I still don’t understand

I grew up with Disney, and fairytales, and romance. I grew up believing one day my prince would come and sweep me off my feet and save the day.

In my twenties I quickly learned how silly these concepts were. That Disney wasn’t real, that fairytales were rare, and that there was no prince waiting on a white horse.

In my early thirties, I woke up one day with Severe Rheumatoid Arthritis. In the six years that have passed since then I’ve learned that my body wasn’t made for romance, fairytales, and dreams come true.

I don’t know what the meaning of life is, or why we are here, and what we as humans are meant to do. But I’ve come to realize that I my body and mind were meant to endure colossal amounts of pain.

Pain from the diseases in my body that won’t quit multiplying. Pain from cancers that won’t give up. Pain from being destroyed from inside out. And the pain from being constantly let down by those who don’t stay.

If my body was meant to endure such stress and pain, why give me a heart and mind that is so vulnerable to the human condition?

Why let me know sadness and sorrow, heartache and loss? Was the physical endurance not enough for one person to take? Must I feel the destruction of everything inside on such a monumental level?

I don’t understand why I was made to experience so much pain. I don’t understand. I don’t understand.

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No one can do what I do

Today I was on a video chat with my dad and he said something that has really stayed with me.
We were talking about my disease, “the gift that keeps on giving”, and how despite the odds I’m always optimistic.

Yesterday I got out of the hospital again. It was my second hospital stay in two months, not a great average for someone like me.
In September I was in the hospital for six days, with an esophagus complication that was never really resolved. In those six days I developed a cold that I still have, and blood clots in my arm from a perforated vein via IV insertion.
The cold is annoying yes, but the blood clots ended up being a real shit. I had plans to go to a friends wedding in California, just a few weeks later, which ended up not happening.
My dad has planned to pay for my tickets but the clots caused him unease and he reneged on our deal. (I later found out I couldn’t have gone anyways due to not being able to fly with clots in my arm.) Unseen problems that turned into a big mess. Fairly sure I lost a friend or two over it. The ongoing cost of a disease I didn’t ask for.

Early Monday morning I woke up with a sharp pain in my right thigh. It was a confusing place for pain in my body to be, as it wasn’t near a joint. Rheumatoid Arthritis attacks the flesh around your joints, but this felt like someone was slowly sawing off my thigh bone.
When the pain became unbearable I took myself back to the Emergency Department. This time, unbeknownst to me, I had a clot in my leg. A very large one, deep in my thigh, known as Deep Vein Thrombosis (DVT). This was a serious matter as if the clot broke it could travel to my lungs or brain and I could die instantly.
After many tests and overnight observation, it was concluded that I must take twelve days of self injections in the belly (ouch!), followed by three months of blood thinners. No flying for me anytime soon..

Now out of the hospital, and limping around on a cane, I’m packing up my room to move this weekend. An unfortunate overlap in my current reality. I took a break and called my Dad on What’s App to check in and update him on my status.
After I told him about my hospital stay, the medication options available, and my recovery time, he looked stricken. I told him not to worry, I’d dealt with bad before, I could do it again.
He said “You’re right. No one else could do what you do.”

Huh..

That statement has really stayed with me.
“No one else could do what you do.”

It reminds me of a conversation I had with my partner the other day about ‘reality’. (We’d been watching American Gods, a show about the unknown of our world, and the idea of creating your own reality, your own fate.) I asked him if that were true, then why would I create a reality in which I was always in pain? Seemed a bit strange for someone to want to go through that on purpose.
It was an odd show to be honest….

That conversation stays with me too. Coupled with the notion of “no one could do that but you”, I’m left wondering.

People have told me before that they didn’t know how I could get through the things I have. Didn’t know how I coped with the pain, the depression, the unknown fate of someone with an incurable disease.
And I think about it too.
I think about it a lot.

When I was a kid I was such a wimp. Paper cuts would end in tears, a scraped knee would be the end of the world. I couldn’t lift weights like others in high school during PE. I wasn’t a very physical person at all.

Now it’s been almost six years that I have lived through pain that most couldn’t conceive. Bearable pain that I live with daily would send most people to the Emergency Department. I live with things that I never imagined I would have to. I’ve been in hospital more times than I can count. I’ve experienced heart attacks, survived lymphoma, survived cervical cancer, and broken several bones from hugs.
I live with Rheumatoid Disease, Osteoporosis, Fibromyalgia, Lung Disease, and Lupus, daily.

