A sheep in wolf's clothing.

Like seemingly most professionals, especially professional women, I suffer from a quaint little affliction: imposter syndrome. There’s that small(ish) part of me anxious about the day people realize I’m not that good at what I do. One day, they’ll see the emperor is wearing no clothes. Except I’m no emperor; I’m more of a naked plebe wandering the streets, strategically positioning myself behind signage, water barrels, and the billowing skirts of properly-clad denizens. 

Early in my career, I chalked it up to inexperience and my non-traditional path. I never got around to going to college; I owe my career largely to a lucky temp job placement, plucky attitude, and very patient boss who liked how I wrote office-wide emails. On the surface, that may sound oh-so-bootstrappy, but by stumbling into my line of work, I’ve never felt fully in control; it doesn’t entirely feel like mine. I don’t have an educational foundation to draw from, just my gut. And intuition has never been my strong suit. On the bright side, I didn’t rack up a crushing amount of student debt.

Don’t get too jealous — I married into that.

But back to my delicate psyche. I moved from admin to writer, but for many co-workers, it may have seemed like simply a cute office experiment. After I moved on to my next job, I bumped into an old coworker who seemed unnervingly surprised that I changed companies but not roles. For someone with neurotic levels of self-doubt, it was like watering seeds. Clearly — that was 10 years and 3 jobs ago and it’s still with me.

This shit is all compounded by my start in agency life. If you’ve never worked at an agency, count yourself lucky. Yes, we could crack a beer (or vodka) in the middle of the day with minimal judgement, but it was less a perk and more a survival strategy. Agency life is brutal. One place I worked had a couple stairwells. It was generally impolite to notice the people crying between floors. There are two kinds of people who succeed at agencies: the ones who are fucking rockstars at their trade and the ones who can handle vocational abuse. I guess I like a challenge?

Thankfully, I’ve moved out of agencies for now. Maybe even forever. But now I can’t rest on being quick with the copy and the bullshit. Things are slower, more deliberate. It’s not an element I’m comfortable in. And nothing gets those inner demons talking like discomfort. Every time I write something, those little fuckers are nattering away: this sucks, they aren’t gonna like it, it doesn’t make sense, you’re gonna get fired. You’re not good enough. It’s exhausting trying to keep them quiet.

And the craziest part is that I KNOW this is insanely common. I’m sure there are several highly-capable, talented, awesome people I know working through similar issues. But that doesn’t make the anxiety any less real. In fact, it feels like as soon as I acknowledge I’m good enough, that’ll be the catalyst for everything to unwind. I have no idea how to get past this.

Imposter syndrome is a bitch. The struggle is real.

An American horror story.

I finally got the bill for my first infusion. Okay, that’s not entirely accurate. I’ve had the bill, but Husband finally went through the mail and opened it. Now, I knew the medication would be stupid expensive – estimates were in the $1500-3000 range (ugh, per monthly dose). Those estimates were a tad off.

The line item cost for the drug alone (not the infusion or its related costs, just the drug) was twenty fucking thousand dollars. If your jaw isn’t on the floor, you’re numb to the absurdity of this system.

I mean, I could buy a Jetta for the cost of this stuff. That’s a not-shitty car, every. single. month. For eternity. Add in the cost of actually getting the drug administered, rather than having an expensive liquid paperweight, and we’re talking a monthly Passat. The insurance company getting their knickers in a twist makes a lot more sense now.

Oy vey. This post was supposed to be an amusing commentary about all this, but I can’t stay on this subject without spiraling into an rabid political rant. One that’s too fucking serious to be funny. And I really can’t risk popping a vessel over this; goodness knows how much the resulting surgery would cost.

Take a deep breath...

I finally got my first MS treatment. It took forever for insurance to approve the treatment, since I’m skipping the entry-level stuff and going straight to the good shit. That’s partly because I’m in a study comparing the long-term outcomes of the two treatments, and partly because I’ve got lesions in my brain stem and spinal cord so I don’t wanna mess around. Since November I’ve been in a would they/wouldn’t they state of waiting. I got the good news a couple weeks ago. Exhale.

