I miss my Meth Mondays.

If I only forgot trivial things, like the ten thousand and one weird facts or lines from movies or television shows that I carry with me on my day-to-day journeys, like a sack of still twitching fish, I wouldn’t be bothered by it.

Like Toby to Sam on the West Wing, “You’re gonna lose, and you’re gonna lose huge. They’re gonna throw rocks at you next week, and I wanted to be standing next to you when they did.”

That’s my Toby.

Or Archer’s “M as in Mancy.”

But in every day conversations, I tend to forget words in the middle of a sentence. That stings.

Words.

Because my brain tends to lose track of things irrespective of their importance, I have to make cheats.

Like doing injections on Mondays so I won’t forget. Despite the importance of the shots—they literally keep me walking—I can forget to do them just as easily as I can forget to do the wash for the clothes I need the next day.

And so meth—for methotrexate and not methamphetamines, by the way—is for Mondays.

Pain is a weird thing, a wibbly-wobbly thing that is absolutely relative. It’s a currency with which we pay for experience and growth, and that which we dole out to those deserving.

Punishment, I think, a form of pain, is nothing more than handing over pain as an exchange for crimes and transgressions. It’s some sort of demarcation between who has been deemed worthy of it and who has been deemed worthy of doling it out.

But there I go again, digressing.

A man once told me that pain is impossible to compare although we humans really dig a hierarchy of pain. We like to compare stories and determine that we are suffering more than others. We shift facts and ignore others to support that position, because truly, no one in the entire universe could be suffering more than we are, right?

It’s the essence of victimhood.

Pain is relative. An adult, for example, may experience the worst pain ever when he loses his house or his spouse or his leg. An infant may experience the worst pain ever when separated from her mother or her blanket or her pacifier for even five minutes.

To an outsider, there is no real comparison of the two. One is clearly greater than the other. But for the two people involved, they are both the worst pain ever and are equal in severity.

It makes sense to me that the pains are different but the pain levels are the same, and yet it’s something I tend to forget when I hear people complaining of things I think of as minor.

Judging by at least portions of the chronic pain community, we get a lot of that. People will ask, with (what I assume to be) truly good intention, how we’re doing, and we tell them, with truthful adjectives and ruthless adverbs, only to have them reply with an  ache or pain or frustration of their own.

I think those of good intention wish to share an experience as a means to say, “You’re not alone. See? I hurt here with you.”

It’s the others, the ones who ask but don’t listen, instead inhaling as a pause before telling us how they hurt more than we do, how their life is so very, very terrible that really, really irks us.

When I was married, if I had a headache, my husband had a brain tumor (except, not really). If I had a twisted ankle, he had a broken femur. When I had a necrotic gall bladder duct with a stone stuck inside…well, I can’t remember what he had.

I was pretty much not paying attention to anything he said at that point.  Because I had a stupid stone stuck in a stupid duct and was vomiting in technicolor.

Is that the nature of humanity? To respond to others’ pain with our own, as if to top it?

We need to cut that shit out.

How much simpler it could be if we could just say, “I’m sorry we’re both hurting. What can we do to relieve it?”

I have a painful history with giving myself injections, and I’m starting to suffer from performance anxiety. I’ve had needles pierce the skin only to have the medicine somehow remain within the the pen.

It’s supposed to be easy, these pens. You lift the skin, push the button, and, after counting to ten, all of the medication should *theoretically* be out, Nascar-ing through your body to run over your immune system like the pile of dog poo that it is.

And it burns. Counting to ten while your leg is on fire no small feat some days.

And sometimes, just sometimes, something jams and an entire shot is wasted as it spurts against the ceiling, like 80% of all ejaculation jokes everywhere.

I had the yellow spots on the ceiling to prove it, although in time they’ve faded. Or they’ve been magically covered with dog hair.  Dog hair, by the way, is magic. It walks tightropes and flaunts itself on trapezes and whirls and twirls until it’s in every single corner of the house.  Every. Single. Corner. Including the ceiling. It’s magic. 

This is the face of magic. 

I’ve had nights where I thought I had stabbed myself literally to death. Literally. From an injection pen.

But these days, I really, really do miss them.

Having any sort of surgery is a big deal when one is on immunosuppressants. Even a minor procedure that includes antibiotics means I’m off my meds for a month, minimum.

Normally, or what I assume would be the norm for a normal person, they do surgery and put the patient on anti-biotics and when those run out, life continues as normal.

Normal immune systems. What a novel idea.

It’s been about a week and a half, and I won’t be back on my shots until the middle of December.

It’s not bad yet. Not bad enough to wish for the days of stabbing myself literally to death.

Not yet.

But already, I really miss Meth Mondays.

Meth Mondays
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