Posts filed under ‘chronic pain’

memento amour

memento amour

early winter’s trees bare
stripped and sullen
grey-mooded sky above:
this you-shaped absence.

February 7, 2017 at 11:46 pm Leave a comment

Brevity of Posts

And their scarcity; I have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome and at times find concentration difficult with continuing pain.  Which I like talking about less as time goes on because, for one thing, I have to do it more.  I was also brought up in a military family for quite a while.  I went through boot camp and had open blisters the first day, infected feet the second (due to boot camp first aid), and bleeding feet for the remainder of thirteen weeks.  You march in boot camp, by the way.  You stand at attention (I have a damaged vertebrae that attests to that; my company commander told the company to ‘break’ me and the way I was brought up I had to win).  At some point mentioning it except just like this except out of necessity privately is senseless.  I’m not actually unresponsive.  I have Type VII.  Sorry.

November 23, 2016 at 6:43 pm Leave a comment

The Classical Blog, Starting With Meta

I find myself changing to just that; a diary rather than anything centered around a GRAND PURPOSE of (one presumes) imparting knowledge.  In fact, for one thing, I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m if anything an idiot; born and years of practice and all that, you know.  This is variously inspired.  My wife engineered my meeting my erstwhile and presumable family, by which I mean the bastard–me–‘met’ [in Internet terms, no quotidian clasping of sweaty palms but rather the notional replacements for ‘RL’] was able to “meet” one, actually of my (presumable) half-siblings.  Whom I would guess I immediately and then variously disgusted.  I was a sailor and did what sailors did, yes; I was half or more than a spy and…yes, part of my life sounds like a rather bad novel.  When I said diary I didn’t mean easily penetrable by all, at least from what I’ve been repetitively told.

The meeting lasted a few days and then dwindled to silence, at first unendurable and then quite comfortable.  The parents I knew ensured variously that I couldn’t know or trust them, and when they professed love were about to perform cruelty.  My true mother’s last words to me were “Oh, Glenn, I’m so glad I couldn’t have you aborted,” repeating what she’d said just before being carted off to Montana.  My actual reactions were somewhere between “Oh, Mom, too bad you couldn’t have” and “Oh, Mom, how nice and how lovely that you’re leaving!”  Then about 4 years later the military decided I really did have the job I’d claimed, was a Vietnam (war, not era–it mattered very much to them, you see) veteran, really did see the sorts of [censored, so that I don’t pay for this later] I claimed because of the security clearance I so boringly babbled about–I was obviously narcissistic–but then again they weren’t quite sure about what I knew, they had to admit.  Which was sort of a hint to not babble too much more; in light of just that I won’t detail why.  Ask Snowden or someone knowledgeable.

I don’t know what the point of her–my notional half-sister–meeting me was.  I’m going to give an approximation of what we have in common besides some genes.  Nothing.  I’ve spent my entire life thinking about something relatively complicated which would be utterly meaningless to her.  That’s all.

Meta is or was my sister’s name.  For some reason I feel utterly sure I’ll never communicate with her again.  Oddly enough I regret having even wasted the time trying to communicate with her.  But then it was at my wife’s behest.  I’m not angry with her.  I have achieved forming a sort of necessary pattern.  That pattern is, by the way, absolutely not closure, whatever that is.  Whatever ‘it’ is, is open.  I have never made a pattern of this sort and had anyone else even give me the impression that they perceived it.

I got my precious damned Suburban back (the one that saved my life by being what I drove) and part of the body is loose.  I’m less than happy.  I am positive I have to take it back and let them fix it and that it will take a while to fix.

I am receiving steadily more braces which are steadily more constricting and also affect my balance (not my sense of balance) more and more, because managing one’s balance naturally involves the ankle muscles[/tendons] and the braces will obviate being able to use those muscles.  I am losing the struggle and it’s affecting me badly.  There is no escape from this.  That I can’t manage to stop fighting is either very good or ridiculous.  Go ahead and judge, for I cannot.

June 28, 2016 at 10:48 pm Leave a comment

Back on The Road Again

I have, since my last entry:


most tellingly, not written in a blog for which I pay.

