Back on February 8, 2006 when I came out with the secret that I had been a chronic hemorrhoid sufferer from the ripe old age of 19 I never imagined it would turn into an epic saga filling my life with enough material that I could write a book on What to Expect When You’re Expecting Rhoids. Nor did I realize how much support I would receive, granted my archives for 2006 are a disaster and ALL of the comments from the whole year are gone, but at the time when I realized just how many people were suffering with ass issues of their own, or for whatever reason wanted to be kept posted on my ass, I decided I would blog the entire adventure including the surgery.

I welcome you to read the posts I’m linking to in this Prologue, I will only include the main highlights here to either welcome you to the saga or refresh your memories. I particularly love the guest post that Adam did I think he captured my fear quite well.

My first bowel movement took over an hour. I chugged glass after glass of water to take my mind off the fact it was happening fresh out of bed at 7 something in the morning with absolutely no pain killers in the system. Everyone knows that I Corinna Liscumb have a mild tendency to exaggerate but this is different and I would never do that in regards to something like this, Adam sat on a stool [haha I said stool] the whole time and basically held my hand. Although I would give anything to see my facial expressions there was no fucking way I was busting out the camera even for something as memorable as that was. In case anyone is DYING to know my second pooh was much shorter but just as painful and involved yelling and the word ‘fuck’ at times.

Even years later I often think how when I woke up all the nurses were talking about my tattoos instead of say mentioning that not only was there a lot of gauze on the outside of the area BUT that there was a piece of gauze UP inside my anus that was about the size of my thumb. I was actually told about that there piece of gauze in my comments by one of my loyal readers [isn't enough to call Sarah a loyal reader, she's a friend as well, we've both been there for each other through some heavy shit over the years, she's the bomb].

Sarah knew an ass surgeon, I can’t remember exactly what she told me but it included and was not limited to a part about how *most people* when crapping out that piece of gauze pass out cold. Not like I didn’t already know it, but that confirmed to me that I’m one tough bitch.

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Although I still mention my ass surgery on here I’ve never felt the need to give an update.

Until now.

Even though everything looked fine on my initial follow up visit two weeks after, by six months I knew I had a problem.  Around this time I phoned the surgeon’s office back and explained that something wasn’t right, I was told that it could take up to a year to properly heal but to call back and come in if I had any pressing concerns. On the year anniversary, nothing had changed. By this time we’d done some research and discovered that having the hemorrhoidectomy did not mean that I would never get the rhoids again. OK FUCK WHAT? It explained a lot but I was livid, I should have been told that when making the decision to have this invasive and painful surgery in the consultation. My rhoids had not actually returned but I had noticed a piece of skin wasn’t tucking up inside like the rest were and it was easily irritated by say a thong.

I made an announcement on Twitter that I was returning to work. The day Adam walked in and said he had been laid off, I was on the phone to my girlfriend before he stepped out of his boots; she has gotten me all of my previous work in film, my schedule was shifted around a bit but I did get hours. Last Monday was my first day. Sometime during that 16.5 hours it felt like my ass had popped out a rhoid. I wasn’t surprised, I assumed this day was coming and I was working on location outside for that entire day, it almost made sense with my luck that this would be the time that they would return.

On Monday night when I got in the shower with what can only be described as despair I pushed that piece of swollen skin as far up my asshole as I could. I didn’t even have any Vaseline to help soothe the area, I recently hucked our container because it was from 2005. And sure maybe expiry dates aren’t completely accurate but I thought that 2005 warranted being thrown out. I returned to work on Tuesday and worked all 16 hours of it in a lot of pain but being the only female PA who was I going to tell? It was day TWO I was scheduled in till the following Monday. I OF COURSE didn’t want to let my girlfriend OR my husband down. But I had no choice I woke up Wednesday morning with the added thrill of a plugged nose and my cough had returned. I texted my on location contact/boss and my girlfriend/boss, but I only mentioned the onset of the cold out of no where. As I mentioned to her later I didn’t feel comfortable talking about rhoids over text message at whatever hour it was in the morning. THANKFULLY I was not fired, but I was taken off the rest of schedule for that episode. I thought for sure I was toast but I must have horseshoes in that dysfunctional ass of mine too.

