I had an appointment to see the gynecologist today.

God, I dreaded it. I'm still dreading it. I've got 2 weeks to find out if I'm getting a hysterectomy this time or not. So the spectre of cancer is hanging out again with me.

I hate that ghost bastard.

Pauline said I should have just gotten a hysterectomy the first time. In retrospect, I suppose she's right. I guess I feel like my body parts are at a premium and that I want to keep as many of them with me as I can because somehow if that that's what God gave me, I'm supposed to have a use for them.

It took me 8 months to make that appointment. Apparently, the steel is in my knee not my nerves.

When Dr. R asked me how I was doing, I cried. I'm depressed I told her. She said I should get counseling. That alone drugs or counseling help 50% of the time, but together they help 90% of the time. I just don't know if paying someone $150 to cry my heart out and feel sorry for myself is a good idea.

I also feel shifty around counselors as if I need to prove somehow that I don't need them and that I'm just fine, dammit. Only, I've been not fine for a long time and there's lots in my life to prove that -- my big ass not withstanding.

I've thought about going to an Overeaters Anonymous meeting, but I haven't been binging or purging. I'm eating pretty well and the painful neuropathy I was having in my legs is getting tons better. I'm also doing exercises in bed, so overall, I'm losing weight again.

I am massaging the adhesions in my knee as often as I can remember. Some of not remembering is avoidance -- I feel absolutely nauseous from toxins every time I do it. I have to do yoga breathing to avoid projective barfing, though the swelling is finally going down.

Mike got me an aquatard for my birthday. It's basically a thing I could bike in, but it's for swimming and it's so my big body feels contained in the water. I had gotten a nice 2 piece suit from Lands End that covered everything, but the skirt took forever to dry and was super heavy, even in the water. I had gotten some bike short bottoms and those lost some elasticity and were bunching on me and with the two pieces, the top wasn't giving me much support for floudering about in the water.

I wanted body coverage. I guess I like the sense of not showing people unwanted amounts of large white flesh if they don't want to see it. I've wanted a one piece, but the bottoms and top never fit right. I wanted boobage stability. I think the 'tard will help with that. And hell, it looks comfortable. As soon as that arrives, I'm going to start swimming again.

As for the depression, I guess I need to fess up and get a counselor.

I'm writing in a personal journal. Kind of exploring who my writer's voice is. I hardly know it. I feel any more that I hardly know myself, so I'm going back to what I'm good at -- writing. I'm looking to find a writing group. I'm going to start blamming away at this.

I feel like I'm fulfilling a fantasy, as well as a card reading I had done a long time ago.

I'm supposed to be coming into my power and my future is me writing and giving talks. My past will give me the fuel for it, but my future will be big and me coming into my own.

I can't do that if I'm not writing so it blows people's minds, so I'm working on my skills.


Journal snippets...

purple -- a color of passion, sex, exoticisms is the color of my pen. Deep purple of morning glories is sexual -- as plants, they follow a cycle and cling to fences to grow and open and close with the light of day. They make me think of the cycle of seasons and the clinging of them to fencing and lattices which makes me think of the dark purple hue of a penis as it begins to deflate and a small drop of sperm clings to the skin after it's ejaculated.

Pale purple as in lilac blossoms relegated to a blow of water, where they work like soap to clean your hands and you show the children. You feel the intimacies of love and family in that simple act of showing kids how to eat the ends of lilac flowers and mash them into soap for your hands.

And then my favorite...stolen lavendar blossoms stuffed into my jean pocket and forgotten until every time I reach for some pocket treasure and my hands smell suspiciously like something an old English woman might find deep pleasure in the inhalation of.

It seems like a book with a cover of multi-colored hearts requires I need an odd-colored pen -- all pretty and foofy to start journaling by hand again.

A purple pen to go with my purple bookmark and all of those hearts.

Purple -- a color of passion, sex and exoticisms. It seems like a good pallette to dabble in, at first. Deep purple of morning glories is sexual -- following a cycle of seasons, clinging to a lattice of metal or wood -- it's clinging is sexual the way a drop of sperm clins to a penis as it begins to deflate after ejaculation.

Pale lavendar -- is the prissy color of new babies and the slick of afterbirth left behind cows in spring fields waiting for the claws of raptors feeding their young. It's the color of lilac blossoms and the way you teach little children to use them as soap in giggles and bubbles.

Dark violet with spots of sage green and light purple are the colors of crushed lavendar blossoms and my fingers. I always pull a couple off bushes as I walk and forget to empty my pockets and my fingers would make some stuffy old English lady happy.