Met my father’s daughter.  That doesn’t sound like much, but then I’m illegitimate and from a somewhat horrible family on my mother’s side.  I grew up with…a great deal centered around that, by other people.

My Suburban was so violently rear-ended by a Honda Acura that it did around $10k worth of damage.  Yes, of course the Suburban was drivable.  (That’s actually complete false in its assumptions and premises, by the way.)  It was nearly perfect before.  There were scratches on the plastic, before.  Now it’s a bit surprising the rear door still lifts.

Had the Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome VII confirmed.  Had the rarity of my severity confirmed.  Had the rarity of my ‘condition’ confirmed.  An epileptic with EDS and PTSD (and narcissism by the at least preliminary reports of their psychiatrists and mental or Mentat specialists).  “Oh, no, that is very, very rare” she (“they”) said when I mentioned the timeline of around 70.  Mind you, they’d been telling me how rare my case was from the moment I walked in.  Throw in whatever the Navy saw (and I was at least the most ____ man in the Fleet, but according to the bloody testers one of the most _____ people in the world; I think ______ translates to “destructive” in real terms).


All the signs of it.  And on the way back so violently rear-ended I’m still suffering the after-effects; that was Monday, this is Saturday, and the first time I’ve been able to write at all.  I don’t mean from shock over the Suburban I do mean from Blunt Force Trauma.

Tried to drink and threw the bottle away unopened.  Now that’s bad.  I simply don’t drink.

Attempted to start moving toward publication again and was stopped but I think I’ll be able to do it soon.


And the pain in my neck (which has led to a headache ever since the accident) has prevented me from doing nearly anything except weak physical labor.  I move my neck or head or something and it becomes so painful I can’t think.  And I was driving a fucking Suburban and I’d just been given a damned death sentence.  Soon.  Yes, I have luck.


Certainly I was at fault.  I was driving in one direction in one lane following at the proper distance and paying attention to absolutely nothing else.  I have his name and address.  I’m half-tempted to drive up there and kill him.  Writing this down and putting it on the Net ensures I won’t.  Mind you, I haven’t put name and such down, either.

June 18, 2016 at 8:08 pm Leave a comment

Honesty and Autobiographies

I suspect I’ll start doing just that on (one of) my other sites on LiveJournal.  The honesty will and must be tempered a bit because of self-interest.  If, for instance, I knew the name of a person who took or almost took the thousand-mile swim to port I’m positive I wouldn’t repeat it and assuredly wouldn’t point to myself as cause, forty years separation + or not.


However, I made a deal with something or someone.  The way that worked out is that I’ve survived things that are supposed to be fatal.  Since the latest thing is the prescribed medication I’ve been taking for seizures (to prevent them, to make that clearer) should have killed me in four years.  I use an exact timeframe because that is what was used by the doctor who prescribed it and who told me to not look at the warnings, because I’d just get frightened or depressed.  “This is the first time I’ve done something like this, Glenn, but I don’t know what else to do.  This is too much of this medicine and it will damage your liver.  Never take acetaminophen (the anti-seizure medications are loaded with it) to hold it off a little.”


Four years would have been 2009.  I show the effects of the overdosing; internal bleeding is the main one.  I should have unusually weak bones and don’t; however, the medicine greatly intensifies the effects of Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome both in theory and practice.  To translate that in other terms, too; I have a lot more pain because of them.  But then I wouldn’t feel at all theoretically if I didn’t take them, and I’d much rather die than have another seizure.  I have been to Hell, and I didn’t like it.  As far as the Hell in the Bible I’m agnostic; as far as what I experience during and post-seizure I know without doubt, and much more than I’ve told or been able to tell.


For now, yeah, the pain is getting worse…I also had 45 minutes without pain for the first time since I was 33 on February 29 (2016).  The return of it nearly killed me.  Oh, well.  Shit happens.

