I make mistakes. I make a lot of mistakes. Sometimes I'll write something mean about an ex-boyfriend, or an enemy, and it will come and bite me in the ass. Sometimes I'll say or do something that will hurt someone I love.
Sometimes, I apologize for these mistakes, and sometimes I don't. Sometimes, my stubborn pride prevents me from doing the right thing. I'm only human, and I am vulnerable to the pitfalls of being so.
Sometimes, even when I apologize for the bad things I've said and done, my guilt still eats at me, a cancer of the soul.
A wise woman named Snowy Owl, once told me "You mustn't hold on to anger". Throughout my life, I have had people tell me this. But something about the way she said it, touched my heart. She told me how to let go of angry feelings. I felt at peace when she told me these things.
Yet I still have issues letting go of old grudges. Ex boyfriends, friends who stabbed me in the back. I carry them all, each one, in my heart, remembering the humiliation, the hurt, the regret. I fear, that they'll come back to haunt me, tell people what a terrible person I am. That based of off their judgments, any new friends I make, will abandon me.
I am not a perfect person. I can be capricious, cruel, vain and selfish. I can be arrogant and conceited. Self-absorbed. Cowardly. An attention-whore.
But I know I am not an entirely bad person. I can be sweet, affectionate, and good. It's just easier to be a bitch. It's so easy to hold onto hatred and anger.
But anger, isn't always a bad thing. Anger, used properly can do a great many things. If not for anger, revolution would not happen. If not for anger, there would be no change.
And yet, anger creates so much destruction.
I must pick my battles. I can not rage against something that happened years ago. I must rage at what happens NOW. If someone invades my boundaries, instead of bottling it up, I should speak up. If I see injustice, I should be ready to defend. I must harness my anger, make it my weapon. But it's not easy. Sometimes when I'm angry, I end up hurting myself, mentally and physically. My arms bear the scars of years of frustration and rage. While I worked on the self-harm, through means of Zoloft and therapy, I still have a lot of work to do. How can I learn to control my feelings? Know when to hold 'em? Know when to fold 'em?
How old will I be, when I no longer hold petty grudges? When I can accept the past, and enjoy the present?
I can't write anymore. I've had my rant, and now my mind is started to freeze up. Thoughts are getting foggy. I wrote from the heart, which I had never intended to do on this blog. I didn't mean to get this personal, but alas, that is my nature.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
My foray into blood donation...
For reasons of confidentiality I'm editing this and any names I mention will be replaced by initials.
I've been wanting to donate blood for some time. No particular reason, just a desire to do some good. But I never knew when the Red Cross was coming to town until it was too late.
So today, when my mother and I were driving home from my therapy appointment I asked her to drop me off at the Mason Lodge so I could finally achieve my goal.
After she let me out of the car, I walked up the path to the big yellow and brown Victorian building and entered through the handicapped door, the one I take whenever I come here to vote. I went up to a table, where some volunteers in white coats were seated and told them that I wanted to donate, and that it was my first time doing so.
A young blond woman in her neat lab coat told me to come with her. Apparently I had needed to enter through the regular entrance, and register. I followed her through a dark hallway to a room near the front door, where some older women sat. I told them I wanted to donate, that I'd never done it before. They smiled, asked me to sign in, and then asked for my ID. I gave them my little identifying square of plastic, and they gave me a green sticker that proclaimed "I made a difference!" and a little booklet with all the information I would need. Then, they had me sit in the hall to read the booklet and wait to be interviewed. While I waited, they played Queen, and the woman sitting next to me danced in her chair. I realized I forgot to put my name on my green sticker. Oops.
Some of the book they gave me made sense, and some of it did not. It mostly told you the guidelines for donating blood, and gave you information about confidentiality, and other legal disclaimers. My turn to be interviewed came, but I hadn't finished reading the booklet yet. I rushed through the rest of it, eager to find out whether or not I could donate. I was worried about my iron level particularly. I only had coffee and a pastry to eat that day, and was concerned that this would make my levels too low to donate.
A kindly woman named L came to collect me. She led me to a room, and into a cubicle made up of flimsy white dividers. My breasts almost knocked them over.
L asked for my ID, put my information into a computer, making conversation with me all the while. Then, she took a lancet, pricked my finger (just like testing your blood sugar) and collected my blood in a little piece of plastic. She put the sample in a machine to test my iron level. My iron level was 12.5, just high enough to donate. Any lower, and I would have been turned away.
