CBD Oil

I have osteoarthritis in my left hand, particularly my thumb. It’s painful, especially with my career as a hairstylist. I had a cortisone shot last year and that lasted a solid six months. It was wonderful, but slowly it wore off and the pain reared its ugly head again. I received another cortisone shot over the summer. This time it only lasted about a month. I hated the thought of having to get those shots more frequently and I knew I wouldn’t go that route. Cortisone does cause bone loss. Osteoarthritis deteriorates the joints. Sounds like the perfect combination to put a person in a wheelchair. No thanks!

The other option is surgery, which has a three-month recovery time. I don’t know anyone who could take three months off work without pay. So that’s not a viable option.

I spent time between clients, taking ibuprofen and rubbing the joint of my thumb. I’m not comfortable taking ibuprofen so regularly, but the pain makes it necessary. My father did that a few years ago and landed himself in the hospital with kidney failure. The doctors concluded it was a combination of ibuprofen and another medication. Since I’ve inherited different ailments from my father’s side, I worry my kidneys may react the same as my father’s did. I needed another alternative.

I was so worried about the future. How many hours will I be able to work? How many clients will I lose? Will this get worse? How long can I continue to work? What other jobs are out there that don’t require my left thumb?

A young client asked me how my last cortisone shot worked. When I told him what a failure it was, he suggested CBD oil. He said his grandmother swears by it for her arthritis. I decided to try it. What could it hurt?

I read several articles about CBD oil. CBD stands for cannabidiol. It’s a cannabinoid from cannabis sativa, which is marijuana. CBD oil contains no THC, the cannabinoid that makes you high, which is why it’s legal. You do not need a medical marijuana card or prescription for this. Not only does it help with pain, but also anxiety.

I looked online for the most reputable companies, the top 20 list. From there, I browsed their websites, cost, shipping, quality, reviews, etc. I can’t purchase anything willy-nilly. I settled on one out of California. It showed up at my door on Friday and I started using it immediately. I put a couple of drops (or three) under my tongue for about a minute and then swallowed. This particular one tastes like vanilla, so the aroma and taste are very pleasant. Its recommended use is twice a day or as needed. The first couple of days, my pain level was very high, so I used it 3-4 times a day. On my days off, I used it twice a day, morning and night. The days I worked, I used it three times a day. cbd oil

Today is Thursday. I’m six days into use. I cannot stress enough how much this has helped. I didn’t have to rub my hand between clients. I wasn’t in pain every time my thumb had to hold the comb, pinch the hair or roll a rod. Because I wasn’t experiencing the pain, it was so much easier to concentrate on what I was doing and what my client was saying. I had no need to take ibuprofen, which means I don’t have to worry about what sort of damage I’m inflicting on my organs or bones. I haven’t had any negative side effects. I am completely amazed.

I was in tears this morning, after I realized I woke up without pain in my hand. I sent a text to my client this morning, thanking him for telling me about CBD oil. I had no idea it was an option and he has no idea what he’s done for me, just by telling me about it. I’m going to make sure every person I know hears about CBD oil. I highly recommend you try it. You think you’re tired of hearing about crossfit, gluten-free, vegan, fortnight or even Jesus? Just wait!

My First Time

I’ll never forget my first time. I don’t think anyone does. I’m not the first person to have cried during or afterward, right? Since the first time, I’ve now had experience with many, some people I’ve known well, but most have been strangers. I find that knowing the person really well, makes it a bit more difficult. Strangers are much easier, because there are no emotional attachments or memories. I’ve now been paid multiple times for my services, which is a great feeling and the pay is fantastic. Here’s the story of my first time.

A long time client of mine had passed away. The next evening I received a call from her son, asking me to style his mother’s hair for her funeral. I said I would do it, without any hesitation. Did I just say yes? I’m going to do a dead person’s hair? I remained calm on the phone, but I could feel my heart racing with anxiousness. I knew his mother must have requested it. I was honored. It would be the very last thing I could ever do for Louise. I had to do this.

