Friday 9 August 2013

Crawling out of the woodworks.

Four months with no update is just slack.

There's no other excuse really - I'm just slack.

There's been quite a lot that has happened in this time:
  • Organising moves, moves falling through, finally moving
  • Starting a new job, then not long after, being released from said job
  • Hospitilisations
  • Gaining new employment
  • Trials, tribulations, failures, arguments, tears, frustrations
  • Family gatherings
  • Making and losing friends
  • Losing and finding, losing and finding, losing myself
  • Surgery and complications

To say it's been a rollercoaster seems like both an understatment and an exaggeration.

I guess more than anything, I'm struggling with myself the most.

I seem to have fallen into defeatest mode again, and I am certainly not proud of it.
Just seems as though my life is in a perpetual state of two-steps-forward-ten-steps-back, no matter how hard I try to stay on the straight and narrow and keep things ticking along positively.

I guess you could say that the undoing came about when I lost the job that I had fought so hard to obtain.
I had some horrendous days with pain that I soldiered on through, having to take a day here and a day there to stay at home and try keep on top of things.
At the time, it all seemed fine - My employer was supportive of everything, and seeing as I had maintained open lines of communication, there was never any doubt as to where I stood.
I was only working three days a week, and in the short time I had been there, I had managed to acquire loyal clients and the three days I would be at work, my days would be full.
I'd made some amazing friends amongst the incredible team, I had my independence and sense of self back and I was feeling generally good about the way things were tracking.

I had moments where my pain was out of control, where I'd have normally taken myself off to the hospital for help, but I had been too scared to do so as I didn't want to jeopardise my position.

About a month into my employment there, the salon was sold
This came as a huge surprise to everyone in the salon - including our salon manager.

It was sold to a large up-and-coming chain which had apparently been looking for the perfect opportunity to lay their roots in Wellington.
Obviously, they put forth an offer which couldn't be refused, and before we knew it, we were all on three month trial periods (standard practice here in NZ, imposed by our government which allows employers to release new employees within that three month period, with one weeks notice and no obligation to tell you why you're being let go. That said, it works both ways).

My support and enthusiasm has always laid with small, boutique, privately owned salons, so becoming an employee of a large conglomerate really didn't appeal to me.
Their attitude towards the beauty aspect of the business really irked me, as they saw it as a commodity, unlike the hair aspect, which they deemed a necessity amongst woman.

How they figured that the relationship between a hairdresser and a client was more intimate than that of a beauty therapist and their brazilian wax client is beyond me.
I'm going to be far more loyal and trusting of a woman with my vagina than I am to the person who cuts my hair - but maybe that's just me.

All that said, the people I was working with wasn't changing, my clients I'd worked so hard to obtain weren't changing, and they made promises of grandure that I'd have been stupid to ignore.
So, I was willing to go with it and continue on my merry way.

It really wasn't long before I started to realise that my work and my opinions weren't at all appreciated, and I begin to feel a sense of unease.

The promises that were made to us didn't seem to follow through and I wound up going from three busy days a week, to three days a week where I was lucky if I had one client a day.

It wasn't too much longer until I was getting a phone call from head office, telling me that they were exercising the 90 day trial period and that my contract was being terminated, that there was no need for me to see out the weeks notice, and that I'd receive one weeks pay in lieu of notice.

Bewildered, distraught and utterly confused as to where I had gone wrong (although in hindsight, I know it's nothing that I, personally, did or didn't do), I hung up the phone, walked through the salon trying to keep my head held high and crumbled once I got to the staff room.

Everyone else was is complete shock and disbelief with regards to what had just taken place, and I tried so, SO hard to keep it together so that I could call The Lad and tell him what had just transpired.
I was so afraid to tell him, because things had been going so well, and I was horrified that I was once again letting him, letting us down.

The minute he picked up the phone, I couldn't help it and I lost it.
I was so upset and I couldn't contain it.
I told him what happened, albeit a little frantically.
As he always does, he calmed me down, assured me everything would work out and I vowed that I was going to be straight back into work as soon as I could find something.

True to my word, the minute I got home I was right back on the computer and going like the clappers trying to find work.
It didn't take long before the stress of losing my job, being unable to meet financial obligations and trying to find more work, meant that my symptoms flared up in a big way and I was back in the hospital....
Thus the start of yet another vicious circle.

