even given a chance to do that–what’s to become of me? When I finally can operate on my own, will it be from a chair? Will anyone have the time or resources to help me get as healthy as I can? I can’t live from this bed. I won’t. I do not accept this existence. This is life without sufficient quality. This is not freedom.

I am standing inside the Statue of Liberty, tracing my fingers over immortal words: “Give me your tired, your poor/Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free/The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.” And I wonder why I live in a place where the system is designed to keep us tired, poor, and wretched.

Owen’s a shithead, and contrary to this post title, what he did was no small crime. He certainly didn’t fight fair; if he was angry over the subterfuge that got Cristina and Teddy onto that surgery, he could have disciplined them both in a work context. He was angry enough to take it home. Fine. But when Cristina called him on his own subterfuge–for the uninitiated, Owen and Teddy had Cristina perform a lifesaving operation on Teddy’s husband, only it didn’t work out that way–Owen refused to own his shit. I can give Teddy a pass; she was elbows-deep in someone else’s chest, and when it came to her husband, she wasn’t able to be objective. Instead of another staff cardiologist, Teddy wanted Cristina to do it, Cristina who she’d been mentoring. Failure was Not An Option, and Teddy took out her grief on Cristina by making her recite every word of the procedure, over and over until Teddy could accept that the situation had been hopeless.

But Owen should not have put Cristina–his resident, not just his wife, his resident–in that position. Instead, Cristina did the surgery, completely ignorant of the patient’s identity until after she called time of death.

So I can forgive Cristina for pretty much becoming Teddy’s minion, because Cristina is probably still trying to forgive Cristina for the unpardonable sin of killing her mentor’s husband. Even if it was hopeless from the start. And if forgiveness is a bit of subterfuge in the name of finding Teddy something other than “eat widow casserole” to do, hell, it would’ve been a tricky bit of surgery for any team. So these two were a bit sleep-deprived? Maybe, just maybe, Owen made them that way when he set this snowball rolling.

But what is inexcusable, after that, is to tell Cristina-his-wife (not Cristina-his-resident) that this is not how he envisioned his life. And then include the abortion in that, to which he did consent, because Cristina is like me. Childbearing would be an unmitigated disaster. Jesus, did he just overlook that part when he said “I do”? Was there really no conversation behind the scenes?

And could that not have waited until they got home? He walked into a party, commandeered some booze, and picked that fight then and there. Inappropriate at best.

I’m pretty sure I’d have beaned him with the nearest frying pan and ordered my friends in plastics not to fix a damn bit of the damage as the police hauled me away. (Punches have flown on this show for less.) But that’s me, and my beloved is well aware that he does not get to condemn me for the decisions I make about my uterus. Real men understand this fact. Someone needs to hand Owen a calendar and remind him that we no longer live in the 1950s.

And if Cristina leaves, go her. She doesn’t need a douchenozzle like that in her life. She should marry Teddy instead.

A Sure Fire Way To Save Me Money? Okay, I thought, worth a read. But… I don’t spend $20 a week on more clutter as a diversion from my existing clutter. I don’t spend $5 every weekday morning on a drive-thru breakfast (ha, breakfast). We don’t get take-away but once a week, if that, and we generally cook what we’ve got. When we don’t, we go shopping knowing we’re there to pick up a meal, not a meal and goodies. That’s how Beloved and I fed three adults for about $6 per plate yesterday. (Bonus? We had ingredients left over.) I don’t rack up bills. I use my debit card.

So in the end, I haven’t saved any money. I am, however, spending an awful lot on copays. Maybe FlyLady should examine the price gouging perpetuated by our mismanaged care system next.

♥ Okay, now I feel even better about going to see her in concert: Lady Gaga launches BORN THIS WAY Foundation, which “seeks to empower youth through promoting self-confidence and fighting bullying.” I can get behind that.

♥ Fun facts about me, number 1: If I am ever lucky enough to be a) a millionaire and b) matched up by Patti Stanger, she’s going to have to insist on a half-drink limit. A whole drink is just too much for me, unless I make it myself, with about half a teaspoon of rum to 8oz of juice.

♥ Fun facts about me, number 2: I pronounce PIPA “Pippa”. Like Middleton. And SOPA “soap-a”.

♥ Fun facts about me, number 3: I don’t think “mainstream media” when I see MSM.

♥ Department of oddly appropriate acronyms: Pregnancy Risk Assessment Monitoring System (PRAMS). Go CDC!

♥ I will say I am getting sick and tired of all the open marriage talk relating to Newt fucking Gingrich. Guys, ask anyone who is actually in an open relationship: Newt’s doing it WRONG.

♥ Okay, so I am warming to Anonymous over this: Anonymous attacks various and sundry sites in retaliation over the takedown of Megaupload. Including, apparently, the DoJ. I am chortling.