“No one else could do what you do.”

Maybe he is right. Maybe they all are.
I may not have been ‘born for this’, but I live with it on a level that many could never conceive.
Because they will never see it on my face. I wear my Disease like a smile on my face. I stay optimistic, I stay positive. Because I have to.

No one else can do what I do.

little by little

I was looking through #quotestoliveby on Instagram tonight and came across three small words.

“little by little”

I’m sure that this is probably a mantra for many, as it could encompass so many aspects of life. It might have been written to encourage people to strive for their goals, to not give up. Maybe to save their pennies, and go for that dream vacation. Or keep chipping away at their education, until they’ve succeeded in their dreams.

I used to love seeing quotes like this. I’d save them to my quotes board on Pinterest. I even contemplated getting some of them as tattoos, so powerful a message they were, I wanted them as a permanent reminder.

But tonight I see these words and they don’t speak to me as they once might have. I see “little by little” as a reminder of my mortality. I see it as my disease chipping away slowly at my body from the inside out.

Little by little my bones grow brittle and break more often.

Little by little my fatigue consumes me to where I wonder if I can get out of bed again.

Little by little my hair falls to the floor.

Little by little the drugs fail and I wonder what will be next if I’ve already tried everything.

A lot of people have commented on how strong I am about my disease, how in control I seem, how optimistic. They don’t realise that this is the mask I must wear, my uniform. Because if I share how scary it is to not know when the end is, then I’m being “dramatic” or “looking for attention”. No one wants to hear when the chronically ill are suffering. It’s a nuisance, something that should be kept to themselves. So we do. We keep it in. We become experts at the “I’m ok”.

But there are days like today, moments where the gravity of everything collapses our resolve. It might be a song on the radio, or a comment someone made at dinner, or that moment when we look in the mirror while washing our hands. Everything we hide from everyone, including ourselves, shatters. We remember what we are going through and how bad it is.

So tonight, when I read those three words, I remembered that little by little my body is dying. And that just sucks.

Oh, is my hair loss from chemotherapy inconveniencing you?

For those of us who take forms of chemotherapy for our disease, it’s a pretty big deal.

It’s bad enough that we get flak from the cancer community for using the term “chemotherapy” when explaining our biologics, when that’s what it actually is! I get that some of us aren’t on the high doses that cancer patients are on, BUT IT IS STILL CHEMO AND IT STILL HITS US HARD. It’s not a competition to see who’s on the worst drug or dosage.

I’ve been on biologic infusions for a couple years now. That means that I willingly consent to toxic chemicals being pumped into my body in the hopes that it makes me well. Sometimes, they do. I have unfortunately been on the other end of that a few times. The last time my body didn’t like chemo, the backlash consisted of multiple heart attacks and an eight day stint in the ICU.

It’s not a competition, so don’t tell me the chemo I take doesn’t have a toll. I get nauseated and vomit for hours. My body turns to lead and I have to sleep like the dead for up to 20 hours sometimes, just to recoup. AND my hair falls out.

Its gotten better over the years. The first time I went on chemo it came out in large clumps, to the point where I had to cut my hair short to hide the gaps. These days it doesn’t fall out en masse. But it does fall out! I have strands all over my floor, all over my pillows, and all over my bed and sheets. It sticks to my clothes, and it stands out cause I’m a redhead these days. You really can’t miss it.

It makes me very self conscious. You don’t need to tell me my hair is everywhere, I KNOW. No one knows better than me!

Most people are pretty cool about it. Sometimes they pick it off me discreetly, or mention I have a chunk sitting on my shoulder. I blush, take care of it, and we act like it didn’t happen.

You know what’s not ok?? Acting like you’re put out because my hair is in your vicinity. I’d love to not have my hair fall out, but I didn’t choose to be chronically ill, and I certainly don’t love being on chemotherapy. Have some fucking sympathy or compassion. But saying “Ew your hair is everywhere” or refusing to touch things in MY room because the hair “grosses” you out… Like are you serious?

How entitled do you have to be that you shame me for something I can’t control and hate about myself?!?! That shit is not ok. And while in my naivety I may have put up with it in the past, I will not longer.

No one in any circumstance is allowed to make you feel bad about yourself or your circumstance. EVER. That shows their insecurities, not yours.

