For the past 10 years, or so, my neurologists have treated my migraines with the front-line medications in the war on migraines: anti-depressants.

About 2 years ago, my neurologist referred me to a psychiatrist to manage the anti-depressant prescriptions, because he knows more about them than she does. It's a common thing to do with patients who have intractable, daily migraines.

My "shrink" put me through a few different regimens of medications, depending on the side-effects the drugs caused. Oh, that one causes me to have tremors, so I can no longer needlepoint?

Next.

Oh, this one is causing constipation, which happens to be a migraine trigger for me?

Next.

Oh, that one obliterates any interest you have in physical intimacy?

Next.

It's a process, and at times can be a very frustrating one.

And then, back in January, the side effects became overwhelming.

I was the most depressed I'd ever been in my life: I had no desire for intimacy, which caused feelings of guilt; I'd gained 30 pounds since my wedding and hated the way I looked; I felt like my presence on earth was really just a burden to everyone, but particularly to my husband, who had to deal with the brunt of my migraines and their effect on my moods.

It was bad, folks.

As a teenager, I sometimes self-harmed - cutting myself when I was particularly anxious or depressed, because the sight of the blood calmed me, somehow. It was a physical manifestation of what I was feeling. Following my cancer diagnosis, I stopped completely, and hadn't ever had the urge to do it again. Until January of 2018. Fortunately, a card from my niece on the refrigerator declaring "I love you SO SO MUCH!" caught my eye as I made for the knife block, and I turned around and went back to bed, skin intact.

Whenever you see ads for anti-depressants on TV, there's always a disclaimer about how they can, in some patients, cause suicidal thoughts.

Yeah, that disclaimer is aimed at me.

My psychiatrist realized how depressed I was and took me off the drug I'd been taking, without success, for about 6 months, and he gave me another drug to try out. I had an allergic reaction to the new drug, and stopped taking it, meaning that I was 100% off anti-depressants when I went back to see him a month later.

I was an entirely different person: happier, more cheerful in outlook, and able to take a step back from all of the horrible thoughts I'd been having and to realize that things aren't so awful, after all. In fact, they're pretty wonderful, despite the migraines.

My migraines aren't as debilitating as they were while I was on anti-depressants. I still have them, but I'm still able to function to some degree, meaning I can usually still make a healthy dinner for my husband and me despite the migraine.

I've also lost all the weight I gained since meeting my husband, which amounts to about 45 pounds. If I tried on my wedding dress, today, it would probably just fall off.

The last drugs we tried before I quit taking any had weight gain as a side-effect, and without them in my system, I no longer have the urge to eat as many sweets, or to binge on snacks. I'd tried to lose the weight while I was still on anti-depressants, not realizing that it would be nigh on impossible.

So now, we're trying to manage my migraines by being more careful about what I eat and practicing healthier sleeping habits: I wear a sleep mask at night, try to go to sleep at the same time every day, and have an evening "ritual" that I follow, which involves a warm bath, reading, taking melatonin, etc., though we joke that there's a goat slaughtered in there, somewhere, too.

I'm still having more days with migraine than not, but the migraines aren't weighing so heavily on me, now. Add to that the fact that my leather pants fit again, and things are looking up.

Sometimes, the best drug for what ails you is no drug at all.

A New Experience

On Sunday, April 3, 2016, I did something I never thought I'd do in a million years.

I went to the WWE's 2016 Wrestlemania in Arlington, TX at the AT&T Cowboys Stadium.

It lasted almost 7 hours.

It was pure insanity.

You might be thinking how I survived it, what with my migraines and all. I wondered how I'd survive it, before I went in. I imagine I lasted as long as I did because I was completely hopped up on adrenaline, the way I imagine soldiers are going into war. Also, I had pain medicine with me, so that had some bearing on the fact I'm not dead.

Since that occasion, my husband - without whom I wouldn't be interested in Wrestlemania in any way, shape, or form - have discussed why it is we weren't immediately agoraphobic upon entering the stadium, given that we dislike places like amusement parks (shudder) and rodeo fairgrounds. I finally settled on this answer, though I'm not sure if I should share it with the public:

The fans at Wrestlemania were "our people."