I wasn’t able to see my family doctor until Saturday morning which was half my fault because my brain was set on I DON’T WANT TO HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH ANY OF THIS – LA LA LA my ass doesn’t hurt so bad I can hardly sit.

I gave the doctor a quick rundown on the surgery, and my hospitalization at 19 (with a very serious case of thrombosed hemorrhoids) which began my ten year hot streak of internal and external rhoids before they were removed. I explained to him that I knew something had gone wrong with the leftover skin and prepared myself for the worst.

“What you have there is actually a yeast infection about this big [forefinger touching thumb around] causing the swelling, itching, redness”. Everything led this veteran rhoids suffer to believe they had them again. He did also confirm that the piece of skin was not a good thing and could cause me further problems down the road but that this was different. I was like “WHAT, I totally wash my ass man”, not to mention I have NEVER heard of an asshole yeast infection. He explained to me it has nothing to do with that, only not to wash my genitals with soap, I told him I hadn’t for years, I use hypoallergenic Vagisil wash. I know I have sensitive genitals, Vagisil wash is my friend. Taking this in was interesting because I don’t know the exact number of vaginal yeast infections I’ve had in my life, honestly WHO keeps track of that. It’s under five, and I’m almost 33.

This new development with my ass is both good news and bad. Good news no rhoids. Bad news FEELS like I have rhoids and right now I can’t work, I need a couple days, this stuff is supposed to work fast, which begged me to ask Adam the question(s) of “when a doctor tells you something like an ass cream works fast do you ever wonder why, like does he use it, has his wife used it, is he suffering from a yeast infected ass right now?” I guess now I’ll just keep my asshole yeast infection cream in my work bag and if it starts to act up again, take that, I have ASS CREAM.

I’ve always wanted to speak of my personal issues with weight on my blog but haven’t until now believed I was in a healthy enough place to tell the bad but see it from a positive place. Although I am very comfortable talking about my depression in general, the anxiety, the suicidal thoughts etc., I’ve always left my weight issues sort of off limits.

Having watched myself go from having to try and hold my weight at 115 once I bought my wedding dress in January of 2006 to it almost being too big by that August and then almost immediately following the wedding packing on what I very fondly referred to as the Newlywed Fifteen (it was more like twenty) that became what was originally my very first positive experience with weight until at the weight of approx 130-135 in the below photo I was called fat. And my instant reaction was, are you fucking kidding me 130-135 on my frame IS NOT FAT. Am I in shape in the beige bra photo NO, but fat, fuck off.

But it still hurt. It hurt because I’d been picked on my entire life for being too thin and now I was happy and bitches were calling me fat. Realizing 100% that you can’t win is one thing but it opened up an even bigger defense system in me when people would comment on how great I looked just to call me fat behind my back AND the EXACT same thing happened in the other direction as well, people telling me how great I looked just to turn around and back stab the shit out of me for being too thin.

The facts in my case are this: I hate food, despise it, give me a pill that has everything I need to stay at a healthy weight I’d be living on cloud nine and up until around twenty -six I did have the metabolism of a race horse and the abs of a wash board this was all before I admitted to myself that I did in fact have a problem, a problem REGARDLESS of whether or not a was born with thin genes and ran races with fast times. When I spiral into long and serious depressive periods I starve myself. NOT because I want to be thin, the emaciated body that ends up staring back at me in the mirror makes me sick, but it isn’t enough to make me eat, the image is not the issue. The metallic taste of what feels like a bar forms across the back of my throat and I live on tomato soup and fruit IF I eat, the anxiety generally wins and I don’t.

In therapy I’ve discussed with my shrink that I believe that the weight loss I suffer through my worst depressive periods will someday have a disorder name because everything has to have a label and I know I’m not alone in the disliking food department but it isn’t socially acceptable and just like people can’t seem to wrap their head around how demeaning and disgusting it is to say to something to the effect of “Holy crap are you ever skinny”, big surprise they can’t figure out that if affects the EXACT same place in the brain when a woman is called fat and it is NOT A GOOD PLACE. Either comment is ignorant and unnecessary for women AND men to have to stand and listen to. I rarely if EVER comment on people’s weight.