So that will no longer fly with me. Nor should it for anyone else.

The Choice

When I was eleven my mom and I were living in New Zealand, her native country. It was definitely a lot different growing up than growing up in Hawaii, an island chain that didn’t experienced the four seasons like most. Hawaii didn’t change into shades of autumn, there were no piles of fallen leaves in gold, auburn, and burnt orange. The worst winter I experienced was just hard rain that brought on humidity that only those living in the tropics would understand.

When we moved to New Zealand following her finalized divorce to my dad, my mom cautioned it would be colder, but it never felt that cold to me. I bundled up in sweaters for winter, and donned a rain coat in spring, but that was more for comfort than anything. I didn’t realize the temp change until dipping in the ocean for the first time. The South Pacific Ocean was much colder than the tropical climates I was used to. I could never get used to the icy feeling. Those who lived in New Zealand were of course used to it, stating that in the summer it was warm. But their idea of warm was my idea of Hawaii on its coldest winter day, when most wouldn’t jump in.

However, I was a born water baby. I have many photos of me as a small child, and I’m always playing next to a body of water. The Scorpio in me could never get enough, I was a water sign through and through. As soon as I was old enough my mom put me in swim school and I took to it like a fish. I won swim meets left and right, and excelled at anything water related.

So, when I was eleven we visited a famous Auckland region beach called Piha, located on the west coast. Piha was known for its good surfing, even boasting a surf club. It was a black sand beach as well, which I’d only ever experienced one other time before, and loved the novelty of it. Piha was also known for its strong currents and rip tides. So well known in fact that there were safety zones in which you could only swim between two marked flags, and lifeguards on duty to rein in swimmers or surfers who’d been dragged out by the fierce pull of the ocean.

On that fateful day back when I was eleven, we had been driving around with my moms boyfriend at the time and I had brought a friend along with me.

Rae was a schoolmate whom was certainly not my favorite friend, but was the one available to hang out that day. While we got along just fine, I had always sensed a bit of resentment from her (yes even at 12 I could see it). She was an only child as well, from a single parent household, but was raised by a father and not a mother. I often wondered if she envied my close relationship with my mother, and had noticed quite a bit of competitiveness.

We weren’t beach ready, and lacked swimwear, but we did have a couple towels on hand and Rae and I begged to go for a dip. Looking back now, the t-shirt and shorts combination I was wearing was definitely not the best swimwear for a beach like that. However I was eager to be in water again, and despite the chilling cold of the icy South Pacific, I jumped right in.

That day I learned a valuable lesson that has stayed with me for a long time. Rae and I unfortunately got caught in the rip tide that day, and we were pulled quite far out. We knew we were in trouble but started to make the slow and steady swim back in. After what seemed like forever, a lifeguard boat came out looking for people in distress. Rae was closer and I shouted at her to get his attention. Luckily he saw her straight away and picked her up. I waved at her to have him pick me up too, but she did something that has stayed with me for these twenty five years. She looked right at me and then turned her head, and motioned she wanted to go back in, knowing that I needed help but denying it to me. In that moment she couldn’t look past her resentment or whatever she felt deep in her soul, and made the choice to leave me in the sea.

I understand that at eleven perhaps she didn’t know what she was choosing, that she might not have had the capacity to realize my life was in her hands. Though I certainly had the capacity to know and realize if I wanted saving I would have to do it myself.

I don’t know how long it took me, but I slowly and methodically swam in. My water laden shorts and shirt did nothing to help my struggle, and I’d never realized until that moment how very streamlined my swim team uniform was. I thanked the universe that I was a swimmer and that perhaps I’d always trained for this moment, when my skill would be needed most. I finally made it back in and back to my mom, her parter, and Rae. I glared at Rae but said nothing to her, it wasn’t necessary, we both knew what she did. And after that day I didn’t spend any more time with her outside of school. I knew a bad apple when I saw one.

I have thought of that day many times. I’ve mulled it over in my head, picked it apart, tried to understand how and why. But the conclusion I’ve always come to is that we just can’t know what’s in the heads of others. We can’t know their demons, as much as they can’t know ours. Did she want me to drown? Probably not. Did she want me to suffer? Maybe. It’s not worth thinking about too hard.