I'm not going to ramble on for more of this post - Instead, I'm going to funnel the rest of it into subsequent posts.
I could so easily just continue on this tangent, but nobody is ever going to read it in it's entirety.
So for now, I digress and I shall continue this a bit later on and talk about the struggle with the depressive state I found myself in.

As always,

Love and Sunshine,


Thursday 14 March 2013

I wear my heart on my sleeve

In this case, quite literally.

February 22nd was very much a day of needles.

In the morning, I endured five hours of tattooing to start on my sleeve, and in the afternoon I had my final jab of Zoladex --- EVER.

Looking back, I have come to realise that it's almost somewhat symbolic.

I have this tattoo to symbolise my struggles and the strength I've gained from my Endo, and then I undergo the final course of a drug which I have struggled with and have required strength to continue fighting.

I thought I might do a bit of explaining as to why this particular image resonates with me enough to have it permanently etched onto my arm.

With all my tattoos, they have meaning and tell a story - But I've chosen to do them in such a way that to anyone just taking them for face value would think "Oh, that's interesting/that's cool" and not have any clue as to the symbolism behind them.

For instance:

The small Celtic cross located between my shoulder blades.
I got this when I was 18. It was my 18th birthday present to myself.
Anyone who looks at it immediately thinks it's some form of tribal butterfly.
It absolutely does look like that. Which is one of the one reasons I love it - Butterflies symbolise change.
But the reason behind such a varied style of a Celtic cross is because I'm half Irish.
Not watered down half Irish. Legitimately half Irish.
Having said that, I don't identify too strongly with my Celtic roots, so that was my way of honoring them, without it being overly obvious.

The roses, vine and ladybug on my ribcage.
Again, another birthday present to myself. This time, my 21st.
It is what it looks like. Roses, on a vine, with a ladybug on one of the leaves.
I have two fully blossomed roses, one partially blossomed and one rosebud.
There is a rose each for my daughters father and I. The partially blossomed rose to symbolise my daughter and a rosebud as a symbol of our new life.
The ladybug was another little symbol for my daughter, as the minute we found out I was carrying a girl, she was nicknamed 'Edde-Bug' and I've been collecting ladybug paraphenalia ever since.
The vine is a symbol of the journey ahead of us as parents.

The Braille on my inner left bicep
"Trust your struggle".
I had this inked in Braille as it was symbolic to how blind the doctors and everyone around me (myself included) are when it comes to the struggles that we face as Endo sufferers.
I chose to get it on my bicep as, obviously, flashing  your biceps is what you do when you want to show someone how strong you are.
At the time leading up to, and including, when I got this particular tattoo, I was going through a rough patch, feeling pretty worthless and wondering why I was even bothering... It was just proving too difficult.
I got this as a reminder that no matter how hard things get, we are only ever given as much as we can handle and that it's all for a reason.

The latest addition!

Rosie the Riveter and two roses

The best picture I could take by myself!
This was the unbelievable amazing donation by Jeremy Gill of Tattoo Machine on Dixon Street here in Wellington.
I've spoken about this tattoo in a previous post, and now I have it and I couldn't be happier.
I love her.
Now, Rosie the Riveter was the image used in the early 1940s as the poster girl for women in the male workforce while the men were away fighting in WWII.
The reason I chose this particular image is because for me, she is the epitome of female strength when times were tough and a symbol for female empowerment.
The original poster shows Rosie with a speech bubble saying "We Can Do It"  - And whereas this is pertaining to covering vacancies left by men fighting at war, can very easily be translated to the situation I find myself in on a daily basis.
"This is too hard" - I CAN DO IT
The roses, I got two of them - One for each ovary - But also as a symbol of love.
In this instance, it's self love - Something I struggle with hugely.

As I previously stated, I love her.
I am so so happy with this latest addition and I have absolutely no regrets.
I will forever be grateful to Gil for his talents and time and for the compassion and kindness he has shown me.

Until next time,

Love and Sunshine,


A total pain in the arse

... It's a bloody shit topic to be writing about.

And yes.
Me being the Queen of Innuendo that I am, I am being completely literal.

So, for the last few months (roughly four), I have been experiencing the odd bout of rectal bleeding along with my 'motions'.
I had already been to have this checked out once before and was told the likely cause was a hemorrhoid which is likely to have been caused due to one of my many episodes of constipation which is brought about as a result of the pain relief I am taking daily (for the most part).

