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  I'm listening to my mother tell a family member how the guy that the bank sent to appraise the house (we're refinancing) was good to her. Basically, her schmoozing caused a higher-than-expected appraisal.

I'm sitting here in so much fucking pain because I busted my ass non-stop for two weeks, repairing all the cracks in the foyer ceiling and walls. Every bit of it got painted. I worked like mad to repair the upstairs landing's cracks. I couldn't get them all but I used white paint to draw attention to the areas I didn't have the energy to get. I staged the house as though we were putting it on the market, getting rid of as much clutter as I could. We would have seen $50k had I not done anything. Once I was done, we were appraised at mid $90k.

Mom mom insists it was because he was Italian like her. That her friendliness gained us that higher appraisal amount. Not one word about my effort. 

That effort lead to pain. We stopped by the ER for relief a week back, but they were packed; we left. Time dragged on, and we went to the ER again. It was empty. Morphine took the edge away, making the pain manageable. 

Not really. Fucking addicts out here mean NOBODY will prescribe opioids. The shot wears off and you're left with nothing to dull it.

My pain level has been an 8 for three days. But my mom's COVID shot was scheduled already. I asked Better Half the night before if he would go with us, in case I couldn't drive. "Sure".

It's the morning of. "Can you go with us?" I ask. "No. Mumble mumble."

Well I'm glad I didn't take that oxy yet. But I totally understand not feeling well enough to go out.

I put on my best possum face and drove mom to get her COVID shot. It took a long while. Better Half called because Tyler the Loan God needs her to bring a valid ID at closing next week. She doesn't have an updated one.

We MUST stop, she insists. I explained that she needs her birth cert and SS card, plus a bill with her name on it, as her ID is a Colorado Driver's License that expired years ago. "But my hair is done today!" was her reply. Fine.

She came out of the BMV five minutes later to tell me what I already told her.

She needs to stop at Walgreens in town. Okay. Done. NOW can we go home??

The rest of the day is a blur. Better Half and I went to Riesebecks, and we got McDonalds. I remember us eating in the upstairs den. The pain was pushing me, so I took a vicodin. Better Half was doing something in the bedroom, I'm not sure what, and I had a bad chill. I pushed dogs out of the way so I could crawl into bed with my heating pad.

I'm not sure what happened next. I know he was upset because it's hard to wake me up, and he wanted to be on the bed with the laptop. I remember moving to the den with my heating pad. I had no way to plug it in, and was already withdrawing into myself to block out pain. The vicodin wasn't working and neither was my snail tactic. He turned his music on and that was it. After trying to make everyone happy for weeks, I snapped and told him I was mad at him for not helping plug the stupid pad in. My bad.

I didn't have the energy to quarrel with him. I'd reached my pain threshold and sat down in my chair. I tried to explain a few times but he was absolutely ticked off. He isn't psychic so my No, baby, I don't want to go to the bed. I don't want to move. It hurts so bad. mantra went unheard.

I guess my inability to explain, and his unwillingness to listen, pretty much tore the world apart. I remained in the chair, now more chilly, and the world swallowed me whole.  The vicodin didn't work.

I honestly don't know how long I was out. I woke up in pain still in the den. The bedroom was dark and he was sulking on the floor under his blanket. I dimly remember him saying he wouldn't sleep in the bed again if I didn't leave the den and go to bed. Or something like that?

Giving up trying to make sense of anything at this point. It's just incomprehensible right now. I tried to route an extension cord behind the desk so I could plug in my heating pad. It took forever. And the damn thing won't turn on. I'm guessing I'm not plugged into the right surge protector. I dunno. I don't care. I'm in no shape to try anything different.

Forgive my whining, readers. Between all the unfinished reviews and projects, I use this blog as a means to vent. I've cried. I've balled my fists in rage with regard to my own body. I'm empty. The pain is still here, though. Tonight it's filling up all the empty spots. Does anyone else with chronic pain go through this?

Oh, and Mortal Coil is stuck in my head. It's one of the posts I haven't finished. Might as well do so now.