Last week, I returned to Piha Beach for the first time since I was eleven. Twenty five years of fearing those strong currents, and in a way fearing the death that I could have met had I not been strong enough. I sat and let my feet squish in the black sand, watching the distant waves before me. It was then that everything started to make sense. I had an epiphany.

About a week ago I saw a post I liked on a chronic pain page that I follow on Facebook. It said..

“I often ask myself, why me? Why must everyday be a pain day? But then I ask myself – why not me. I would not wish this on anyone else and perhaps the universe gave me this because I can handle it better.”

Now when I first saw that I scoffed at it. I mean the universe sucks in picking people if that’s the case. I’d prefer a different present thank you very much.

But when I was at the beach, I started to think about it. And then I got back in the water after having being scared of its currents for almost three decades. The currents were really strong and I had to fight to keep between the swimming flags. There were moments where I wondered if I should pick my feet up and see how far it swept me away. It was then that the universe reached down and gave me a revelation that has taken my lifetime to conceive.

On that day, when I was eleven, I could have certainly drowned if I gave up. I was tired, my legs and arms ached at the weight of the water against me. I could have let go and let the sea swallow me. But I didn’t, because I knew I could make it. I knew it would hurt and it would be exhausting, but that I’d make it if I wanted to live.

Since I got sick, and then sicker, and then sicker, I have cursed the world for giving me this when there are healthy serial killers that walk the streets. Cursed the universe for giving me this pain and heartache when there are billions that live without it. But just like that moment in the ocean all those years ago, I was given a choice. There have been so many times that my disease has almost won. I’ve been hospitalized, been in cardiac arrest, I’ve blacked out because the pain almost consumed me. But I’ve always chosen to wake and deal with it. There have been times where I know my body would have given up if I let it. A moment in a hospital bed after I blacked out from arrest, a moment where I saw dark and light and knew I could choose a different path.

I chose to live. And sure, I don’t want to be sick. I hate my disease and the fact that I never get well despite the handfuls of pills they make me take, and the chemicals they pump into my IV. But I’m still alive, and I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, even that girl so long ago that turned her back on me. Maybe the universe did give this to me because it knew I could handle it. That I wouldn’t let it defeat me. Maybe that’s what it means to be alive. Having something to fight for, living for more than just the 9 to 5, and the mortgage payments, and the white picket fence. Sure, a lot of people have it better than me, physically, mentally, and financially. But maybe I’m different because I’ve looked into the darkness and turned away.

I’m alive not because my heart still pumps. I’m alive because I choose to be. I’m severely ill, dying slowly from incurable diseases. But I feel more alive because I know how fragile I am. I’ve looked into the darkness a few times now, and I’ve said no to its painless quiet. I’d rather live with this than not at all.

Now Piha Beach can be a memory of the first time I chose to be stronger than you could ever imagine. And choosing is beautiful.

A Trip to the Store: Now vs Then

Today I was faced with a great realization of how many things in my life have changed that I may not have been aware of before. Little things that you would take for granted, that you wouldn’t even think of when you live a normal day to day life.
Sure I’ve been aware for some time that showering has become a real circus act. The different ways I’ve coaxed the shampoo and body wash out of their bottles should be immortalized on film. Washing my hair with my loofah, shaving my legs by holding my razor between my wrists, shivering through an air-dry, courtesy of my bedroom fan. The list goes on, and that’s just bathroom related!

My life has changed drastically in some areas. Although today I realized how much I miss being able to take a quick trip to the grocery store. Gosh, I miss those days where I could say “I’m popping out for milk”, and actually mean it. As in I leave and come back within a half hour hauling a carton of milk, and more often than not, a packet of Oreos. But the days of a ‘quick’ anything are gone. Now everything must be planned around my pain, fatigue, transportation etc.

Three years ago if I wanted to go to the grocery store I would have grabbed my purse and headed out the door. Back then I lived pretty close to where I am now, so it would have been a ten minute walk to the store. I’d have grabbed what I needed and either walked back home, or taken a taxi, depending on how much I had to carry. The whole ordeal would never have taken longer than 45 minutes to an hour.

And then there was today…

Around 12:30pm today I glanced at the clock and thought that maybe I should hit the grocery store, just as soon as I finished coloring the page I was working on.