About two weeks ago, after what can only be described as a completely hectic month, I wound up back in hospital - My pain was absolutely ferocious and despite having a severe case of 'The Runs' (most likely caused by not looking after myself properly and being stressed to the max), I was experiencing a horrendous amounts of blood every time I went to the bathroom.

I'm sorry - Too far?

It was honestly terrifying.

Fearing that something was seriously amiss and not having the ability, or desire, to continue struggling by myself at home, off to the A&E I went.
It'd had been a good six or so weeks since my last decent hospital stay, and I was quite proud of the fact.

It didn't take long for it to turn to custard and for me to lose the plot though, as once I had been admitted and I was greeted in the morning by my specialist, I was told something that sent me spiralling out of control and deeper into myself and my depression.

I was told that, given we had had six months of Zoladex (complete with night sweats, hot flashes, horrendous mood swings, weight gain, skin deterioration...) and not had a positive result from it, that his instinct was that it isn't Endo that we're dealing with.
Did he give me an alternative?


Me: (through burning tears of anger, hurt and frustration) "So, let me get this straight. You're basically telling me now that we're back at square one. That we don't have an answer and that there's nothing more you're going to do?"
Him: "Unfortunately, yes"

Wait. You cannot be serious?
That's all you have to say to me?
After all the times you fobbed me off to your gang of muppets.
After all those times  you've left me laying in a hospital bed, doing nothing constructive.
That's all you're going to say?
"Unfortunately, yes".

It's a good thing he left when he did, because my tears soon turned into a rage of menopausal fury, and I would have donkey kicked him in the throat had he still been standing in front of me.

From the fury came despair and I couldn't help but fall apart at the seams.
The seams that I had so tentatively tried to hold together, burst like a dam and I couldn't for the life of me control the emotion that flooded out of me.
Massive gulps of air, as if I was desperately trying to suck back in some of the pride that I was losing with each tear, followed by loud, heaving sobs that I couldn't hold back.

I tried to pull myself together so that I could relay this latest bit of information with The Lad, but within moments, I was back to the squeaking, sobbing mess that I had been just moments before.

I felt so defeated.
I realise that I've said that before... But I don't think I truly understood the meaning of the word until recently.

It just seemed as though, despite everything I had been trying to do was all for nought, and now I was back at the drawing board, not knowing where to go from here.

Since I was discharged from the hospital, I have really, really been struggling with my depression.
There have been a lot of contributing factors, but being put back in the 'unknown' has certainly been the biggest.
There's been a lot of stuff happening, which should be exciting and fun and happy - But I've just been in this perpetual state of the 'Fuck-Its'... So much that I haven't been able to get excited or be happy about all the amazing things that are going on around me.

Instead, I've been feeling sorry for myself, worrying that I'm going to be left behind and forgotten.
I worry that, because I seemingly have no control over my situation and that I can't plan for a week from now (let alone months) and that I have so much baggage and extra stress that nobody else should have to deal with, that sooner or later people are going to realising this, leave me and I'm going to wind up bitter and alone.

I couldn't find work.
I haven't been able to find a house to live in, because nobody wants and unemployed sickness beneficiary with a child living with them and I can't afford to live alone...

So, I got fed up. I got angry.
I got rid of the 'Fuck-Its' and turned it into 'Fuck-Yous', and out of spite towards everyone and the world around me, I ramped up my search and started applying for every-single-job I felt I was capable of doing... On average, applying for at least eight jobs a week.

Day after day, my inbox was filled with emails stating I had not been successful, and day after day, I became more and more frustrated.

Then, within a couple of hours of an application to a particularly successful and renowned salon and clinic here in Wellington, I received an email asking to come in for an interview.
That interview turned into a rather informal trial.
I was then asked to come in fo a full day to do a 'proper' trial, where I worked my makeup magic on a Mother of the Bride, two Bridesmaids, performed nail services on another Bridesmaid and the salon manager and gave the current beauty therapist a facial.

Tomorrow... I go in to discuss hours, pay and all the other semantics associated with a new contract.

I'm excited!
I'm so happy to be going back into work, especially in such a well established salon doing stuff that I am passionate about and really, really good at.
I'm also dubious. I wonder if I'm rushing into things. Whether I am, in fact, capable of working.

All this happening in the space of a week, as a result of me getting angry with the world and sticking my middle finger up to it.

You know what they say... God works in mysterious ways.