I have heard my larger girlfriends complain of men saying “wow what a pretty face if only she wasn’t fat.” I had a man CHANT “cheeseburgers, cheeseburgers” at me for the duration of whatever we had. I’ve been told to EAT SOMETHING when I’m eating everything in sight: bags of cookies, ice cream, cake, donuts, BURGERS you name it and the weight will not stay on if I’m suffering mentally.

Even at my thinnest I have stood strong in saying, ok thanks for that compliment but I’m too thin and working on a healthy weight.  It greatly changes my opinion of people who compliment me when I weigh in the 90′s and MEAN IT when my clothes are literally hanging off me, in some cases I probably think you are sick and have a problem of your own.  Part of why I have waited until now to write on this is because these aren’t just words to me and I refuse to perpetuate the skinny bitch stereotype, that it’s all shits and giggles and perfect outfits and FUN! It doesn’t exist we are all in the same boat.

I have never been happier about my body than I am right now. But thanks for asking.

• Since finding out that my parents are getting divorced I have danced around in a bodysuit, dressed seriously bad, busted my mom out of Bali on a mostly covert mission starring stealth moves only, been given the best ever ‘no skanks allowed’, the long edition NOT the ‘clam slam’ robe from the airport in Denpasar Bali, ASIA to be exact. It is so huge I have been pretending I am a boxer whilst wearing it, #parentsdivorce scary YouTube video coming soon set to Eye of the Tiger, Survivor OR S&G The Boxer. I’m not SAD yet. I am mostly hyper.  It is easier to picture them apart than I thought it would be. Or it might be that my dad is sitting pretty in Bali probably ordering in Balinese whores and my mother is stuck in freezing cold Toronto with her mother. Who knows? AND I cut my hair AND I have been eating A LOT of peanut butter cookies. OH and I have been smoking joints like they are cigarettes. Note to self = must for serious stop that last part. BUT almost everyone I have told that to has said I WOULD BE TOO, so it makes it harder to stop.

• I read The Reader, Bernhard Schlink in some ridiculously fast amount of time that made me feel like a fast reader for the duration of the book, my eyes flew across the prose so beautiful that when I compare it to other novels I have loved before I am reminded of The Road, Cormac McCarthy and how it not only remains one of my favourite books but it left me wanting more, and I love a book that I can praise for many a reason, but it leaving me wanting more is probably up there with my favourite things about stories and their inescapable endings.  I am looking forward to writing more Books vs Movie posts.

• Although in all reality the computer being as broken as it is SUCKS the ONLY good thing is that the Media Player is also broken so it isn’t counting how many times I have listened to the new Neko Case album Middle Cyclone. I am seriously thinking over one hundred times by now because I don’t just know the words I know the correct words to the songs. See, I have Scrobbling enabled on Last.fm most of the time and I already have a gross disparity between Neko Case number of listens = 4,618 and Tool coming in a distant second = 1,020 and I’ve been listening to Tool since 1996, kinda freaky in a freaky way that the Neko count is actually low but that brings me to my review, which I can write very quickly for you right here in two words: FUCKING AWESOME. Waiting with a “glacier’s patience” for it paid off.  We have tickets for the June show already but I messed up and bought the tickets in American dollars and I haven’t told Adam, hey babe, sorry bout that, see you on the couch. But we would rather give the money to things set up by her people anyway.

• I was randomly thinking how I like being able to look at a photo of myself that you can see my arms in and know what year it was taken in from the tattoos. I also haven’t been able to stop thinking about getting a new tattoo; I mean this is a HUGE life change. #parentsdivorce

• I wasn’t going to mention this but I will because not only do I enjoy laughing at myself sometimes annoying my own self can have the same affect. So like, more than two point five years ago when I joined Twitter I had it running through my Facebook as my status updates right like that is nothing new people do it, but I stopped because I go through phases like NOW (give me a break please my parents are GETTING A  D.I.V.O.R.C.E, Tammy Wynette style, #parentsdivorce) where I talk a lot and didn’t want to annoy people, but now that Facebook is trying to become Twitter, I do now again have my status updates running through there because that is what they want right? They want Twitter; I’ll give em Twitter alright. Currently listening to Neko Case.