At 1:12pm I opened my eyes to find I had dozed off at some point. Luckily this time I hadn’t accidentally drawn across the page since a pencil was still in my hand. I packed up my coloring things and went into my room to change out of my loose fitting lounge wear and into a pair of shorts. I sat on the bed and took my afternoon dose of medications, and then laid back on my pillow for a moment.

2:48pm was when I awoke the second time. Determined to not fall back asleep, I quickly got dressed, gathered my reusable grocery bags, brushed my teeth, and was out the door.

Gosh it was hot outside. The sun was really beaming down. My feet were slightly swollen but since the next bus down the street didn’t come for another 15 minutes I decided to walk it. After all, when was the last time I got my six thousand steps in? Not this week, that was for sure. I made it to my local shopping center in good time and the bus I could have taken rolled past as I entered the drugstore.

After waiting in a ten minute line to pick up my prescriptions, I perused the Red Box kiosk, got a free movie, and headed to the supermarket next door. God I love free Red Box!

Have you ever noticed that supermarkets don’t have anywhere to sit? With the exception of the Signature Cafe area at Safeway, chairs are scarce. I find that strange with so many senior citizens around. I’m sure they get tired and might like to rest a moment, I know I sure would. And by the time I’d reached the grocery store I had been on my feet for close to an hour and I was exhausted. A stool would have been so appreciated.

As I started to wander slowly down the aisles, my feet were indeed quite swollen now, I became so aware of my surroundings and the other shoppers, especially the elderly. While they used to bother me with their slowness in the past, I was now aware of their need to take their time. I needed it too. The more my sore and tired feet would ache, the slower I became, and the whole grocery shopping experience turned into this awful chore that I couldn’t wait to be done with. I used to love perusing the aisles, taking my time, looking at everything. Now I was all business. Except I couldn’t move quicker because everything hurt, and the freezing air they were pumping through the vents wasn’t making it any easier.

By the time I made it through the checkout and hobbled over to the bus stop to go home I was shocked at the time. It was 5:26pm! I’d left my house at 3! How could that much time have possibly passed? Had my movements really become that slow??

After waiting a few minutes I hopped on a bus and rode down 4 stops before ringing the bell and getting off at my street. Putting away my groceries was almost too much work. I was so tired. I could barely keep my eyes open. For once, it wasn’t pain that made me long for bed, but sheer and utter exhaustion. 6pm. Really? It takes three hours to pick up groceries? Ugh. Talk about feeling like an invalid.

What a great topic for a blog, I thought. So as soon as my groceries were put away I headed into my room, sat down on the bed and pulled out my tablet. I was able to turn it on and queue my website before fatigue gripped me and I passed out again.

7:15pm Is when I woke again and finished the account of my day. Man, this narcolepsy business is no joke.

8pm now and I’m hungry. I better make dinner and eat it before my next eyelid closure has me waking up on a different day…

Faking It

The other day I read an interesting story on Arthritis.net about “faking symptoms”. Truth be told, at first I was a little annoyed that it sounded like someone was talking about exaggerating their symptoms because I feel like I face the stigma of that every day. People that I come into contact with are constantly second guessing what I tell them, not understanding the severity of my disease because of how I look on the outside. The constant annoyance of having an ‘invisible illness’, it’s exhausting.  Everyday, even if I’m having a terrible, terrible pain flare, I look completely normal (besides the obvious Prednisone weight gain that is). The only way you could truly see if I was very ill is if I show you the pain on my face, or if I’m limping, or if you caught me during a bout of nausea.

Back to the online article.