♥ And in that vein… well played, indeed, Fandom Secrets. Thanks to the delightful @ceilidhann for pointing that out.

So I’m striking a metaphorical match.*

I guess the nutshell version, for me, is this:

The bills propose that anyone found guilty of streaming copyrighted content without permission 10 or more times within six months should face up to five years in jail. (bbc.co.uk)

Now, I’m a great fan of “with permission” sites like Pandora, Grooveshark, soma.fm, and any public radio outlet. The problem is that such “with permission” sites make up maaaaybe 1% of what’s out there. Everything spreads without permission, and by the time most of us see, say, a graphic, it’s difficult to figure out who owns the thing.

And why, pray tell, don’t copyright holders protect their goodies better? I can right-click and download an awful lot. Why not disable that, if they’re all so touchy about who uses what? I understand this does nothing against screencappers, but it’s a start, and one that several sites have already made. (None of which I can name off the top of my head. You’ll know them when you visit them.)

The US government and rights holders would have the right to seek court orders against any site accused of “enabling or facilitating” piracy. This could theoretically involve an entire website being shut down because it contains a link to a suspect site.

Goodness me, that’s most of the Internet.

The bills originally demanded that internet service providers block users from being able to access suspect sites using a technique called Domain Name System (DNS) blocking. . . This would effectively make them “disappear” from the internet – and is a process already used in China and Iran. However, after opponents claimed this could disrupt the internet’s underlying architecture, the chief sponsor of each bill agreed to ditch the measure.

Note the sponsors’ motivation. Not “oh, dear, we’re turning into bloody China and Iran”, “we might break the Internet”.

Here’s a giant list of supporters outside Washington, and I never thought I’d stand opposite a lot of these people.** Nor did I think I’d see the day when Senator Feinstein put her name to such a trainwreck; sadly, I was less surprised to see my own Senator Schumer on the list. Note that the list of Representatives is harder to find. Also that I am vastly amused that a Mr. Smith of Texas put it up. Of course it’d be a flipping Texan.***

The anti-piracy legislation still has high-profile supporters including News Corporation’s chairman, Rupert Murdoch.

Naturally.

I’m not opposed to people receiving due payment for their work. I’m quite happy about that part, actually. If I love a library book, I buy it! Ditto a film I’ve rented dozens of times! Mainly, when I turn to streaming films, it’s because the work is out of print, and unlikely to come back into print for one small woman with odd tastes. All right, and I’ve got to be that desperate because I’m clueless about the technology. I think box sets of series have risen to ridiculous prices–what, so everyone gets more than a penny in royalties? Don’t kid yourselves about royalties, o creators of content. I seem to recall the Writer’s Guild striking over that miserable situation. “Average salary” statistics are also a joke; you have to punch through a lot of obstacles to achieve a living wage. Hope you get noticed by the right person; hope you’re working on a project that gets greenlit; hope your project stays afloat or, hell, makes any money at all. I’d be out there writing if I felt I had any realistic chance of employment. The market’s flooded with actors, writers, and would-be directors, and most of what we consume comes from the same pool of “talent”. The little names at the bottom of your TV screen? They almost don’t count, because it’s the names you see again and again that get paid more than peanuts.

Anyone who goes into the entertainment industry solely for the love of her art needs a reality check. Or a trust fund.

So instead of legislating in favor of the same fat cats getting paid even more than they make now, why don’t we diversify a bit? Encourage a broader market? Create real competition?

Because the fat cats can, apparently, buy our Congress. Let’s hope they can’t buy our President as well.

* in actual fact, I use one of those giant lighters for my candles. I’m terribly clumsy with matches.

** Though I don’t see why a manufacturer of jeans would care.

*** Dear Mexico: will you just take them back? But leave us Austin; it’s cool.

h/t phoenixothon @ lj

KITTENS. Thought we could all use some kittens.

2. Peter Burke in fatigues = total fetish fuel. Major “I’ll be in my bunk” moment, there. Maybe I just have a thing for men in uniform, I dunno, but watching him beat hell out of Keller in that outfit was sheer pleasure.

(and the maybe) 3. Elizabeth, Peter, and Neal are so tightly tangled up in some wonderful way that I never, ever want to see them apart. Yes, even if it means having that walking fashion victim called Sara in tow. Speaking of whom, it was so nice not to have to see her ridiculous outfits today. Honestly, would it kill the writers to imagine her in jeans and a loose, comfy tee-shirt? That is so much sexier than sausage-casing suits and dresses. While we’re at it, please let’s dye her hair a more natural brown or black. That orange from last season just doesn’t match poor Hilarie Burton’s skin tone at all. And no blonde, unless we’re going platinum, and even then that would look weird.

3a. I realise I’ve just asked them to make Sara into Elizabeth 2.0. Really, Elizabeth is my ideal woman on this show.