March 28, 2016 at 12:07 pm Leave a comment

On Intelligence

In reply to:
Is a biological being with all of the physical characteristics distinguishing the human…discernibly human without the effect of society?
A scale representing the relationship between irregular data inputs (reality, if you will) and a regular representational system is interesting because of its implications regarding value.  I doubt value is intrinsic.
This directly implies–pardon me, would seem to–task-oriented valuation.  Relativity, in a word.
Intelligence may be best defined as an ability to form sequences of protocols, then, that best fulfill the task at hand (probably beginning with survival).
Some of these protocols for the human necessarily involve interaction.
The hypotheses involved, then, in the mere discussion of the subject of the enhancement of intelligent, form an effectively infinite field of definitions.  Best of all–what would a “genius” confronted with the “real world” do?  Try to join in, or hide?

April 6, 2009 at 4:10 pm Leave a comment

(and again) poetry from voices

tone poem:  shaded light

lakemirrored sky
fisherman set dreaming
midst wisped fog
and wind-shaped trees
the waters
scarcely stirring…

having pointed at flowers, attempted
unwordy knowledge…

i remember the fisherman,
bright in the misty
flawed refractions
of pure light.



Bear in mind this poetry at latest dates from the early 1980s.  I still write poetry; it’s merely that I’m a tad more circumspect about “publishing” it online because of potential stickiness with publishers.  So to speak.  We’ve yet to come up with some terminology here, and some of it is because it’s just now become obvious that there’s a store of knowledge that we don’t know how to classify.  Before, it was the guy with the biggest fists and/or the loudest mouth.  Now?  Power rests on illusion, and illusion is the product of manipulation.  A part of the control exerted by the laws of the common’s place (so to speak)–is simply to show that the iron fist indeed yet rests beneath that velvet glove.  So to speak.  Though some may find the velvet a bit bare.

April 4, 2009 at 2:49 am Leave a comment

poetry from voices


it seems long since
i accosted the
strange-eyed god.
and, o, the gifts
that he gave me:
have brought some joy, and all some pain:

but the worst–the best–
is sight.



Pain’s been a bit much today.  Also spent most of the day chasing after some incidental medications.  Like the ones that keep me from having seizures.  Since I was found guilty of a criminal act for having a seizure, that could be really serious, not just …never mind.

April 4, 2009 at 2:41 am Leave a comment

Reverse Mortgages

…And here I thought they were for us renters, too.  The police have no sense of humor at all, either.



At least I can smile after we got turned down for food stamps.

March 23, 2009 at 9:17 pm Leave a comment

Chronic Pain

The best thing, of course, about chronic pain, is that there is one “sure-fire” means of ending.  The problem with that is, it doesn’t always work.  The best example I know of is the friend of a friend who shot himself in the head, twice–and lived.  This leaves out probable jail time (if you’re lucky or unlucky enough to not make it to a lockdown ward) and unending psychiatric help.  A doctor can’t feel the pain, and a large part of his [not sexism, shortness of wording] training is “preventing transference”–not caring.  I should know; I have a degree in psychology, and one of the keywords in that is–lack of transference.  You end up not talking about it because people around you get tired of hearing it and even sometimes get pleasure from telling you that.  They don’t believe anyone can live with that much pain, although most of us evidently have made it this far; generally chronic pain is an increasing thing, because of the underlying causes.  The best part, of course, is that actually effective painkillers start reducing ability to work.  They’re easy to addict to (I suppose; I’m not quite sure what addiction is; I can do without them–and my ability to do anything starts reducing rapidly after a while…oddly enough like painkillers, come to think of it).

Charybdis and Scylla, so to speak.  Don’t give in to self-pity, though, because then everyone will decide you’re not worth it.  It’s also often interesting convincing a doctor that you even need painkillers; in my case, for some reason, everyone has been suspicious I’m an addict.  It took my “PCP” something like five years to (audibly) convince himself I wasn’t an addict.  I have no comment, and I won’t give out his name; he was trained to make the mistake.  I suppose I should try going into some detail on this.  Right now I can’t, oddly enough.  I’m in too much pain, and I won’t keep anything near a “social networking” site just up.  I’m hesitant about even keeping a browser open when not using it, because it simply lends more vulnerability.  Anyway.  ***k.


March 16, 2009 at 4:06 am Leave a comment

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