It clutches you with feathered down and brings you to distress. That sinking feeling, that bone deep tired, the sickly person’s daily stress.
Your waking charge is “put on clothes” or “shower if you dare”. A far cry from the triumphs that once left your lips and pierced the air.
In place of ladder climbing feats you fight side effects and lack of rest, shattered bodies and shattered dreams disturb all attempts at nightly rest.
You get up and the make the bed each day so if you can’t do more, “At least I made the bed” you’ll say, and quietly shut the sickroom door.
From the outside you look fine, though less sparkly than before. It’s hard to laugh, to smile, to work, to play, when you live behind the sickroom door.
So you rest your head on feathered down and close your eyes once more, to spend another day locked away behind that stupid sickroom door.
I was feeling depressed the other day after another long bout of disfunction. Oliver and I were playing on his PS4 and I said “I’m sorry I can’t do the things other moms can do.”
To my surprise he said “Don’t say stuff like that about yourself. It makes me feel bad.”
Huh. That made me think. I didn’t want to spread my misery around to my kiddos so I really thought about the feelings I wanted to spread around.
I asked “How about if I say thank you for spending time with me doing the things I can do?”
He said “That’s better. I enjoy spending time with you.”
Our words matter. Sometimes, when we are mired in our own despair, we can forget the effect our words have on those around us. So, to all of you:
Thank you for being here to read my words.
Thank you for understanding my limitations.
Thank you for finding ways to be in my life despite those limitations.
You matter to me, your presence helps more than you know, and I love you.
One of the things that truly sucks about Fibromyalgia is that you are going along your life in a generally halfway decent state of activity and stout denial and then BLAMMO you can’t do anything.
Today I woke up and I was winded going downstairs. Making coffee was too hard for me to do. I tried to assemble a new catbox cover and opening one side of the box wore me out.
I spent the first 5 hours of the day lying on my bed in my pajamas listening to a book on tape because it was all I had the energy to do. Even now, writing this, my fingers are aching and my hands hurt and I am getting freaking winded from typing.
I don’t know when I will wake up again and have the energy to go to the gym or walk the dog or even bathe. Worst of all, right now, it’s even hard to breathe. My chest muscles and the nerves in my chest seem to believe that lifting my lungs up and down is a little too much for them to handle. I’m gasping sitting still and dizzy going downstairs.
Two days ago I walked 3.5 miles with the dogs happily and without getting winded. Yesterday I swam for 45 minutes and though I could feel the weakness settling into my arms I could still use them. Today I am a twisted, broken, incapable thing.
This disease sucks. A lot.
There are a lot of things that I struggle with on a daily basis. The fact that I am able to life a relatively fulfilling life despite these challenges usually makes me feel like a fairly strong person. So when something breaks me I expect it to be something bad, really, really bad.
Imagine my surprise when what broke me this week was my ponytail.
If you have long hair I am sure you have styled it in the morning only to have your hair follicles hurt when you take it out at night. The pain is minimal and fades fairly quickly and I usually feel it is on par with hitting your funny bone, odd and painful but also a little silly.
It turns out with Fibromyalgia that is not that case. I have had my hair short for a few years since my doc told me it could be making my headaches worse and shorter hair could help – it didn’t, it just made me go through the process of growing my hair out again – so I haven’t had to deal with a ponytail for a few years. Yesterday I wore my hair in a high pony to go with a cute head wrap I had gotten to hold ice packs. I came home. I took my hair out of the pony and instead of a silly odd feeling of hair follicles relaxing I had the sensation of razors tearing through my scalp. It lasted for hours, this feeling of sharp cutting pain along my scalp. Then it subsided into the feeling of being horribly bruised. I still feel that way. Horribly bruised. 48 hours later. I can’t touch my scalp because I had the audacity to wear a pony tail.
What the actual fuck?
I looked up Fibromyalgia and hair pain online and of course it’s a common symptom, and oh joy, often comes with hair loss.
I lost it. I cried and shook and scared the crap out of my husband. Why?
Because I don’t even get my hair.
This fucking disease has taken my chosen career. It has taken my dancing in nightclubs and taking the kids to amusement parks and riding on roller coasters and working full time. It has taken my volunteering for numerous causes and my involvement in the PTA and my ability to think straight and unplanned adventures with my kids and my ball juggling and my night driving and party attending and my singing loudly to music and my sleeping well and wearing tight jeans and high heels and so many other things. It has taken and taken and taken and now? I don’t even get my hair.
I can’t have long hair and style it up in my pretty updo’s like I used to without setting myself up for days and days of intense discomfort. I don’t get to do french twists that set off my cheekbones and messy buns that are flirty and fun. I don’t get to decide how I want to look because the asshole disease that runs my life has decided to take that away from me too.
I am sure I will come to terms. I will accept this and find a way to cope but right now I only have one thing to say.
Fuck you Fibromyalgia.
I never believed I would get this far and now I am nibbling my nails and hanging on tenterhooks because I only have 6 days to get my remaining backers or the project fails!
It’s so much stress and anticipation. I had hoped that offering this Kickstarter would bring my art into the broader world, and it has, but it’s much more difficult to be mellow about failing when I am this close to success! I am not sure I would do this again.
If you want to peek at it you can visit bit.ly/make100paintings
Here’s one of my new fishies:
I did a thing.
Kickstarter has this program called Make 100. They started it last year and it was a success do they opened it up again this year. The basic gist is you come up with 100 unique, limited edition things you promise to make. You build a project on their platform and if you publish it with Make 100 in the title between January 1st and January 31st they will market it with their Make 100 tag.
I have tried to Kickstarter before with next to no success so I figured why not try again.
I decided to make 100 5×7 original paintings. I set the funding level at a reasonable percentage of those and I launched my project.
Now I am 31% funded with 60% of the timeframe for funding left.
I have never gotten this far on Kickstarter before and I find myself equally exhilarated and anxiety ridden. Will I get there? I’m on target to get there statistics wise. How can I make sure I get there? People really seem to like my stuff! Can I make sure I get there? Am I just dreaming? What’s going on!! AaaaacccckkKK!
It’s a little intense over here in my head just now. I advise you to stay a reasonable distance from it.
If you want to take a peek and check it out please visit bit.ly/make100paintings
See, I even got a great short-link. Now, I am going to close my Kickstarter dashboard and stop willing the funding level to increase because I am pretty sure that is the one thing that will not actually work.
I don’t know about you but having feelings and chronic daily migraine sucks. Every time I get angry my head hurts more. If I get anxious or nervous, more head pain. If I cry, boy, if I cry you may as well have hit me over the head with a bucket of bricks and I am in bed for days.
Which is why I have magically transformed from a deeply emotive person into one of the most emotionally patient people you will ever meet. Tragedy is met with quiet, anger is met with quiet. Anything else literally hurts me more than it hurts you.
Sometimes, however, this fails, because life is a harsh asshole and the people you love say nasty things and the people you count on let you down in massive ways and the coping skills you have developed over five years of constant pain go down the drain in a torrent of tears that leaves you shaking and buried under an avalanche of pain.
Sometimes it’s necessary to lose your shit. Even if it means you are going to hurt, because sometimes the emotional pain of your existence deserves as much release as the physical pain and as far as I can tell no one has found a pill to cure the pain of heartbreak.
After all, no one has found a pill to cure the pain of headache either so it’s not like heartbreak is alone out there.
So. Get your laundry done. Pay your bills. Set up some leftovers. Set your ice packs in the freezer and your heating pad by the bed. Pull the black out curtains shut. Then cry. Let it go.
It’s not doing you any good in there anyway.