• All I will say right now is that it is really ODD to be almost 32 years old [LESS than three months away] and have parents married more than 39 years going their separate ways #parentsdivorce. We have all gone to our corners, I haven’t heard from my mom since she left for YYZ and I haven’t heard from my dad in a few weeks now.  I’m still set on marinate, information overload, over stimulation, snap dragon mode.

• Adam’s photos for what was on Twitter referred to as #mission #PRJ until he was on the way back and I let it be known that #PRJ meant #pacificrimjob can be found on his flickr. It is basically Bali from a Taxi with cool shots of kitties.

Because I have always been so open about my struggles with depression long before I started a blog I searched for years for help that worked for me, once I started to blog the emails with “may I ask you what you are taking, what you are on in regards to anti-depressants” started to pour in and I guess up until now because I am asked so much and because it changes rather regularly I have always answered them privately.

Up until early 2003 I will admit that my rage issues where not under any sort of control.  I hit a rage bottom; I could have severely injured someone if just even one piece of glass had flown in a different direction.  This person has never given up on me though, just talked to them the other day. Up until the rage bottom I think I condoned the violence against others as ‘well people used to kick the shit out of me for nothing so what the fuck’, I got in some choice bar fights and have kicked and punched more than one ex-boyfriend.  I have never ever even considered causing damage to anyone’s property and although it is extremely embarrassing to admit this and I know that some people feel I am still capable of physical harm to another person, I am not, those were some of my lowest days.

It was not easy finding a combination of medications to help me learn to control and cope with my temper whilst also combating constant suicidal thoughts.  Will there ever come a day that I do not want to cause physical harm to myself, I do really hope so, but inflicting that pain onto my person still sometimes feels like the only way to release the anger, it is like a trance it isn’t a feeling of pain it is freedom, sure I have to wear a long sleeve shirt for a week or two right now but running that dirty resin covered knife up and down my wrist felt really good at the time.

Even as recently as last year I’ve still been learning the hard way, that many people still find me threatening and that I have to watch how I phrase everything because it wasn’t until very recently that I have learned NOT to lash out first.  I am still working on the not lashing out period bit but I am pretty happy with my not lashing out first progress.

Although I did not hit my rage bottom until 2003, I did become absolutely sick of myself in 1999.  My inability to handle situations without my whole life feeling like it was coming to an end, overreacting to everything, my temper and inability to control it, I could keep friends but not boyfriends although I have never ever suffered delusions the paranoia of having to work with and get along with an office full of people started to become way overwhelming.

To make a long story short, in 1999 I walked into my Doctor’s office and said that she was to get me help now or I was walking out the door and in front of a bus.  I was seen at the out patient clinic at Vancouver General Hospital within three days and was put on my first anti-depressant.  I also tried out group therapy and saw yet another psychologist.  I had no medical coverage at the time and paid for everything myself even the sessions where I pretended I was Matt Damon circa Good Will Hunting I never started to sing but I don’t see much difference between counselors and psychologists except the latter takes your money and says “right”, “ok” and “how does that make you feel” at all the right times or wrong times if you ask me I never found even one I liked enough to be like HERE take my money I believe you CAN make me better! Group therapy; I had to be considered nutso enough to be in the group but all I am going to say about group therapy is ONLY CHILD. Meaning AS IF I gave a fuck about a bunch of strangers and their problems and there were all these rules and I was in my early twenties and still hadn’t seen ANYONE who had even mentioned the word BOUNDARIES yet so group therapy did not work for me and left a bad taste in my mouth.