The funeral home contacted me the next morning to set up a time to come in and take care of Louise. We set up an appointment for the following afternoon. My mind began to race with questions. What do I wear? How does any of this work? I had no idea what I would need to do, what equipment I needed, how Louise would look or where I would be styling Louise within the funeral home. I barely slept that night, because my mind wouldn’t shut off. What was I so worried about? There are people who do this for a living every day. I was certain those people slept at night.

The next day, I started sorting through the clothes in my closet. I felt I should wear something more than jeans and a t-shirt. I settled on black slacks and a flowery blouse. I packed up every possible tool I would need in a big canvas bag. Even with deodorant, I was sweating like a priest in confession, before ever leaving the house. I hopped in the car and blasted the music, hoping it would take my mind away from the heavy feeling in my chest. I focused on the music and my breathing.

Before I knew it, I was in the parking lot. I parked the car and took the keys out of the ignition. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I closed my eyes. Breathe in through the nose, breathe out though the mouth. I did this several times, until I felt slightly buzzed. I knew I needed to move quickly and get out of the car before the oxygen buzz wore off. Otherwise, I would feel stuck again and need to repeat the breathing exercises. That may sound silly, but it works for me.

Walking through the parking lot, I had a sudden surge of confidence. I entered the building and approached the receptionist in the office, pretending this wasn’t my first rodeo. “Hi, my name is Wendy. I’m here for styling services.” The receptionist told me to take a seat and someone would be with me shortly. I sat down and within moments a tall, lanky, suited man approached me. He had a broad smile and large teeth. He addressed me by name and asked me to follow him.

I followed him to the back of the funeral home. We walked through a door, which led to a staircase. We headed downstairs. The basement? Isn’t this where all horror movies end? At the bottom of the stairs, there was a small seating area and a door. The door wasn’t a pretty wooden door like the others in the funeral home. This one was gray and steel. It made a loud clanking sound when it opened and again when it closed.

On the other side of the door was Louise. She lay lifeless on a table, covered up to her neck with a white sheet. Her skin was an odd shade of pale bluish-gray. Her white hair was standing on end, away from her face. It was a little shocking at first. I could feel a lump forming in the back of my throat. My insides were feeling shaky. After setting my bag down, the suited man spoke, “Her makeup isn’t done yet.” He chuckled. I jumped at the sound of his voice, for I had nearly forgotten he was still there. By the way, could he have stated anything more obvious?

I plugged in my curling iron and blow dryer and started wetting down Louise’s hair with my spray bottle, because it would need to be dried in a different direction. I turned on the blow dryer, which was a nice break from the awkward silence and smiling stares of the suited man. As I finished drying her hair, a phone rang. The suited man excused himself to take the call. I was relieved he left.

Louise was always a straight shooter, said what she thought and did not use sarcasm sparingly. As I sorted through my memories of her, I began curling her hair. I didn’t realize I was crying, until a tear ran down my cheek and landed in Louise’s hair. I quickly found a tissue in my bag and wiped my face. I smiled, wondering what Louise would’ve said to me for crying into her hair.

The suited man returned, smiling, “I apologize for taking so long. Are you okay?” I nodded. “Some people freak out and can’t finish the job.” He chuckled again. “Oh….you don’t have to do that.” I was laying the comb on the scalp, under the curling iron, so as not to burn her. “The iron can’t burn dead skin.” Again, with the chuckle.

I didn’t know that, but it didn’t matter to me. “I guess it’s just habit. I’d rather treat her the same, as if she were alive.” There was nothing funny about my statement, but the suited man laughed loudly anyway. I finished up Louise’s hair and began putting my tools away.

“Would you like to pick up the check? Or we can send it to you?” The suited man asked, as I tossed the last of my belongings into the bag.

“I don’t want to charge them anything. It’s a gift for Louise.” The man nodded and I looked at Louise one more time before leaving the room. I jogged up the stairs and through the door. I didn’t slow my pace, as I thanked the suited man, nodded to the receptionist and quickly walked out of the funeral home.