So as I started to read this article on ‘faking it’s I realised my initial thoughts on it were wrong. The woman writing the story was indeed talking about something I find myself doing all the time, faking symptoms to make people thing I’m better than I am. I guess it stems from my pride, from not wanting to appear weak, or vulnerable, or small. But the woman was right, I do in fact fake it with family and friends all the time, just not in the way they’d think.
A good example of this is just the day before yesterday, Thanksgiving Day. I woke up that morning around 5am already crying. My pillow was wet with tears, and the second I tried to move I knew why. I was having an excruciating flare. I couldn’t even keep from crying out as I moved from my bed to the bathroom. Every step felt like my feet had been bashed in by a sledge hammer, Kathy Bates of Misery style. My shoulders felt dislocated, my hands crushed into a thousand pieces, my rib cage heavy and pained, as if the very bones were a cage for 50lbs weights that were tossed around as I attempted to move. I worried about how I was going to accomplish helping my sisters cook the big thanksgiving feast.
That’s when the faking it started. I cried while making myself a pot of tea, everything taking longer as it was agony to move at all. Then it occurred to me to make breakfast for my family since we had to get up so early. And sure, it took me quite a while to accomplish it as the pain was brutal, but an hour later Apple Croissants were packaged into Tupperware to take to my dad’s house. The mere act of that alone was agonisingly painful, and I’m not sure why I even put my body through it. The ordeal of trying to open the crescent roll tube was a sobbing matter. So why? Why didn’t I just stay in bed for an extra hour and rest and not aggravate my pained body?
Pride. I didn’t want to be seen as vulnerable or weak or pathetic. I wanted to be seen as strong and capable, someone who can overcome the odds of a severe and debilitating disease, someone who was winning.
Later at my family’s house I continued to push myself despite the pain. Swearing I could do the work even though every step, every movement, was agony. They asked how I was and I’d shrug it off with comments like “I’m fine” or “Don’t worry, I can push through”.
I took a nap in the early afternoon to regain composure for the coming evening celebration. As soon as the door was closed and locked I could be the real me again. Wipe the plastic smile from my face, let the exhaustion and pain show. I lay on the bed and slowly registered every pain, every feeling of brokenness, and continued to do so until the exhaustion took over and I passed out. But not even two hours of rest can expel the pain. Eventually I had to rise again, shower, change, and paint my face with a look that I hoped would convey “Everything is fine”.
It was only much much later, when I was home again and in bed, staring at the ceiling as silent tears slid down the curve of my cheeks, did I wonder why on earth I had put myself through that.

I’m not helping anyone, including myself, when I “fake it”. If anything, I am the cause of people thinking I’m faking it for real all those other times. My pride is damaging my credibility as a person with a severe illness. If people always see me smiling and saying everything is fine, well of course they will be suspicious of any real pain I experience. They won’t understand why I’m fine one minute and in pain the next. Because I’m showing them that it’s painful sometimes and other times it not. But that’s a lie. It’s always pain. I’m always in agony. I always hurt.
If I saw someone walking normally one day, and the very next I saw them limping and asked ‘hey what happened?’ and they told me that in fact both days they were in pain, but they were only showing the limp today, well I’d assume something fishy was going on. And that’s basically what I’ve been doing.

In my pride, I’ve not wanted people to see how truly sick I am. Last night as my mom and I discussed it, I came to the root of my problem. Yes, it does have to do with pride, and not wanting to constantly be seen as ‘sick’, but it’s also something else entirely. Something I hadn’t realized before, but was so painfully obvious.
I don’t want to be seen as the ‘sick person’ not just because it makes me weak, but also because it excludes me. Being labeled as ill automatically puts me into this group where I don’t get included anymore. Don’t fight me on this, because it’s totally true. I’ve received less invitations for group activities like beach days, bbqs, dinner parties etc. I rarely get asked out on dates anymore, which was never a problem in the past. I’m not the friend that people automatically turn to for a fun addition to an activity. And that always used to be me.
Once I realised this phenomena was taking place, I think that’s when my bout of ‘faking it’ really came to life. It was to counteract boredom. If I showed everyone I was better than I was then I would be included again. Sure enough, I was part of the laughs and stories and jokes in the kitchen on Thanksgiving. I’d been invited recently to more group social activities. I’ve even had a date recently. All because I tucked away my illness for no one to see. In a sense I hid the present me to bring back past me for everyone’s enjoyment. Everyone’s enjoyment but my own that is. Because it is exhausting hiding my pain. It’s painful hiding pain. What the hell Christine? What are you doing?

So now that I have come to terms with the stupidity of my actions… I’m stopping them. It’s time to just be me, pain and suffering and all. And if it’s confusing suddenly seeing me in a bad state all the time you can just tell yourself I was like this all along, that I hid it for your comfort but that those days have ended. I only work for myself now.
My exhaustion, my pain, my agony, will show on my face as I live it. As I experience it, so shall everyone experience me. The days of faking it have ended. I am thankful to that woman who wrote the article and brought my silly actions to light. The case of the Fake Christine has ended. Now what you see is what you get. Sorry if that’s depressing or hard to handle, but feel better in knowing it’s far less than what I deal with every minute of every day.

 

 

 

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