 I made my appointment for last Friday. Then got sick the Sunday before. Really sick. Like, spent the day in bed despite being solo with the kiddos. I didn’t feel much better on Monday. I still had a solid fever on Tuesday. By Wednesday I was getting nervous. This medication compromises my immune system, so if I’ve already got a bug, I can’t take it. Luckily, my fever broke Wednesday evening and my doctor gave the thumbs up for my infusion. Exhale.

I didn’t really know what to expect. I hadn’t found much information about what the process is like or how people tend to respond. My mom (she’s the best) came with, just in case it made me feel shitty. She’d be able to get me home and help Husband with the kids if I was down for the count. Again. 

At the bright and early hour of seven GD thirty, we checked in. The appointment covers one hour of waiting while they prep the meds, one hour for the infusion, then one hour for observation. Fortunately, the medication was ready, so we go to skip the first hour. They popped the needle into my hand, started the meds, and… nothing. No pain, no itching, no hives, no chills, no nausea. I spent two hours gabbing with my mom and sipping on a latte while the lovely nurses checked in, offering snacks, beverages, and blankets. It was a downright pleasant experience. Everything went smoothly and I showed no signs of allergic reaction. Exhale.

After we left, Mom and I had an open day. We’d both been so stuck on the idea of a bad reaction, we never planned on what to do if I was fine. Though I will say, I was kind of expecting that to change at any point. It never did. I felt great all day Friday and Saturday. Exhale.

It’s been a few days now and I haven’t experienced any side effects. I’m still skeptical. For years I’ve been taking birth control and anti-anxiety meds, and neither have any negative effects. Can I dare hope to be on third medication with that same fortune? I guess I’m still holding my breath.

MRIs and OMGs: a very MS weekend

I celebrated my long weekend by bookending it with MS appointments. On Saturday morning, I had my spinal MRI, then on Monday, I sat down with the doc to go over the results.

Saturday: MRI #2

This may sound odd, but I’ve decided I rather like MRIs. I was kind of well-built for the procedure; I’m not claustrophobic, I don’t have a bad reaction to the contrast material, my veins are big and near the surface for easy injections, and I can sit still for long periods of time. The noises, the light, the movement - none of it bothers me. I was relaxed enough that I caught myself snoring. It’s a strange nap, but dammit, it’s a nap and I’ll take it. Hell, I’ll take any two hours during which there are absolutely zero demands on me, internal or external.

Monday: The results

I brought Husband to my appointment this time. I expected a brief meeting during which my spinal column was cleared, we determined which medication I’d start, and I’d get a prescription. Yeah. It wasn’t that. We went over the brain stem and found a few scars along with an active spot. Ditto my spinal column. Right off the bat, I felt a bit thrown. The brain stem and spinal cord tend to result more in mobility issues. I haven’t had any, but since I know those neurons are being affected, it’s only a matter of time. Or not. After all, this is MS, and no self-respecting mindfuck would be complete without a total sense of unpredictability.

So yeah, it was bad news. But on the other hand, nothing’s really different than it was. More lesions than expected doesn’t change the fact that I’m still largely unaffected in any serious way. And while it’s hard to know how to react to a nebulous future, I’m still fairly lucky. If tired a lot.

So here’s where I’m at. Sometime this week, I’ll talk to a coordinator to get in on a medication study. Not new meds, I’m not that brave. Or scared. This study is designed to determine long term effects of two treatment approaches. Once I’m in a group, I’ll talk to my doctor about which medication is best for me. I should be able to start treatment in 2-3 weeks. Which, dammit, feels like a fucking eternity.

I’m frustrated that every time I get information, I realize it’s not as illuminating as I think it should be. Wait for an appointment, get some info, wait for another appointment, get some more info, all underscored by a general lack of definition, expectation, or action. I feel like the first stage of this whole thing is accepting perpetual annoyance.