I breathed in the outside air and hurried to the car. Once I was in the car, I cried. I cried hard. I wasn’t exactly sure why I was crying so hard, but it felt good. It was like the lid came off of a pressure cooker. There was an overpowering sense of relief. A weight was lifted. I blew my nose and quietly laughed over the suited man’s words. Was he nervously waiting for me to freak out?

As I pulled out of the parking lot and put on my sunglasses, I told myself, “That wasn’t so bad… for my first time.”

Misophonia- All That Noise, Noise, Noise!

misophonia4 Misophonia is the hatred of noise, in case you didn’t know that yet. I’ve seen a lot of articles about it recently. It’s something I’ve experienced most of my life, but never knew it had a name. It’s considered a mental disorder, which I find mildly disturbing, but can completely agree.

As a child, I remember hearing and watching my grandmother move her mouth around and click her dentures. Not only did it annoy me at 9 years old, it made me feel nauseous. The sound was both aggravating and gross. Watching her do it intensified those feelings. The same thing would happen at the dinner table with my grandfather. He was a lip smacker. Listening to him eat anything juicy or greasy was a nightmare.

Now my father is a lip smacker like his father before him, especially when he’s eating fried chicken. My mother needs to suck her teeth for half an hour after a meal. Even though I love these people, I want to scream the worst profanities at them when they’re making these noises. That sounds awful, but it’s the truth.

misophonia1 The feelings these noises provoke are anxiousness, frustration and rage. It’s really a horrible feeling, because it makes a person feel out of control. The guilt for having these feelings is a little hard to swallow once the rage has passed. The fleeting thought of throwing a fork in the forehead of a loved one, simply because they’re smacking their lips or chewing, seems completely irrational any other time. When the sounds seem magnified, knocking the person out of the chair would logically give some relief. Of course, that would be an insane reaction. Leaving the room and getting away from the sound is the only way I find relief. Otherwise, I will glare at the individual until they look at me with fear in their eyes and realize I’m about to blow.

For me, it’s become so much more than clicking dentures, lip smacking or sucking teeth. It’s the sound of the crinkling potato chip bag or that weird noise people make in the back of their throats, for no reason at all. It’s the sound a loud swallower makes when they take a drink or the sound of silverware against a plate or bowl. It’s every possible mouth noise. Fingernail clipping makes me want to throw my fist through a wall. Tapping a pencil too long can be a trigger. When we had a dog, the licking….oh my God…the licking!

The older I get, the worse it has become. I’ve even gotten to a point of aggravation, when certain words are pronounced a certain way. Take the word “shrimp” for example. I have a client who says “srimp.” I have to try to change the subject or walk away every time she says it, because it annoys me so badly. Do you sriek every time you see srek? Probably not, so don’t skip out on that h. Another client says “and everything” at the end of nearly every sentence. She also smacks her lips constantly and she isn’t eating anything. I have to excuse myself and go to the bathroom to close my eyes and take deep breaths. She is a sweetheart, but the relief I feel when she’s out the door is euphoric.

Yes, I know I sound like a crazy bitch right about now.

After seeing several articles and posts about misophonia, I worry this is going to be the new trendy thing, like having a clown phobia or being introverted. This isn’t cool. This isn’t pleasant for anyone involved. It is a daily struggle. I hate feeling this way. This is not something that can be satisfied with an eye roll. When someone is crunching on potato chips, an Ally McBeal bowling ball to their face might be satisfying for a moment, but then the crunching continues. misophonia2

What can you do if you live or work with someone who has misophonia? Whatever you do, don’t blow them off as if they’re being dramatic. Try to be understanding. If you’re eating something, then offer some to the person who’ll be annoyed by your chewing. Sometimes their own chewing will drown out the other noises. Pay attention. If you see jaws or fists clenching while you’re eating something, find out what is bothering them. If they’re choking a fork while glaring at you, put down whatever you’re eating and run like hell.

My son, who also has some issues with noises, puts his potato chips in a bowl, so I don’t have to hear the bag. He never clips his nails in front of me and most of the time, he eats his crunchy snacks in the other room. It’s the little things, that can prevent you from being on the receiving end of a misophonic rampage.