Then, she asked me some questions about my personal history. Did I have HIV or Hepatitis? Am I taking any antibiotics? There were at least 50 of them, and some of them she had to explain to me. A couple of times, when I asked whether my history of self-harm or the birth control I was using would get in the way of donating, she got up to ask a nearby nurse.
I liked her a lot. She put me at my ease, and was very friendly. She even told me that the Mason Lodge was haunted. At one point, she even let me take a break from the interview to use a bathroom.
In the end, I was approved for donation. We left the little cubicle, and I followed her into the big room where all the blood collecting was going down.
The room was filled with volunteers and donors, people giving and taking blood. Volunteers serving drinks and snacks. I showed a couple of women my papers, and they gave me a cup of tart cranberry juice to hydrate me. I sipped it as they lead me to a metal and plastic chair that put me in mind of a pool lounger. I sat down, and put my arm in a little metal cradle, and the lab tech, with his gray hair and Eastern European accent double checked my papers. I took out my Vermont Ghost Guide, so that I could read while I gave blood. I was anxious. I knew the needle would hurt, and I wanted to squeeze the little squishy blue ball that they hand on hand. Eventually I got to squeeze it, not to ease my nerves, but rather to make my veins stand out. I told the tech, that I had shy veins, he'd have trouble finding them. He did. He checked my right arm twice, then my left arm once, and finally he checked my right arm one more time, saying in his that if he couldn't get a vein, then we couldn't do anything today. No. I would not get to this point only to fail. I prayed, as hard as I could, and success! He found a vein, marked with a pen and swabbed me down with iodine. He told me to squeeze the ball every five to ten seconds. Then he inserted the needle. Mon Dieu!
It was painful, and he asked me how I was doing. I told him the needle hurt, that it felt weird, but I'd get used to it.
Suddenly, I started to feel dizzy. Faint. He asked again how I was doing, and I told him what was going on. Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity. He called over a tall bald man. His tone of voice frightened me, he sounded urgent, alarmed. I was afraid. Was there something terribly wrong? I asked: "Is this normal for the first time?".
He assured me, yes, yes it was. He and the other tech, adjusted the chair so I was flat on my back. It had already been adjusted to elevate my legs, a good position for a first time donor. They turned on a fan. Cold air hit my face. I felt strange, hyper aware of my body. I wondered how long it would take for them to fill a bag with my life fluid. I kept squeezing the ball. I started to feel something, an odd euphoria, almost transcendent, spiritual. I wondered if this was caused by the knowledge of the good I was doing, or if I was delirious from blood loss.
A new tech was by my side, a young blond woman with purple nail polish. Her name was K. She was friendly, and she talked to me, as we waited for me to finish up. When the bag was full, she told me I filled a pint in seven minutes and 43 seconds. She removed the needle, and bandaged me up. My original lab tech, who was finishing up with another donor turned around and told me that he was proud of me. I could not help but smile.
I had finished draining my blood for the good of humanity, but I was not allowed to get up for a few minutes. K sat with me, and we talked some more, about ghosts, about cemeteries. She was so nice. Every so often K would let me sit up a little, ask me how I felt. I was feeling fine. Less dizzy. She asked if I wanted water. Yes, please. So I sat, rehydrating, while she talked to me about how I would feel afterwards. I'd feel dizzy, tired. I was supposed to call if I woke up sick with a cold or a tummy bug the next morning. They couldn't use my blood if I did. She let me briefly hold the bag that contained my blood. It was a deep maroon color, and when my hand caressed the bag, I was surprised to find that it was warm, like a hot water bottle. It made me think of a water balloon filled with blood. Then she helped me get up. Another volunteer gathered my things. I walked slowly to a table decorated for Saint Patrick's day. I felt like a drunk, trying to prove to the cops that I was sober, just look at my steps! No wobbling here, officer! I made it to the chair, they asked me if I wanted to eat. I was starving. I ate some little ham salad sandwiches, sipped my water. Volunteers asked me how I was doing, patted my shoulders, told me to eat up. It was so pleasant, and I felt at ease. I talked to other donors, as we sat and recuperated. The older gentleman who sat near me while I was donating told me he was jealous that I'd finished filling a pint faster than he did. I smiled. I felt good about myself. I'd done something good, I was giving life. They told me the blood I gave could save up to three lives. Three lives. The idea that my blood would be running in the veins of a stranger, filled me with a sense of wonder. They'd never know my name, but they would be grateful to me.