I have appointments to attend on Monday, one with the Chroic Pain team and also my Gynae specialist.
I know exactly what I'm going into my specialist appointment to say - I will be putting my foot down. Well and truly.
I have a gut instinct as to what is going on, and if he refuses to acknowledge it as a possibility and investigate further, I will be left with no option than to fork out the big bucks (ugh, that just made my pocket wince) and seek advice from a specialist at a private treatment centre who I have heard nothing but wonderful things about.

With all this being said.
I'm claiming my life back. Finally
Endo has had the best of me these past five years... These last seven months especially.

It's time to bring back the 'old' me... Bring back the 'real' me.

Bring it on.

Love and Sunshine,


(P.S: It was a hemmaroid causing the bleeding. I nicknamed it 'Hemi' - Because it's a males name, and males are known to be a pain in the ass at the best of times)

Tuesday 12 February 2013

Verbal Diarrhea

Hey guys,

I apologise for the fact it's been so long since my last update
Things have been more than just a little bit manic here, and I've got so much racing through my head lately that I've been having a really hard time sitting down and trying to write without it becoming a horrible, incomprehensible, rambling mess which makes no sense whatsoever.
So! I decided to ramble to a camera instead.

Love and Sunshine,


Thursday 24 January 2013

Sticky Date Pudding

Yes that title is horrendously innuendo laden.

I've always been a terrible sleeper.
I am much more of a night owl than a morning person, and I find it extremely hard to get up in the morning.
This isn't due to lack of routine or sheer laziness. I just genuinely cannot seem to function properly before 11am.

I could go to bed early, with the best intentions of getting a good nights sleep, but chances are I won't get to sleep before 2am.

The fact that I am enduring horrible night sweats and hot flashes during disgustingly muggy nights only increases the discomfort levels, and in turn, my ability to get a decent nights sleep.
I've tried sleeping in the nude, with cold wheat packs, with the window open, with nothing but a sheet, limbs hanging out of the side of the bed, flipping pillows, cool flannels.
It doesn't matter... I still wake up hot, bothered and with a sticky date.
(Mmmm, sweaty butt. Aren't I just the epitome of beautiful?)

I've started to notice that lately, around two in the afternoon, I just crash - the joint aches and back pain will increase and I feel exhausted.
Of course I push on and try to fight it off, thinking that, surely if I am this tired now, by the time I go to bed, I will be absolutely shattered, then HEY, PRESTO. Decent sleep.


It totally doesn't work that way and it is beyond frustrating.
I genuinely cannot remember the last time I had a good nights sleep.

In other news, I finally found those BGP's I keep talking about, and finally put them on and laid a complaint against the incompetent muppet of a doctor I have had the pleasure of dealing with on more occassions than I would like.
I heard back from the Health and Disabilities Commission (where I laid the complaint) and was told they were currently investigating my claims and that I could anticipate hearing back from them in approximately six weeks.

In approximately six weeks, I will also be sitting down with my specialist, discussing where to from here.
If that's not the discussion that is had. Then consider yourselves warned when I say all hell will break loose.

I want my life back.
So badly.

Today was ROUND FIVE of my Zoladex, and I am currently sitting here feeling very sorry for myself, with a puncture wound in my belly and a headache that would knock ol' Cassius Clay for six, but I have turned the brightness of my screen right down, sitting in darkness and silence and enlightening you all with my tales of woe.

Don't you feel special?

The fundraising hasn't taken off quite as much as I would've hoped, but I'm hoping that with your help, we can reach my target.
So, please, if you're able to, make a donation... If you can't (in fact, even if you can) please post this link on your blog, Facebook page... Whatever means of social media you prefer. Just please, don't make me get on all fours and beg for it.

As always my lovelies,

Love and Sunshine
(not that there's any of that here today in Wellington. Summer? Pfft. Fat chance)

*NB: Once upon a time, a long time ago, getting on all fours and begging for it was for recreational purposes.......Yet another thing Endo has taken away from me.

Tuesday 15 January 2013

High noon with Endo

Today sucks.

I want today gone.

It is currently 12:27 in the afternoon and I have been attempting to cope with the ferocious pains which have been thrown at me for the past three days.
As I type this I am sitting in a hot bath, in the darkness, listening to classical piano in a desperate bid to rid myself of this horrendous discomfort.

As it stands, I'm not sure which is hotter.
The tears of frustration sliding down my cheeks?
The white hot fury which is coursing through my veins in retaliation to succumbing to this awful disease once again?

