So, I've been in quite a funk for a while now, and thought
I'd see if writing about it, if letting myself think things and organize these
thoughts and face them, might help me feel better.
I'm really tired of being sick. Really fucking tired of it.
It's been 5 years now, I think. I remember for the first two years, I kept
telling myself, "It's ok if you don't feel good right now... because you
will feel better, and when you do feel better, you will be able to [insert
activity here]. And after about two years, I finally realized that I am not
going to get any better. This was it. This was my life now. I don't think I
felt too badly about it. I don't think I let myself. I've been putting on my
brave face for the world. I've been remembering to be grateful; for the things
that I have, for the things that I don't have.
I have a wonderful, smart, sensitive son. I have an amazing man who
loves me, who I love dearly, who I am going to marry, and who wants nothing more
than to spend his days with me. I have the ability to travel occasionally, and
great friends to share these trips with. And I have it better than so many other
people. I don't have lupus. I don't have RA. I don't have cancer. All the reasons that Life Is Still Good and I
can put up with the daily hassles of having fibromyalgia.
But lately, that's not been enough. This fucking disease has
taken so much from me. I'm angry. I'm despondent. I struggle to get up and out
of bed every morning. It hurts, and I'm tired. Showering hurts and is
exhausting so I don't even do it every day any more. I try my best to put the
discomfort out of my head and just DO IT. Because I have to. I have to go to
work, to a job I don't even like, because I need the money to live, to feed my
kid, to pay his tuition. And I hurt on the way to work. And I force myself to
get out of the car, even though it hurts, and go in that building and put on a
friendly, happy face for eight and a half hours, so that I can then rush home
and collapse into bed. Some night we order delivery for supper. It's fattening
and costs too much money. But I do it, because we have to eat and I can't
always cook. When I DO cook, it's just things I can prepare and throw in the
oven very quickly, frozen meals or pasta. Because being on my feet for more
than a few minutes hurts, and I can't bear it after working all day. So, we eat
like crap.
My doctor (my internist, not my rheumatologist), lectures me
about my weight. I get that it's important, and that he wants me healthy and to
not die of a fucking heart attack in 10 years. But it's so frustrating to sit
there and listen to him suggest I go walking or join a gym. He doesn't
understand how exhausted I am, how much I'm in pain. I can't manage to cook
good meals, I can't seem to get any exercise, and I take three different
medications that have the side effect of causing weight gain. So I'm fat and I
can't figure out how I'm going to make that better.
I don't have a social life any more. I do online, and I do
on occasional trips (with a lot of effort and a lot of consequences), but not
in my daily life. I don't stop out for drinks after work with the girls. I
don't go to see my old friends. I don't go out with my sister and cousins when
they plan a fun night out. I'm too tired. It will hurt too much. So my world
has gotten smaller and I don't keep in touch with old friends.
My house is a pig sty. Cleaning is next to impossible. I
remember the days when I could clean the entire apartment, top to bottom, in a
day. And then cook supper. Now it takes a couple of hours and a lot of resting
to do one project, and by then my energy is sapped for the day and nothing else
can be done. My son helps a lot with taking out trash, and dishes, and cat box,
and laundry. But it's not enough, and my house is gross.
My brain is gone. I know it. Sometimes I can't find the
words I need, or form sentences. It can be funny when it's at home and it's
just my son. It's less funny at work, when I'm supposed to be a professional
who knows what she's doing, and can't form a sentence with my co-workers or
bosses. If I have to talk on the phone, to make a doctor's appointment, to call
the pharmacy, anything, I have a small window of time in the morning, when I'm
awake enough and not yet exhausted by the day. After that, I can't manage it.
And my memory has gone to crap.
I can't even enjoy my crafts anymore. I used to love sewing
quilts and other things, doing cross-stitch, and knitting. I held on to knitting the longest, as it
takes less physical effort, but I've dropped that recently too. I haven't made any submissions for Timmy the Thinkgeek monkey's costume collection for the past two years, even though I can think of awesome things I'd like to make. It's just too much work now, too hard.
I remember my old life, when I would meet with friends for
lunch, or go to the movies, or just hang out. I'd keep my house clean and my
laundry done and cook good meals and take care of my son. I blogged. I'd see a really cool quilt on the
internet and immediately draw up plans and shopping lists and run to the store
to buy my fabrics and joyfully make that damn quilt. I was organized. I was
smart. I was fun. I had patience.
Now, that's all gone, and I'm pissed off and sad.
