I May Be a Bit Tired

Sometimes I just get tired. Not the I-don’t-have-any-energy tired. That’s like, me all the time. I mean the sick and tired kind of tired. The utterly weary tired.

I’m tired of needing to go to bed, almost wanting to go to bed, and refusing to because I know I’ll just stare at the walls for an hour and/or wake up every hour for the next however many and/or wake up in three hours completely unable to go back to sleep.

I’m similarly tired of wanting to go to bed but deciding not to because I know I won’t be able to get comfortable, no matter how much my closing eyes imply sleep is very near.

I’m tired of reaching dinner, having only been up 2 or 7 hours, and thinking how I probably won’t make it through the show I was going to watch at 8, as my body is already in shut-down mode, having also accomplished nothing that day.

I’m tired of twitching all night, meaning during the part that I’m asleep, to the point of almost scaring my husband, all unbeknownst to me while it is happening. Which probably has a great hand in the problem above this one.

I’m tired of jumping around between experimental supplements, having given up on prescriptions, hoping that something like Sam-e, 5 htp, B-12, or Passion Flower will somehow make me feel much, much better.

I’m tired of forgetting to take my 7 vitamins (literally) and then feeling guilty for not feeling well, mistakenly thinking if I had taken them I would actually feel good.

I’m tired of acting like everything’s okay when it’s simply not.

I’m tired of going to the doctor every so many months like someone who’s … not my age.

I’m tired of leaving things to my husband to get done because I’m too [insert tired, weak, shaky, sensory-overloaded, depressed, in tears, or as I generally feel is the cause, lazy] to do it.

I’m tired of the current state of my wreck of an “office/jewelry studio” that I don’t seem to have the physical/mental capacity to tackle anymore.

I’m tired of chest pains that really have nothing to do with my chest at all but are just the annoying locale fibro has chosen for the time being.

I’m tired of people mistakenly thinking I can just do something and get better and be back to “the old me.”

I’m tired of trying to explain my problems, shortcomings, allergies, food needs to people, inconveniencing them with things that are much more than an inconvenience to me.

I’m tired of looking my husband in the face and thinking, Yep, I’m really not here right now.

I’m tired of hitting the same wall every night, when I sit down and wonder at the fact that this. is. my. life. for the rest of my life on earth.

I’m tired of it all.

And I’m tired of being tired of it all.

That is what fibromyalgia looks like.

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A Hope, a Longing, and a Comfort: Three Fibro Anthems, Part II

This second song has become basically my life’s anthem anymore. Dying to do what I can’t and to be how I can’t be. The song is “Wild Horses” sung by Natasha Bedingfield and written by her, Andrew Marcus Frampton, and Wayne Wilkins (not to be confused with the other song by the same name about not letting them drag you away).

Again, somehow this is comforting from a fibro-sufferer’s perspective. And to someone without fibromyalgia, it gives them a brief glimpse into our life. I won’t copy all the lyrics that apply here, as I’d be copying almost the whole song; on so many levels, this song sums up the cries of my life (quoting myself, not the song):

How did I get here?

Why is this happening?

Why can’t I just do what I want, clean the house, fall asleep when I need to, go visit my best friend, run buy groceries, go out with my husband?

I see how I want to be, but I’m stuck in this prison of a body.

Why can’t I just be free??

I’ve mentioned before that I experienced fibromyalgia symptoms many years before my diagnosis. So on retrospect, I don’t see myself as ever really having been “normal.” But at least I thought I was. And as best I could tell, I was normal. Just an introverted, melancholy personality. Who had a few unexplainable quirks in the pain department. But besides all that, healthy. And compared to now, I definitely was. I used to be able to take hours-long shopping trips, buy groceries when I needed to, go to bed at night without crying more often than not, and experience activity-altering pain only about once a month in the female realm. I was free.

Now I am locked up inside my worst enemy, one that basically controls my muscles, my skin, my intestines, my thinking, and my emotions, just to name a few.

It’s very easy to look at others who are healthy and living like they’ve not a care in the world and be … saddened. Among other feelings. But then, since a lot of them have no idea what I’m living with, chances are a lot of them have their own personal struggles in any number of forms. So longing to be free like it appears others are, while easy, would be very hypocritical of me.

So I’ll settle for the symbolic realm, as my creativity is comfortable there anyway, and let Natasha put into words what I am not and what I wish I could be.

~~~~~

In case you missed Part I of my Three Fibro Anthems, go here.

A Pile of Dirty Dishes: My Life Personified

A pile of dirty dishes. That’s all it is.

It’s not enough that the once wreck of a family room is now somehow in order, cleared of almost all unnecessary additions, the floor vacuumed. It doesn’t matter that the kitchen, hallway, and bathroom floors find themselves the cleanest they’ve been in weeks. And it doesn’t really help that all clean laundry is finally put away.

None of those accomplishments make the pile of dirty dishes any smaller or any less in need of being cleaned.

The former accomplishments are definitely that—accomplishments. Leaving my legs sore in places I had completely forgotten had muscles that could be made sore. They are tasks that had weighed on my mind for days, likely weeks, and that were spurred on to desperate completion by an unexpected impending arrival of company. It had to be done.

Now, the company gone, the house has not had time to become a wreck all over again. But as eating never seems to end, neither do the dirty dishes.

I never liked doing dishes. And I gather few people do.

But being a wife put a new perspective on that task, and I find that as much as I dislike it, I am the one who’s supposed to do them, and also the one who’s here all the time, so they must be done, of course. So when I do them, the view of a clean kitchen brings quite a pleasant feeling inside, knowing I, the wife, have done our dishes.

However, it is a known fact that dishes never really cease being dirty. Literally as soon as the last one is put away, a dirty cup appears in the sink, beginning the next mound to be tackled … later.

So, dirty dishes? A pile of them? That’s nothing new. And neither is the eventual though delayed tackled-ness of them. So where lies the problem?

Returning to the beginning: the clean family room, cleaner floors, and put-away clothes? And what they left me with? Or rather, what they took from me? There’s none of that left to conquer those dishes. So I do not stand at the sink, winning the battle one plate, one fork at a time. I rather sit here, slouched in a chair, tears running down my face, looking across the room at the enemy.

And I cry, not because the dishes are dirty. Not because they will remain dirty for who knows how much longer. And not even because I don’t want to do them.

But because I cannot do them.

Further, that it is actually not in my best interest to do them. And not only that, but because I see the piles of dishes dotting my horizon for the length of the rest of my life on earth and know that every single one of them will look just like this one. The number of personnel will change. The levels of dirtiness thereof will wax and wane. But I will not change. Every pile of dishes will look like this one: My struggle personified.

Life calls. Duty calls. Housewifeliness calls. And time after time I must tell it to wait. Because I can either answer as my mind wants to, as I feel a wife ought to, if I have enough left in me to do so, and therefore spend the next day or week in bed, completely unable to do any of the former; or I can put things on hold, say no to two-thirds of all I need or want to do, feel like a complete and utter useless bum, and let the dishes sit there. And catch a glimpse of the rest of my life, sentenced to playing a losing game.

How many people can say they have sat and cried like their heart was half-broken looking at a pile of dirty dishes? Almost laughable, the thought. Almost. Just not in my tired mind.