I started noticing Tourette tics this afternoon. That is how I KNOW things are not going well. My friend has helped to label these as red flag days. It is a crisis kind of day that needs immediate intervention of self love, outside love, mindfulness, and peace. I needed to find some sort of loophole. Some sort of way to stop this running and not moving forward. I ended up at the prairie.
Bethany Wilcox is my maiden name. I have found that many moments of PTSD and panic and depression leading to suicidal thoughts are Bethany Wilcox. The parts of me that lose my voice, that feel small, that feel weak and beaten down are Wilcox. The moments that I wish I were just dead, always Bethany Wilcox.
When I married my husband I became Bethany Kays. A loved and cherished and valued woman who felt she mattered. A wife, a mother. It felt like who I was supposed to be all along. It’s as if the Bethany has always been there but that last name gave me a new title of strength, peace, and so much more. Bethany Kays wants to LIVE.
I had some bloodwork done last week and our insurance has changed so I had to update it with the lab. You cannot get a human being anymore. After my husband tried 5 times I finally called and the automated message said, “If you have a rotary phone stay on the line and a representative will be right with you.” Rotary phone??? Do they even still MAKE those? I mean I have a land line which I think is pretty rare but rotary?? So I found a loophole. I held the line and got a human.
I have not found that loophole yet to myself. I am aware though. I know that when I am pushed beyond my limits and I just wish I were dead that connects me directly to the Bethany Wilcox that often went right there to death as a way out of abuse. I never deny myself emotion. It is okay to feel. Feeling desperate and feeling helpless and alone are human nature experiences usually brought on by other insensitive humans. Going to a place where I wish I were dead is not where I want to go. Bypassing that and finding the loophole is my goal.
I’ve started noticing my own feelings and when I feel this despondency. It is when I am trying to be Bethany Kays but someone tries to drag me back down to the beaten Bethany Wilcox. When can I just be me? I wonder.
On Saturday we had our septic tank block up. I had to call a man out on the weekend to pump the tank. By the time he got here it was 8pm. Dark. He wanted me to show him where the tank was. I walked, in the dark, through the grass, to the backyard to point out the tank. While walking back I stumbled and almost fell. He said something to the affect of wow you don’t see well at night. I said, I do, I just have a muscle disease and do not typically walk in the grass. He then said something to the affect of, let me wipe the tear off my eye. I thought he was being compassionate. A moment later he said life was too short to feel sorry for yourself. He was being sarcastic. Um…buddy…I am paying you 200 dollars overtime to come out here plus 300 dollars to pump this tank. I was not feeling sorry for myself either. I was simply answering the question that HE asked! I almost fell showing YOU the septic tank when I usually use a wheelchair, asshole!!!!You are being paid to NOT be an asshole. But I said nothing. Because that is what Bethany Wilcox does. She wants to be strong but she can’t. I even asked my husband to let me handle it alone because I wanted to practice my boundaries. Can I stand my ground to a man who I have just paid $500 to who I am waiting to pump my septic tank though? No I really can’t. Because he KNOWS that unless he pumps it, I have no water for the weekend. He has the power of the pump! So I have to let him make his asshole comment. Right? Do I? I don’t have an answer.
But as you can see by the pictures I posted that day of the butterflies and the sunset, I chose to go to the prairie and live in that sunset moment. I did not let him steal my joy for long. But it has been bothering me. So maybe he stole a little. Or just brought into perspective how much work I still have to do, which puts me in a red flag Wilcox state again. I’m freaking complicated. But abuse will do that to a person.
Today I had an appointment that I went in to with high anxiety. I had had little sleep. I will share why even though it is personal because I find the truth to be important. I have been unable to urinate without excruciating pain. For a number of weeks now. My primary care doctor, who I adore, gave me antibiotics, but they did not work. I knew I had to go see the urology clinic ASAP because it felt as if I were peeing razors. I have interstitial cystitis. It causes an irritation in the bladder which makes the bladder bleed and often sets the bladder up for infection. I received almost a year of treatment a few years ago where the Doctor catheterized me and inserted a medication called elmeron. That fixed the problem for a few years thankfully. I also have vulvadynia which is a vaginal disorder that causes extreme pain and inflammation at the opening of the vagina. After going to a specialized clinic and being part of a case study when I was 18 I learned there was nothing that worked to help me and I needed to get used to the pain. SO, having excruciating urination ONLY in the urethra was new for me. And scary. Going in to these appointment I know means more pain.
