I stood in my closet this morning, looking around as though I’d never been there. I couldn’t remember what I was doing, why, or what I should do next. So I stood still, waiting for it to come to me. Moments before I had been violently panting like a wild animal, bent over in pain and hugging my own body. I’d simply gone upstairs to get dressed for the day, but just as it does every day of my life in varying degrees, my illness reminded me who was in charge.
Tears welled up. That happens a lot, too. I don’t always have words any more when I want to express what I’m feeling so my soul expresses it for me. I forget. A lot.
It’s Not Fibromyalgia
I was first diagnosed with Fibromyalgia in my early 30s by a young doctor who had clearly just learned the word on a sleepover at Junior Doctor Camp.
“You will grow weaker and weaker until finally your muscles atrophy. Your life span will be drastically shortened, and you’ll live out your final years wheelchair bound.”
Over the years I would experience sporadic periods of improvement and so I’d decided that Fibromyalgia was a bullshit diagnosis, and I damn sure didn’t have it.
Then I’d get really sick again.