One of the volunteers asked me if my mom would be giving me a ride home. No, I was walking. Was I sure I wanted to walk? Yes, I would be fine. I got up to leave.
I used the bathroom before I left, but the sink was broken. I asked for hand sanitizer. A man gave me a bottle, told me I could keep it, I told him I couldn't, I had some at home, but in the end I took it. Never look a gift horse in the mouth.
On my way out, I ran into K, the tech who'd sat with me. She gave me a hug, asked me if I'd donate again. Yes, yes I would.
I did get dizzy on the walk home. I sat down on a guardrail, drank some water, waited for it to pass. Then I got up and kept on going.
My family is proud of what I did. It seems like such a simple thing, giving blood. But it is more than that. I wasn't just giving away a solution of plasma and platelets, I was giving some of my life. I can not describe how this makes me feel. It makes me feel all at once proud and humble.
So this St. Patrick's Day, I did indeed celebrate with a pint, though not a pint a beer. A pint of blood.
I've been wanting to donate blood for some time. No particular reason, just a desire to do some good. But I never knew when the Red Cross was coming to town until it was too late.
So today, when my mother and I were driving home from my therapy appointment I asked her to drop me off at the Mason Lodge so I could finally achieve my goal.
After she let me out of the car, I walked up the path to the big yellow and brown Victorian building and entered through the handicapped door, the one I take whenever I come here to vote. I went up to a table, where some volunteers in white coats were seated and told them that I wanted to donate, and that it was my first time doing so.
A young blond woman in her neat lab coat told me to come with her. Apparently I had needed to enter through the regular entrance, and register. I followed her through a dark hallway to a room near the front door, where some older women sat. I told them I wanted to donate, that I'd never done it before. They smiled, asked me to sign in, and then asked for my ID. I gave them my little identifying square of plastic, and they gave me a green sticker that proclaimed "I made a difference!" and a little booklet with all the information I would need. Then, they had me sit in the hall to read the booklet and wait to be interviewed. While I waited, they played Queen, and the woman sitting next to me danced in her chair. I realized I forgot to put my name on my green sticker. Oops.
Some of the book they gave me made sense, and some of it did not. It mostly told you the guidelines for donating blood, and gave you information about confidentiality, and other legal disclaimers. My turn to be interviewed came, but I hadn't finished reading the booklet yet. I rushed through the rest of it, eager to find out whether or not I could donate. I was worried about my iron level particularly. I only had coffee and a pastry to eat that day, and was concerned that this would make my levels too low to donate.
A kindly woman named L came to collect me. She led me to a room, and into a cubicle made up of flimsy white dividers. My breasts almost knocked them over.
L asked for my ID, put my information into a computer, making conversation with me all the while. Then, she took a lancet, pricked my finger (just like testing your blood sugar) and collected my blood in a little piece of plastic. She put the sample in a machine to test my iron level. My iron level was 12.5, just high enough to donate. Any lower, and I would have been turned away.
Then, she asked me some questions about my personal history. Did I have HIV or Hepatitis? Am I taking any antibiotics? There were at least 50 of them, and some of them she had to explain to me. A couple of times, when I asked whether my history of self-harm or the birth control I was using would get in the way of donating, she got up to ask a nearby nurse.
I liked her a lot. She put me at my ease, and was very friendly. She even told me that the Mason Lodge was haunted. At one point, she even let me take a break from the interview to use a bathroom.
In the end, I was approved for donation. We left the little cubicle, and I followed her into the big room where all the blood collecting was going down.