They're the same otherwise mature, responsible adults, who watch Monday Night RAW. They have decent-paying jobs (otherwise they can't afford the tickets) and enough to pay to travel to Arlington, Texas for a weekend, and most likely miss work on Monday.

I admit, I was nervous going into the whole thing. I considered claiming a migraine and not going. But I felt pretty good the day of the event, so I sucked it up and went. With a couple of pain pills in my pocket just in case all of the pyrotechnics took their toll. Which they eventually did.

Among the amazing, unexpected things I saw at Wrestlemania were:

Shaquille O'Neal wrestling in the Andre the Giant Memorial Battle Royal (he didn't win).

Joan Lunden appearing, because she was inducted into the WWE Hall of Fame. Because of COURSE she was...

The Rock (aka Dwayne Johnson) came out to interfere in a brouhaha, ripped off his pants and shirt (no complaints here!), and wrestled a bit.

Three guys jumped out of an enormous cereal box while wearing unicorn horns on their heads.

Stephanie McMahon (Chief Brand Officer for WWE, daughter of WWE founder Vince McMahon, wife of Triple-H (HHH), who is the COO of WWE) appeared in what I like to imagine is her typical office attire. It involves a mask and a leotard...

Stephanie McMahon

Also Stephanie McMahon

Stephanie McMahon's husband, HHH, in typical office attire

The usual sort of thing you expect to see. Especially from multimillionaire business executives.

Around 9:30 pm, the large quantity of aforementioned pyrotechnics took their toll. I downed some medicine, along with a bit of cotton candy and some water.

Overall, it was more fun that I'd expected. I'd been anxious about wandering a stadium where grown men are dressed as deceased pro wrestlers, but it was amazingly entertaining. I walked behind one fellow dressed in full Macho Man regalia, and every fifth person shouted "Oh, yeah!", which earned an identical response from the costumed carouser.

I'll say one thing for Wrestlemania: it's a spectacle.

Sisters. Sisters. There were never such adoring sisters.

I received a message via Facebook, today, informing me that I had been granted a "Sisterhood of the World Bloggers Award." The awarder...

No.

The awardor...

No.

The award giver? Granter? Grantor? Grantor, according to Merriam-Webster.

Okay, here we go again. The award grantor is my third cousin, the daughter of my Cousin Thom. After Thom's death, she took over his blog, To Gyre and Gambol, and has definitely lived up to his legacy.

Since I blogged about Thom, I haven't written another entry, although I've meant to do so. I've mentally composed several posts, but then didn't get around to writing them.

I've been busy. I met the man of my dreams, and on May 30, 2015, I will marry him in a smallish ceremony here in Houston. We now share a home, and he has been through a round of everyone's favorite game: "Megan's Bedridden Again!"

So we have the whole "in sickness and in health" thing covered.

Lots going on. And that's part of why I haven't blogged: I felt there was too much to catch up on.

But now, I've been given an award, and so I will blog, tonight, for the first time in six months.

So here are the questions Amy sent me to answer:

• Why did you start blogging?

My sister suggested it. I was unemployed in 2008, and had nothing to do. I would write these loooooooong emails full of details about what it's like to be unemployed to her, and she told me how funny they were. I was reading constantly, and wanted a way to "discuss" my books with people, and so when my sister (also named Amy, by the way - total fluke in the family naming thing) suggested I start a blog, I decided to do so. I initially had a schedule: Monday was a review of the bar I went to on Friday for Architects' Happy Hour, Tuesday was some amusing anecdote related to being unemployed, Wednesday was also some amusing anecdote related to being unemployed, Thursday was often a book review, and Friday was either another random story or a picture of alcohol, because I was too busy going to Happy Hour at 5:30. Don't knock it. It's how I got my next job. "You can hold your booze and won't put up with alcoholics' shenanigans? You're hired!"

• Do you have a favorite scar? Tell us its story

I actually have three favorite scars. Is that cheating? Maybe? I never claimed not to be a cheater, you know.