The temperature of the water is undeniably hot.
The hot flashes that keep plaguing me certainly don't help.

Is it a combination of all of the above?

Why am I so seemingly incapable of getting a hold of things and coping?
It's certainly not for want of trying.

The Tramadol isn't helping.
The Sevredol isn't helping.
The tri-cyclic antidepressants that they have me on aren't helping.

The heat packs, meditating, diet changes, lifestyle changes, yoga, homeopathy, reiki, acupuncture, regular massage or immersing myself in other activities hasn't helped.

Why does nothing help?

I am sick of putting on the brave face.
I'm even more sick of feeling sorry for myself - and you know that's bad, because I very rarely allow myself to do so.

My hospital bag is packed.
I just have to make the call.
I desperately don't want to.

I don't want another trip to the A&E where they announce it's just another acute exacerbation of my pain, where I will then be taken up to Gynae, only for them to tell me that there's nothing more they can offer me, but that they will endeavor to get me as comfortable as possible.

I get so embarrassed by every trip I make to the front desk of the emergency department, every time I have to re-explain my situation to the triage nurse, the registrar on ED who happens to be lumped with me.
It makes me feel like shit.
I worry they they don't take me seriously because I've been in there so often.
That they think I'm some kind of hypochondriac or attention seeker, or a druggie who wants morphine.

I know I'm none of those aforementioned things.

But, given how calm an exterior I portray, it must be hard for them to believe I am a 10/10 in the pain scale when I am able to carry on a conversation, with only a wince every now and then.
I refuse to play the role of the screaming damsel in distress - I've played that role before. It does nobody any good.

I really don't want to have to become Growly Ren and start demanding they do something constructive, because I don't feel as though I should have to - if I'm in there regularly (almost routinely) with the same issues, only heightened, then surely they should be putting their large student debts to use and realize that there is an issue at hand which needs addressing, and that the means by which they've been addressing them needs to be reviewed because clearly they aren't doing the business like they're supposed to!

Aaaand *breeeaaath*

I know what I need to do, so I shall leave this here and put my BGPs (Big Girl Panties) on and go do it.



Monday 14 January 2013

Whoa Nelly...

I can't say I am particularly fond of Nelly... And not "I'm like a bird" Nelly.

I'm talking about pants-down-around-his-arse-bandaid-on-his-cheek-do-rag Nelly.

But, never before have I been able to relate to such eloquently written Hip-Hop songs. Until now.

It's getting hot in here (so hot) so take off all your clothes

I am, getting so hot, I wanna take my clothes off
It's getting hot in here (so hot) so take off all your clothes
I am, getting so hot, I wanna take my clothes off

 Uh, uh, uh, let it hang all out

(And good gracious, my arse is more than just a little bit bodacious, even if I do say so myself)

I would never have regarded him as a lyrical genius before, but nowadays, I swear on Ryan Goslings abs - A chorus has never resonated with me so much.

Now. Lets just clarify. I'm not a sweaty person.
I've never had issues with excessive, or even noteable, for that matter, perspiration.
I'm a lady.
I don't sweat.
I glisten.

These days, however, the sweat is pouring off me. I feel disgusting. I feel like a Swamp Monster of some description.
I just seem to sweat like a whore in church... All. The. Time.

I live out the vast majority of my days swanning around topless and in shorts because I cannot handle the feeling of shirts clinging to me. It's unbearable.
Even just having that little bit of fabric from my bra strap clinging to my back is more than I can stand - But, because I want to maintain at least some level of dignity (as well as sparing the eyesight of those around me), I leave my bra on.

I was warned of the possibilty of night sweats, and I have suffered from them in a minor capacity, but I was not prepared for that consistent presence of this awful sticky feeling.

Now, whenever I have a hot flash, it's accompanied by a sweat goatee, a glistening forehead and those delightful beads of perspiration that run down your spine and down your cleavage.
I'm now more determined than ever to lose weight, as I am sick of drying sweat from the cracks and crevices of my womanly shape - This is the one time I would actually gladly consider taking on a waif like appearance.

Nothing more attractive than zebra stripes on your shirt, caused by the shirt itself being folded under your boobs.

So, if you'll excuse me. I must go take my third cold shower today, change into my fourth shirt of the day, wipe down the couch and lay down a towel and turn the air-con onto the 'Arctic' setting.


Sure is glamorous.