The room was filled with volunteers and donors, people giving and taking blood. Volunteers serving drinks and snacks. I showed a couple of women my papers, and they gave me a cup of tart cranberry juice to hydrate me. I sipped it as they lead me to a metal and plastic chair that put me in mind of a pool lounger. I sat down, and put my arm in a little metal cradle, and the lab tech, with his gray hair and Eastern European accent double checked my papers. I took out my Vermont Ghost Guide, so that I could read while I gave blood. I was anxious. I knew the needle would hurt, and I wanted to squeeze the little squishy blue ball that they hand on hand. Eventually I got to squeeze it, not to ease my nerves, but rather to make my veins stand out. I told the tech, that I had shy veins, he'd have trouble finding them. He did. He checked my right arm twice, then my left arm once, and finally he checked my right arm one more time, saying in his that if he couldn't get a vein, then we couldn't do anything today. No. I would not get to this point only to fail. I prayed, as hard as I could, and success! He found a vein, marked with a pen and swabbed me down with iodine. He told me to squeeze the ball every five to ten seconds. Then he inserted the needle. Mon Dieu!
It was painful, and he asked me how I was doing. I told him the needle hurt, that it felt weird, but I'd get used to it.
Suddenly, I started to feel dizzy. Faint. He asked again how I was doing, and I told him what was going on. Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity. He called over a tall bald man. His tone of voice frightened me, he sounded urgent, alarmed. I was afraid. Was there something terribly wrong? I asked: "Is this normal for the first time?".
He assured me, yes, yes it was. He and the other tech, adjusted the chair so I was flat on my back. It had already been adjusted to elevate my legs, a good position for a first time donor. They turned on a fan. Cold air hit my face. I felt strange, hyper aware of my body. I wondered how long it would take for them to fill a bag with my life fluid. I kept squeezing the ball. I started to feel something, an odd euphoria, almost transcendent, spiritual. I wondered if this was caused by the knowledge of the good I was doing, or if I was delirious from blood loss.
A new tech was by my side, a young blond woman with purple nail polish. Her name was K. She was friendly, and she talked to me, as we waited for me to finish up. When the bag was full, she told me I filled a pint in seven minutes and 43 seconds. She removed the needle, and bandaged me up. My original lab tech, who was finishing up with another donor turned around and told me that he was proud of me. I could not help but smile.
I had finished draining my blood for the good of humanity, but I was not allowed to get up for a few minutes. K sat with me, and we talked some more, about ghosts, about cemeteries. She was so nice. Every so often K would let me sit up a little, ask me how I felt. I was feeling fine. Less dizzy. She asked if I wanted water. Yes, please. So I sat, rehydrating, while she talked to me about how I would feel afterwards. I'd feel dizzy, tired. I was supposed to call if I woke up sick with a cold or a tummy bug the next morning. They couldn't use my blood if I did. She let me briefly hold the bag that contained my blood. It was a deep maroon color, and when my hand caressed the bag, I was surprised to find that it was warm, like a hot water bottle. It made me think of a water balloon filled with blood. Then she helped me get up. Another volunteer gathered my things. I walked slowly to a table decorated for Saint Patrick's day. I felt like a drunk, trying to prove to the cops that I was sober, just look at my steps! No wobbling here, officer! I made it to the chair, they asked me if I wanted to eat. I was starving. I ate some little ham salad sandwiches, sipped my water. Volunteers asked me how I was doing, patted my shoulders, told me to eat up. It was so pleasant, and I felt at ease. I talked to other donors, as we sat and recuperated. The older gentleman who sat near me while I was donating told me he was jealous that I'd finished filling a pint faster than he did. I smiled. I felt good about myself. I'd done something good, I was giving life. They told me the blood I gave could save up to three lives. Three lives. The idea that my blood would be running in the veins of a stranger, filled me with a sense of wonder. They'd never know my name, but they would be grateful to me.
One of the volunteers asked me if my mom would be giving me a ride home. No, I was walking. Was I sure I wanted to walk? Yes, I would be fine. I got up to leave.
I used the bathroom before I left, but the sink was broken. I asked for hand sanitizer. A man gave me a bottle, told me I could keep it, I told him I couldn't, I had some at home, but in the end I took it. Never look a gift horse in the mouth.
On my way out, I ran into K, the tech who'd sat with me. She gave me a hug, asked me if I'd donate again. Yes, yes I would.
I did get dizzy on the walk home. I sat down on a guardrail, drank some water, waited for it to pass. Then I got up and kept on going.
My family is proud of what I did. It seems like such a simple thing, giving blood. But it is more than that. I wasn't just giving away a solution of plasma and platelets, I was giving some of my life. I can not describe how this makes me feel. It makes me feel all at once proud and humble.
So this St. Patrick's Day, I did indeed celebrate with a pint, though not a pint a beer. A pint of blood.
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