The appointment was made and I went in to find that my doctor was nolonger working there. The main doctor was there but his RN was who I was seeing. My old doctor knew everything about me and put it in my notes. She lifted my legs for me and put them in the stirrups and had another nurse hold my legs since I did not have the strength. She knew of the past abuse and always explained everything she did before she did it. She was compassionate and gentle and very calm. Well that is not who was there today. Not even close. This woman today was insensitive, arrogant, rude, dismissive, and the list can go on and on. She seemed exasperated at my existence. She questioned my own knowledge of the diseases I have been diagnosed with. APPARENTLY the muscle disease central core disease is only the core muscles of the abs and not extremities. I tried to explain “core” meant mitochondrial death but she knew better as an RN apparently she knows more than my specialist in England. APPARENTLY vulvadynia only affects intercourse. Well, bitch, obviously you don’t have it! It affects EVERYTHING. But she was the “all knowing being and expert” who gives a bad name to doctors everywhere. She was constantly frustrated with my history because she could not listen and type at the same time and could not remember what I was saying so she sighed repeatedly while asking me to stop talking. This was all before the putting my own feet in the stirrups, crying during the catheterization, her telling me there were no answers she could give and me throwing up in the sink in the room. When she left the room I lay there on the table covered in a light sheet sobbing. When she came back in to tell me she had consulted with another doctor who BELIEVED there was something wrong and something they could do and ordered tests and antibiotics and called in multiple prescriptions she was outwardly annoyed that I was still laying there. I just cried. She did not care. She had other patients. It didn’t matter what I did or said. I was a number and the next number was up. My husband overheard her discussing me. It did not make him happy.
I cried in that room for a very long time. I wished I were dead. I did not want to have this muscle disease or vaginal disease or now urethral issue and the seizures and everything on my list of health. I did not want to be going into an appointment in pain, vulnerable, to be dismissed by an ego BITCH ( and I don’t believe in calling someone a bitch but if anyone ever fit the name it is her) I looked at her playboy tattoo on her ankle as she came back in to tell me the plans to call in the meds. It was all I could see. I knew I was completely dissociated. It infuriated me that our own police department has to cover their tattoos and YET this bitch got to keep her playboy one? Fury. I felt fury. Which gave me the strength to get up and get dressed only to realize I had peed all over everything. At some point I soaked my jeans and my sweatshirt that hung down. I was humiliated. Now I had to somehow get out of there without ruining my scooter and my car with urine. I grabbed a few disposable pads they put on the table and left. The whole way home I only thought I wished I were dead.
As I waited in the parking lot I saw a dragonfly next to a fire truck. I went up to talk to the firefighters. I told them I was having one hell of a day and I just wanted to speak to someone who chose their job to truly help others. They were awesome. I was feeling more like Bethany Kays.
They said I could take a picture of their truck to remind me of the good. I loved that.
After I got home I slept for 3 hours and woke up fired up angry again. I was angry because I went to that appointment, driven by my husband, who had to take time off of work. What was I going to say? You’re a bitch? Leave without treatment? Then what? I had no ride to another appointment OR another appointment option. I had to just shut up to this woman my insurance paid probably $500 to for making me feel like a worthless human being who deserved not one ounce of common decency.
So are we forced into silence? What if there is no other choice other than to just take it? And shut up? But doing that makes me feel like the Bethany Wilcox that wishes she were dead. There is no gentle way to tell a woman like this anything. You don’t confront a woman before she crams a catheter up your urethra nor can you confront her as you are doubled over in pain afterward vomitting. That’s when the tics started. Because having seizures and a muscle disease and lyme disease and vulvadynia and intersistial cystitis, and a bone disease and everything isn’t enough. Nope. I have to have Tourette syndrome too!!!!!! Not feeling sorry for myself just saying how it is. There is a lot on my plate and a little kndnesss is not too much to ask for. I am sure she has asshole patients herself. But I am not one of them. I am kind and patient to EVERYONE and yet that does not seem to matter.
So where is the loophole?
I went to the prairie. I watched the sunset and stood and marveled at the beauty of the sky that was presented to me. I felt like me. I felt like Bethany. I renewed my ministry lisence even though I know I cannot do baptisms or funerals or hospice. I looked at my picture and was reminded of the me that chose this because of my beliefs in my own relationship with God and my own belief in myself having nothing to do with the rest of the world. This Bethany, whose picture is not a representation of what I look like now but what I wanted to be and still am.
This sky and my ability to find it and find joy and peace in it IS the loophole. If I could only live in it more than just a few moments. If only there were less bad people and more kindness then maybe the loophole would be unnecessary. If only.