The Curse: Part One

I am like 85% sure that my family is cursed.

Like, every family has their share and flavor of hardship, obviously. But there’s something especially ridiculous about the things that happen to the people in my family. (And me. I’m predominantly talking about me here. This is, after all my blog lol) Sometimes, the things that happen are ridiculous. A lot of the time, it’s just that like 15 stressful things happen at once. Like this August.

When I wrote my last post, I was like, weee life isn’t terrible! And then I threw my back out. Which, if you know me, isn’t a new thing. The first time I threw my back out was running suicides (What a horrible thing to call sprints?? Like?? Can we talk about that??? Do coaches still call them that??? I hope not) at lacrosse practice at the ripe old age of fourteen. What was new was that all of my PT exercises and my 200-hr yoga teacher training skills could not make the pain go away. I had two weeks of severe pain until I went to my “chiropractor” (I put that in quotes because homie has never once cracked/adjusted anything. It’s all shockwave therapy and soft-tissue mobilization) and then I had one week of soreness that was still bad enough that every time I coughed, sneezed, or laughed, my tailbone would hurt. That’s when I started worrying that maybe I had bone cancer that was eating my tailbone. I’ve decided that’s probably not the case, though I’m still worrying about it (thanks, anxiety disorder!).

Then my nose got stuffy. Oh boy, I thought, a summer cold! Narrator: But it was not just a summer cold. It was Covid. I was bed-ridden for most of the week, and know what lying in bed isn’t great for? Back pain, lol. So my tailbone kept hurting, and every day I woke with sciatic pain and a little spasm. And some days I had a little fever, or a little sore throat, or a cough that somehow only showed up at night. How fun!

On top of all of that, I’ve been dealing with trolls on my business’s Instagram. One of them really loves to report my ads for “unacceptable business practices.” Meta will immediately suspend reported ads, and then I have to spend time in my day appealing them. All the while Meta hasn’t removed a single violent comment (things like “Go drown yourself” or “exterminate” or “make book burning great again!”) or user who’s trolled my account. In fact, I was trying to get some ads up and running when this troll managed to get my whole ad account suspended.

The most fun part about all of that was that there is no one at Meta to talk to when something like this happens. The email I got alerting me to my suspension told me to open the app on my phone and appeal the decision through the app. So I followed those instructions and got to a screen that told me that it could only be done from a browser on my computer. Then I opened the browser on my computer and followed the instructions and got to a screen that told me it could only be done from the app on my phone.

I had a panic attack after that. I cried and yelled and slammed my fist on the kitchen counter over and over again and the intrusive thoughts started coming: Why do you even try to do things? Why is this important to you? You don’t matter, and the world keeps telling you that. Why are you even alive?

(Thankfully, my sane brain was like, whoaaa settle down, Whitney. It’s not that serious)

12 hours later, my ad account was restored but I had no communication as to why any of it happened. Thanks, or whatever.

In the background during all of this was a terrible PTSD flare. Last year at the beginning of August, my brother fell into a psychosis that lasted three whole months, and I was his primary caregiver. I drove him around. I helped him move. I spent thousands of dollars keeping him housed and fed. I caught covid. He’d call and text me nonstop all day and verbally abuse me or threaten to kill himself or both if I didn’t do what he wanted exactly when he wanted me to. And I had just learned that he was, again, really struggling. So, just a lot of pleasant things rumbling around in my brain all month.

All this Covid and work drama was the week leading up to my birthday. I had to cancel all my plans and hope I didn’t go (more) bonkers. I managed to read 8 books, but my dog Gideon had such bad cabin fever she had to eat something battery operated to feel alive (she loves eating remotes and kindles and also…. rocks??). My birthday is hard enough because I get the pleasant reminder that my big brother is dead and that I’m now three years older than he’ll ever get to be–but Covid and back pain and PTSD and worry for my other brother on top of all that grief? Happy Birthday to me!

On my birthday, I finally had some energy. I even tested negative! So I folded the doom pile of laundry that had been growing for a month. I hung some art in my room that has been waiting for a wall for three years. I made myself a little fairy-light headboard above my bed. I did chores on my birthday. And I counted that as a good day.

Cursed, I tell you.