Three favorite scars: one beneath my right breast - 1.5" long and 1/8" wide; quasi-symmetrical ones fanning out from my waist down to my hips. The fan-shaped scars used to be bright red, then purple, but now they're a shiny flesh-tone, almost invisible unless you see them in the right light. Or wrong light, depending on your feelings about scars.

All three come from chemotherapy treatment as a 17 year old. I got all of them within a three month period of time. On December 4, 1999, I had surgery to implant a port-a-cath, which is usually implanted above the breast in teenage patients, so it doesn't interfere with brassieres. When I was diagnosed, however, I weighed a skeletal 105 lbs, so there wasn't enough fat over my rib cage to implant the port-a-cath above my breast. So the placed it below my right breast, but out of the way of the band of my bra.

The other two scars are also related to my being 105 lbs of nothing when I was diagnosed with leukemia. My doctors put me on steroids, you see, as part of my treatment, and I proceeded to eat all the food ever. I would go through a gallon of whole milk and 1.5 lbs of ham in two days. And that doesn't include the 3 a.m. scrambled eggs I would make for myself, or the Oreos, or the microwaved frozen broccoli.

I gained a lot of weight in a short period of time, and after three months of chemotherapy and steroids - and the puffiness that comes with being on steroids - I noticed that I was getting funny marks on my hips. Stretch marks. From gaining weight.

I used to be ashamed of the scars on my hips. It's helped that they've faded, with time, but I also see them as a symbol of what I went through, and who it helped me to become.

• Are you sunrise, daylight, twilight, or night?

I am the walrus. Koo koo ka choo.

I used to think I was night. I'm still a bit of a night owl, but something I've learned in the past six months is that I crave sunlight. I've actually cured migraines by sitting in the sunlight and resting, so I think I'm now daylight.

• What's the best meal you've ever had?

The best meal I've ever had... I've had lots of great meals, memorable meals, but I think the best one was on November 1st of 2014. That was the day The Love of My Life asked me to marry him, and we went to Ruth's Chris for dinner, that night. (I thought he was going to propose at dinner, but then he stole a march on me and proposed before we went to lunch.) When we arrived, one of his friends had called the restaurant, told them what had happened, and paid for us to have a bottle of champagne. At first, I thought Robert - the fiance - had ordered the champagne. But then he asked if I'd done it. Nope. There was a card on the table, and that straightened things out pretty quickly. I had filet mignon, mushrooms, and asparagus with hollandaise with creme brulee for dessert.

It wasn't the best food I've ever had, but the company couldn't be beat.

• If you wrote a book, what would it be about? Write the inside front jacket.

I've actually written a book, but it's nowhere near being publishable. There's a ton of work to be done on it. If I had a year without a job, I'd work on it, and probably get it polished up in a couple of months. It's a fairy tale about a benevolent witch - it's a matriarchal society, and men are kind of (really) looked down on - who has to go on a journey to find a cure for the coven's matriarch, who will die without this cure. So she leaves, and eventually finds the cure, and on the way decides that neither humans nor males are so bad (in fact, some of them are smokin', but in a totally PG way), and she is also disappointed in some things. The character, as I initially wrote her, is too perfect, though, too cold, and too remote. She isn't someone you really want to read about. I've grown better about having relatable characters, in the intervening years (I wrote it 5 years ago), so I think I could turn it into something publishable, if I had the time.


But as for writing the inside front jacket? I don't know if my late-night mental muscles are up to that taxing task...

• Tattoos: yea or nay?

I certainly don't have any! Long ago, I wanted to be tan, but then I had cancer, and I decided I didn't want to get cancer again, so now I'm perfectly happy being fair-skinned. It isn't pale, it's porcelain, and I'm rocking it. And I work pretty hard to keep it nice, especially after the time I ended up with a striped sunburn after floating the Comal River in San Marcos, TX. No ink shall mar this creamy canvas.

• What do you wish you were better at?

