Palliativity 107: What Does’t Kill You…
what doesn't kill you
For 2 years I've been self-injecting lidocaine as my only means of direct pain management that is not a narcotic. M357 is merely the void. My other meds are like background-radiation resonating from the initial injury; god's white-noise machine, his hand fumbling for snooze.
Every drug claims a part of me. It's time to take it back.
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I had my first Prolotherapy treatment two days ago. The underlying concept is built on the function of histamines and the body's immune-response. When the body detects damage, whether illness or trauma, histamines are released and the chain-reaction begins. To heal, the affected areas become inflamed which results in higher blood flow. It always baffles me when Western and Eastern medicine speak the same language.
Prolotherapy intentionally provokes the histamic reaction. My body has settled into its current state; chronic pain is not recognized as an antagonist. It has literally become a part of me. The concoction injected is comprised of saline, lidocaine and sugar. The catch is that in order for the treatment to work I can't use ice, ibuprofen or M357. Disarmed, I scan the perimeter for the next attack.
I feel like I'm stuck in another MRI, unable to move and hoping that temporary suffering will help me find new hope. How does it feel? Like a knife jabbed into the side of my neck. Inotherwords? Not as bad as normal. The difference? I know that this pain I feel is a wake-up call to the system. This is a shock-and-awe campaign. We have an intruder among our ranks and the only solution is to
cut it out.
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The Fashion Monster
The Fashion Monster, ©MMX
Speculative fiction is the mythology of tomorrow. What parts of us will survive the next onslaught of technology?
The question is not, "do androids dream?", but rather, "will we?"
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Dignity
Dignity, ©MMX
Hand-me-down democracy,
I think I found the prophecy,
A destiny lying dormant in my skin.
My eyes belie the broken trust,
For flags and ships and choking dust.
I seek to find the one who will be king.
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I fly above and then within,
This frozen plain of time.
Thru kith and kin the arrows sing,
This shattered song of mine.
This desert is my homeland,
For forty years we walked.
Only to find another war,
Barbed-Wire in the Blood.
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Palliativity 105: Dysphoria
dysphoria :/
I grew up with people asking me, "what are you?". I got used to it. I eventually learned not to play that game. To answer is to agree with the underlying assumption that I am the anomaly; an object of fascination that should be hunted, stuffed and installed in the great-room curio of a Victorian naturalist.
I was told that I'm half Japanese and half Jewish. For the observer, this genetic algebra equated to a whole person in their neat and tidy world. I wasn't put in a box. I was sliced in half; subdivided and subjugated, and yet I carry twice the heritage and just as much angst. I wish people could deal with me as I am— instead of where I need to be filed.
I've received the same type of treatment when I'm in treatment. My humanity is something rarely touched on. I am my affliction. My name is Miss Diagnosed.
I have been defined by many labels; prepackaged for mass consumption. My identity is pending investigation. We waive all responsibility if contents are damaged in transit;
Used-like-Broken.
I won't apologize for my existence. I am proud to be complicated.
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Gion Ghosts
Gion Ghosts, ©MMX
Femininity:
The alchemy of silk-lined
Alleys in Gion.
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