From 1999 through May 2002 I stayed on Paxil, I was able to hold down a corporate job, live alone, I was doing okay and so I came off Paxil.  Man, the withdrawal off that shit feels about as good as having someone titty twist you but you have nipples being twisted all over your body.  But I did it, I was so proud of myself.  Not even two weeks after I was off completely I was assaulted, and that was the end of that. Now I wasn’t just depressed and really fucking angry because I had to go back on anti-depressants, I suddenly had brutal anxiety.  I was prescribed Clonazepam and we’ve been BFF’s since that very day, it calmed me right on down I was one happy little worker that day. I was put on Remeron because it was one of the only ADs at the time that had little or no sexual side affects and I was a total slut at this time in my life BUT no still means no and this AD made all of my depression symptoms worse.  This was well before pharmaceutical companies got in on the game advising you through your television set that you YES YOU need more than JUST a basic AD.

I finally got off the Remeron shit because, I’ve mentioned briefly in a past post, there was a period where I was almost unrecognizable to my friends I was taking mean negative shit from a guy that even at my lowest no one had known me to take I was put on Effexor where I have stayed except for a very brief time where I tried Zoloft and hated it, but at this time I was also put on a list for a psychiatrist.  Now, it is early 2003 May, right at the time when the guy who I was becoming this retarded ass fuck for dumped me on Georgia Street and said loud enough the people on the other side of the four lanes of city traffic probably heard “and I don’t even want to have sex with you anymore”.  He was supposed to have been my rebound from a three year long distance relationship that ended in September 2002 but it went on a little longer than planned because when one of your mutual friends knocks himself off in the middle of your whatever you have it was kinda hard to end it, or it was for me anyway.

Remember that corporate job I said I was able to hold down? They had a really good medical plan. I’d been seeing an internal in the mean time counselor while I was waiting for the psychiatrist and being dumped on my ass on the street in the corporate core of Vancouver and finally getting in to see the man who is still today my psychiatrist could not have come at a better time.

So after all of that I have stayed on a very low dose of Effexor, Clonazepam came and went over the years until I did end up on it permanently originally helping me with anxious sleep, no basic AD has ever been enough to battle the anxiety I was left with on May 19, 2002. After getting weekly appointments in the middle of the work day, Thursdays at 1:00pm was my original time, I was almost instantly diagnosed with post traumatic stress disorder. I did get over that, it has returned more than once but my main diagnosis is severe depression.  My temper still tends to get away from me so for that I also take Seroquel which brings my total up to three different meds at once. They have me by the balls now you try coming off ALL of that. When I have gone against doctor’s orders and went off of Seroquel and turned into a devil horned snapper bitch I realized it worked for me even though I seriously hate it, like I bitch about it in session how much I hate it yet it works for me so I’m basically arguing with myself.  He did at one point take me off the Seroquel because I wouldn’t shut up about how much I hated it, basically it makes me sleepy but like Sleepy Smurf so I sound like there are a few screws missing while I’m passing in and out. I tried out a drug called Risperidone but this drug made me start to lactate so I had to choose, go all Tori Amos and be a wet nurse to farm animals with no mommies or go back on Seroquel, needless to say I went back on the Seroquel.

I’m one of those depressive assholes who likes to be in control of their meds though and I take it too far sometimes and I end up almost dead and that hasn’t been fun for anyone so it is best if I take the prescribed dosages of the three and accept it.  Big Brother would prefer that anyway.

Without further ado, 25 things about me numbered from 51 to 75:

51. I like abrasive soaps I could exfoliate my epidermis off
52. I try to read at least two books a month
53. I’m obsessive about how many glasses of water I have to drink each day before my pee is clear
54. I fucking hate cork wedge heels
55. My favourite numbers are 7 and 14
56. I have loved Tori Spelling since the 90′s and can not wait for her next book
57. I have always eaten my cereal with a big spoon
58. I prefer a thicker eyebrow
59. I love hearing that I am funny over any compliment even over being told that my unicorn socks are cool
60. I talk to and about myself in the third person on a semi regular basis
61. Just because I am not having babies does not mean I don’t like your drooling screaming poop machines in fact I love them even more now
62. I have serious problems with mugs specifically designed for right handed people fuck you and your no image on the back of the mug I pick up with my LEFT hand you JUST LOST A SALE ASSHOLE
63. I pretty much find every single piece of factual information on everything to do with the history of being left handed to be some of the most fascinating shit on earth
64. Since I was a young hellion I have always grown my hair out only to cut it so short I have been mistaken for a boy when asking for a bathroom key in a gas station, I also shaved my head once some of you know that though but my point is except when I go through phases where I have bangs I never leave my hair long for long
65. My gag reflex is such that I choke on water
66. I love Bobby Darin’s When a Man Answers because I grew up on a party line when we lived in Smithers
67. I am obsessive about the organization of my books. For the most part they are kept in alphabetical order by author
68. I know the proper phonetic alphabet and also speak good phonetically
69. My name is actually Charlie Alpha Charlie
70. I thought I would love Sony for life but I am officially an Xbox girl
71. I honestly believe that the worst on screen camera kiss of all time is when Sylar first kisses Elle from Heroes episode Villains 1 of 2, Season Three
72. When I saw Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell and Van Morrison perform at GM place in 1998 I was not what I’d call a fan of any of them I bought my ticket as a favour for a friend.  I still kick myself over that and the story makes Adam shake his head at me EVERY TIME
73. I got my first [of only two ever] speeding tickets RIGHT in front of my high school as the lunch bell to return was going off so every one noticed and YES my x-boyfriend who I was in NO WAY over saw too
74. I still miss that 1985 Honda Civic, it rusted out completely after about a week in Vancouver it was a Northern car at its heart and I sold it to a wrecker for four hundred dollars
75. I love having things professionally framed

Even though my ultimate dream is to live in the opening scene from Love Actually and have someone sweep me off my feet and make-out with Adam for five minutes with extreme head turning and exaggerated everything while the poor bastards with no one to pick them up stare and dream that they too can have what I have. But in reality I am a raging bitch when I get off a plane in YVR and my destination is home. I used to despise being that lonely soul with no one to pick me up but now I just want off the fucking plane and I want my luggage NOW and I want in a cab and I don’t want to talk to you I want my HOME and my CAT and my stuff and the way my apartment smells and I want to be alone.

When I was just seventeen years old based on my looks I got a job at a hotel in butt fuck no where half way between Golden and Revelstoke.  I didn’t even last a week. I quit and then they fired me which I know makes about as much sense reading that as it did when it was happening.  And the guy that runs the place is a sadistic ass who threw me out and many others over the years and made us sit across the street outside the gas station waiting for the bus that came once a day.

My parents were really mad at me and I was a failure and it was put on top of the ‘Corinna quits everything’ pile.  I have always resented that pile and it makes it easier for me to quit things.  To me it would be different if as a kid I were able to have tried things that I asked to try like singing and dancing the stuff I showed an interest in. Big deal I quit and failed at a bunch of shit I never wanted to do in the first place.  The areas I excelled in naturally I was not nurtured, or believed in or coached in on any sort of scale that was positive.  I was instead considered a problem child.

I don’t like being away from home to the point that I have issues just going over to friends places, I tie it in with my social anxiety and do my best to have people over to my place.  I don’t even like being bare foot in other people’s places.  It feels icky to me. I did not spend the night at Adam’s place even one time before we moved in together.  These are my issues I don’t think any of my friends or acquaintances places that I have been to are unclean.

With all that said, I am cutting my trip short and will be home this week.  I am pretty pissed off at myself to be honest because I was doing okay, I was facing the challenge of being away so long, pushing myself, stepping outside my comfort zone but when I started to crack I handled it wrong.  I’m getting really tired of this trait of mine.  Even if I just throw a mini flip out it is still a flip out and it isn’t like I don’t know the proper ways to communicate.  And I’m staying with my very best friend, she has been there for me through EVERYTHING and I mean EVERYTHING, she knows about ALL of my awkward and bizarre corks.  So when I started to get depressed and not just homesick depressed but DEPRESSED and I just wanted to sleep and pick fights with Adam, I should have said I wanted to go home but I let it fester and got grumpy.  Turns out even Rhonda was surprised I agreed to come for so long. But I wanted to help my friend out and test myself and I suck at saying no.  I’m disappointed I didn’t change my ticket days ago because it would have saved me some grumpy angst filled days.  Thankfully I am dealing with someone who accepts me.