Wow. There are so many possibilities here. One: getting off my duff and exercising. Two: socializing. I sort of have social anxiety, especially after bouts of illness, and then the idea of going out with a group of people can send me into a panic. Fortunately, my lifemate is good at talking me down (even when he thinks it's just me "not having anything to wear", which is a very convenient excuse for me). Three: riding a bike, snapping, and whistling. That's I lie, I wish I could actually do those things, not just be better at them. That's right: I refused to learn to ride a bike. I need three wheels under my caboose, or it's game over.

• Which young-adult bestseller-turned move do you dislike the most?

I can't really speak to this one, since I haven't seen any of them. I've heard the Hunger Games movies are actually really good, but I'm so madly in love with the books that I'm afraid I'd be disappointed if I saw them.

• Public school or private? Interpret whichever way you like.

I went to public school. I found out, within the past two years, that a lot of students in my district perceived my school as "ghetto". I couldn't figure out why, initially, and then I realized that we were one of the few schools on my side of town that had a racially diverse population. We had Hispanics and African Americans at my middle school! Gasp! It was good for me to be in a diverse population. I didn't realize until my parents pointed it out that two of my friends were Hispanic. ("Huh? Oh. I guess they are. Whaddaya know.")

• What fashion decision do you most regret?

Dream-catcher earrings in the sixth grade. Hands down.


I'm supposed to pass this on, now, and award it to someone else. The difficulty there is that I'm out of practice with reading blogs. I never really read other peoples' blogs, much. This blog was just a way for me to vent, and to be creative and maybe have 100 people read an entry on Margaret Atwood's MaddAddam series (which she finally finished. Helllo! That took a while!).

So I'm going to be a bad sister, in this Sisterhood of Bloggers, and break the chain.

Hopefully I don't have 7 years of bad luck.

What the Last Post Was Intended to be About

And yes, I am entirely aware that I ended the title of this post with a preposition, but you can all put on your big-girl panties and deal with it. Or, you know, your big-boy BVDs, if you're a fella. Or boxers, if that's your preference.

ANYHOO.

The last post I wrote wasn't supposed to get into the realm of I'm-going-to-eat-broth-and-sauerkraut-for-months so much. I'm going to claim, for the record, that the sauerkraut hi-jacked the post.

Sauerkraut has a tendency to do that, you know.

The last post was really supposed to be about the current Gentleman Caller.

*record scratch*  *Kid'N'Play make funny faces at the camera*

How did I intend to get from my insane food intolerances to the Gentleman Caller?

It's a somewhat circuitous route.

We've been dating for... a few months? Maybe three months? Or four of them?

I'm not really sure, because I'm terrible with dates. With the exception of immediate family, I would not remember any of my friends' birthdays without Facebook, sad to say. And when it comes to anniversaries, I'm hopeless (except for my parents' and my sister's and BIL's).

So, a while. We've been dating for a while.

And we almost didn't start, because THIS GAL had to reschedule the first two dates due to migraines. When he seemed okay with rescheduling, I realized that either:

1) He was desperate for a date
2) I am AMAZING.

I've decided to go with option "2" (and he encouraged me to think as much when I brought it up teasingly the other day).

Granted, we had spoken on the phone multiple times - and at length - before we were supposed to go on our dates. I could very well have seen him deciding that maybe I'd changed my mind and abandoning the whole idea of going out with me, though, rather than continuing to reschedule dates.

And, yeah, I've had to reschedule some since that time, too, because migraines - like s**t - happen.

Here's the thing: we most often go out to eat for our dates, and that can be tricky for me. I have yet to have to come up with a location for a date, though, because he always checks the restaurants' menus to make sure there are gluten-free choices for me. And if there aren't any explicitly gluten-free options for me, he calls the restaurant to see what they have.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but that seems to me to be a sign of someone who might be worth keeping around for a while.

And that's how my last post about diet-craziness was supposed to segue into a discussion of the current Gentleman Caller. Because I told him about the crazy diet I'm starting in January, and that I'll probably be even more restricted as to what I can eat, for a while, and his response was: "I guess I'd better get used to eating broth, then. That, and hiding hamburgers in my pockets."

Sounds like a pretty good attitude to take, if you ask me.

I'm a Terrible Blogger

No, really. I am.

When I first began this whole "blogging thing," I was rigorous in my daily blogging: I had a plan. I had vision!

