So, it’s come to this.
I am not sure if I’m happy or sad. I’m not sure if I wasn’t careful enough about what I wished for. And, I’m really not sure what I expected otherwise.
It’s an F-word. But, not the four-letter one that invokes laughter or anger in the same moment. It’s longer than that and it has more weight. Fibromyalgia.
20 years I spent going from doctor to doctor because they all moved or retired to family life, or maybe got tired of seeing my file grow with every visit. I insisted there was something going on, and they insisted I needed more water, less sugar and more sleep. While I admit these are all things that help, I was looking for something more concrete. An excuse or something to prove that it wasn’t all my fault. And, there it is. A twelve letter culmination of frustration and sleeplessness. An answer to my prayers at 2am for some direction on how to feel better. And yet, I feel… nothing. Just a little “I KNEW there was something going on…” Yet, is it really a diagnosis?
I think I’m mostly pissed with the fact that the things I’d finally started doing to make myself healthier are now no-no’s. Well, for now, anyway. I loved crossfit. There’s something about being able to do a shit-ton of situps and still be able to do a shit-ton of squats and lift a 125lb bar over your head in the same hour workout. But, there won’t be any going back. Unless I get up the nerve and walk in for a hello. And try not to be the sad, sob-story sitting on the couch watching instead of doing.
But, it’s supposedly not progressive, just always there with flare-ups when things are bad. A positive, I suppose. It’s crappy hearing that there should be NO WEIGHTS, and very light low/no-impact aerobic activity after finally being able to bust ass on a WOD. Oh well. I need to stop snivelling and put on my big-girl panties and move my ass at least, instead of sitting there on the couch eating like shit and getting bigger big-girl panties…