It’s on my blog header, it’s in my whole cheerful outlook. Let’s manage life with this chronic illness!
Look at all my coping tools!
See my shiny things!
Well right now my illness is managing me.
And let’s face it, I’m in my mid-forties. My ass isn’t all that lily-white either. I mean, we’re in the middle of a no-end-in-sight pandemic and I haven’t been outside in a bikini since the idea of meaningful political discourse was an actual thing but my ass is more of a sickly ghostly pale, not a lily white. It’s not some semi-romanticized flowerly white, it’s a “DEAR GOD WOMAN GET SOME SUN ON THAT THING WON’T YOU!!” pale white you can see deep down veins through.
I’m sick.
Really, really sick.
I hurt everywhere, I can’t sleep. My once soft and comfortable ergonomic pillow has developed claws or teeth or maybe someone broke into my room and stuffed it with broken glass or something.
My whole fucking bed is made of discomfort. There isn’t a single comfortable position I can sit, lie, stand, or lean in. Every single miserable muscle and bone in my body hurts. I swear to the Goddess the bed is subtly shifting at night, moving me around every time I get the slightest bit comfortable.
The nerves in my hands and feet are tingly and itchy and on fire and somehow cold and stabby. Oh, and throbbing, and pulsing.
The Topomax isn’t killing my ability to think like it did before but I still have a really sore throat every day and that vaguely feverish feeling, like deep bone-aches and an overall sense of doom and gloom.
I’m miserable.
There’s no shiny sticker for me to put on it.
Right now there’s no managing it either.
There’s just getting through it and hoping it feels better, or at least different, tomorrow.
Stay safe loves.