I did not, however, have a job, which left ample opportunity for coming up with witticisms for my own little corner of the interwebz.

Now, I have a job - 5 days of the week! - and I'm remembering what it's like to have a set schedule, when there are only two days of the week in which to get everything else done. Then, too, by the time I get home from work, I've been under icky fluorescent lights for 6-8 hours, often staring at a computer screen, and the last thing I want to do is tempt fate/migraine by booting up the old dell and clackity-clacking out another post.

But enough of my making pathetic excuses for myself. It's time to get down to writing.

TMoMD is no more. I finally wrote him a nice little note informing him that I expected to hear from my gentlemen callers more frequently than once every 45 days. I gently reminded him that I had the courtesy to inform him beforehand when I knew I was going to be out of pocket for a couple of weeks, and that I expected the same courtesy from the gentlemen I date.

I then dusted off my hands rather smugly as I realized that I had just dumped a good-looking 6'-0" tall polo player.

So I'm back to the drawing board, so to speak. I recently had a decent date with a man who I'll call Andre. His profile said he's 6'-6". I couldn't decide if that was awesome or terrifying, at the time.

Here's the thing about online dating: men rarely tell the truth about their height. If they're 5'-6", they say they're 5'-8", and if they're 5'-10", they say they're 6'-0".

Generally speaking.

Andre is the exception to the rule. The man claimed to be 6'-6". And yet, as I stood on the curb talking to him (in the parking lot after our first date), and he stood on the ground 6" below me, I realized he was still a good 6 or 7 inches tall than I am. And when we were walking next to each other, I barely came up to his shoulder.

In other words, Andre is probably the only man in THE WORLD who shaves 2-3 inches off his height so he doesn't scare people.

I'm not sure I like the idea of being so ridiculously tiny compared to a gentleman caller.

I'm not the sort of gal who demands that her beau be taller than she is in heels. I dated a guy who was 1 or 2 inches shorter than me for 18 months (to date, my longest relationship). I'm not hung up on height (though if a guy's 5'-6" or under, he doesn't stand a chance). I figure if I end up with a fellow who's shorter than the average bear, it's all Mother Nature's way of trying to even out the human height average.

Whether or not I could become accustomed to dating a gentleman as tall as Andre the Giant (as we will refer to my newest potential beau) remains to be seen. At least, with Andre, it won't be difficult to spot.

Fish or Cut Bait

So, date #3 is always the crucial one, in my book... if a fella can make it that far (Hint: most don't). A friend used to refer to the guys I was dating - if they made it past date #3 - as "a fourth date man" (as in, "you're looking for your 'fourth date man').

She had a point. And, as one of my friends once pointed out, you can usually tell if you want to continue to see someone by the 3rd date. Before that, it could all just be up to nerves, or, um, nerves, if you're not compatible. By Date Numero Tres, you should be able to figure out if they're worth any more of your time.

I think I've found a Fourth Date Man.

And, yes, he's The Man of My Dreams.

For example: we went to a NICE restaurant, this evening, (because he wanted a good steak, and to initiate me into the world of raw oysters) and had a good time. I didn't feel particularly nervous (partly because I looked amazing, to the point where two fellows in the bar tried to stop me, en route to my table, at which point the hostess informed them that I was "spoken for"), and partly because I just feel calm with TMoMD.

And then, while we were discussing our similar views of politics, he mentioned that Condoleeza Rice is coming to give a lecture in Houston. Regardless of my political beliefs, I think she's an amazing person, and so when he hinted that we should go hear her talk, I just about had a nerdsplosion.

See, on eHarmony, there's a list of potential dates you could have that lists activities, and one of them is "attend a lecture on a topic we both find interesting." Most of the men on eHarm pick "go to a sporting event" or "go see a musical" (which leaves me wondering just how many semi-closeted straight male musical-lovers are out there).

I dislike the vast majority of musicals (The Sound of Music and Funny Face are given a free ride, as are any of the Disney animated movies from my childhood), and sporting events... meh. They're not as much fun now that beer and hotdogs are verboten. I always pick "attend a lecture on a topic we both find interesting" and I damn well mean it, too. I would LOVE to go see David Sedaris read aloud from one of his books, or see Condoleeza Rice lecture on what it's like to be Secretary of State.

