When Things Come Back

My legs are as tree trunks, big and unwieldy, and dragging them around with me is exhausting. So each day I get up, and I drag them someplace with me. For one thing, it's rather difficult to get anywhere without them, and, for another, it's good for them. They ache much of the time, but it's not unbearable. Standing is not as easy as it once was. Sometimes the legs just sit there when I will them to move, as if they're pouting and refuse to take instructions from me any longer. But in the end I win, and we get up, and we move. 

Sometimes the pain is throughout my body, an ache that resides deep, but it's not an unbearable ache, at least not yet. It's just annoying.

Sometimes I cannot think clearly, my head more a mass of fog than of anything else, and so I wait for it to clear. It's not unbearable, but it slows me down, and it's in my way. 

My stomach has become difficult with me, so I eat small meals, careful of what I consume, and this works, mostly. 

I like to sleep, and waking up is difficult. Once I'm awake, I feel like going back to sleep, but that's not a good way to get through the day. Or I can't sleep, but I try, and the act of trying exhausts me more. The act of not trying exhausts me also, so I'm not sure which direction to go. 

The fibromyalgia is back.

My stepmother, bless her tiny little heart, would say, if she were here, "You're just lazy. You've always been lazy. Stop whining." Fortunately she is not here. Not that I would wish her dead if she were here, but since she is dead, I must take my consolation where I can. 

My mother, if she were here, would want to save me from it. 

It's funny how we keep the voices that are the most harmful, giving them an importance they don't deserve. I still find myself wondering, now and then, if my stepmother was right. Am I in pain and tired because I'm lazy? I don't think so, but, on the other hand, I don't want people to know I'm in pain and working on just being functional because they might think I'm just lazy, wouldn't they? A hypochondriac? It's not as I've broken anything. You can't see what it is that I'm whining about. I look fine. 

Oh yes, I do look fine. 

I'm making more typos than I used to. But my numbers seem to still be working okay, which is the important thing, since I make my living with numbers.

Mostly I'm annoyed. How dare this thing interfere with my normal functions? I've got things to do! Places to go! People to see! Writing to be done! Work to be done! I have a fabulous life and I fully intend to live it! And it's tax season and I'm busy, for which I am very grateful. In this economy, to have more than enough work is such a blessing. It's a stability sort of thing. I do love stability. I already did the I'm-broke-and-expect-my-next-abode-to-be-outdoors thing years ago, so this is a nice change. 

This thing, this fibromyalgia, it went away for years, except for the occasional bouts of pain and low energy, and I thought that perhaps it was gone for good. Perhaps I'd imagined the whole thing and it never really existed. Alas, no. 

But I'll come out ahead. I'll persevere and I'll whip the butt of this stupid thing. I may not look like I'm persevering, what with the occasional nap and the blank stares while my mind tries to catch up, but it's all on the inside, you see, the persevering. You can't necessarily see it, so you'll have to take my work for it. 

Oops. Word. Take my word for it.