And TMoMD apparently enjoys the same things, too. Either that or he's just trying to impress me because I read The Economist (which is possible, but not probable, seeing as he reads the same magazine and can discuss the articles with me. Oh, happy day!).

So now that my wine-addled brain has finished nerdsploding all over the webpage, I'm going to do my nightly piriformis-relaxing exercises and go to sleep.

Sigh. After I decide what classes to take next semester...

It's Been A While

Yes, it's been a while, but I've been busy. Busy booking movers for the Big Move to Houston next week (eep!). Busy arranging for telecommunications services for the Big Move to Houston next week (eep!). Busy boxing up my apartment for the Big Move to Houston next week.

Busy wrecking my car and having to deal with insurance, body shops, and renting a car.

NOT for the Big Move to Houston next week.

Tonight's post: AUTOMOTIVE REVIEW.

I rented a Chevy Malibu, today. My usual vehicle is a 2005 Honda Civic.

Cue the disinformation:

You: I thought architects made a lot of money?

Me: HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!! (crying, wipes away tears) Oh, you're funny! And seriously, man: have you seen my health insurance premiums? Hah. You're funny.

Anywho, I'm currently driving a Chevy Malibu.

It accelerates when you don't want it to (i.e. right before you hit an intersection)

It does not speed up when you want it to (i.e. right as you turn in front of a car, full of confidence because it accelerates when you don't expect it to so it must have tons of unused horsepower, right? RIGHT????).

Its radio decreases in volume whenever you take your foot off the gas, so you can't rock out to "Big Pimpin' " when it magically comes on the radio while you're en route from Container Store to your apartment to finish packing boxes (but you run out of tape, so call it quits after an hour).

Its interior finishes look like a gallon of Neapolitan ice cream just threw up everywhere.

My next-to-final recommendation: don't buy one, unless you need to fit large boxes in the back (while your friend from work kind of bends the boxes so they'll fit; friend from work not included with car rental).

My final recommendation: if you forget to buy more packing tape, just remember: you still have a 1/4 bottle red wine to finish before you go to bed! It's just something else to move!!!

Coming Soon to a Theater Near You:

Ms. StrainedConscious: The Movie!

I was telling my gentleman caller about my day on the construction site - or perhaps he read about it on the blog? - and he mooted the idea of action figures that I could market on my blog. Which got me to thinking about what, exactly, each action figure would be.

Construction-Site Ms. StrainedConsciousness: Accessories include work boots and a roll of construction drawings. Fill a reservoir in her head with salty water, and watch as she grows increasingly damp and starts to smell like stale sweat. Pull a string in her back, and she says things like "They're dropping that concrete from too high," "Who left that piece of metal there? I could have killed myself!" and "God, I need a beer."

Migraine Ms. StrainedConsciousness: Comes with a bed. Accessories include bottles of pills and a book, along with an extra pillow to put over her head. Pulla string in her back, and she says things like "Ungh," "Blargh," and "Damn, my head hurts. When will the agony end? Doctors are useless."

Couch-Hunter Ms StrainedConsciousness: Comes with a Minivan and Sidekick SuperMom. Accessories include a purse, good walking shoes, and a 32 oz. styrofoam cup of iced tea from Chik-Fil-A (oh! Marketing tie-ins!). Pull a string in her back and she says things like "$160 per yard for velvet? Seriously?" and "Have you ever seen a more hideous couch?" and "Why do all stores sell sofas in muddy fabrics? I guess that's middle America for you!"

Opera Ms. StrainedConsciousness: Comes with Date Night Gentleman Caller (he'll get a nickname eventually). Accessories include stiletto heels and a clutch. Pull a string in her back and she says things like "Oh my God it's f-f-f-f-freezing outside! Why did I wear such a short skirt?" and "Now I remember why I don't wear stilettos anymore. My feet are killing me!"

Now, with the marketing tie-ins out of the way, we can get started on a script, right? Right?