Mania, mania

Won't you lovelies join me for a swim in a sunny sea of serotonin? 

I have no idea if this is a common experience for fibromyalgia patients, but wow, I have been obnoxiously upbeat and energetic since my diagnosis.  I'm currently also being treated for major depression (possible bipolar) and generalized anxiety disorder.  I'm agoraphobic.  I get frequent migraines.  All of these conditions have created the perfect storm of unpleasantness in my life for the past 5-6 years, slowly but surely, culminating in the utter paralysis of the last year.

In 2007, my husband and I were liberated from food service by a sizable insurance settlement.  In the last few months at my job as a manager/cook at a delivery restaurant, I'd noticed my back, shoulders, elbows, and wrists hurting more than ever.  I chalked it up to repetitive motion injuries from the job, that I hadn't had long enough to recover between shifts of flinging around fry baskets and huge quantities of chicken and the incessant cleaning that goes in to keeping such an establishment from becoming utterly disgusting.  But whatever, right?  I was out of there.

That winter, I started having frequent bouts of bursitis in my hip, so severe they'd wake me up from a dead sleep.  And a few months later, when we were moving from our shitty rental house to our current Frankenstein house of fabulousness, I'd get nauseous with such frequency that my husband wound up telling me to go to the new house and stay there, to put stuff where it belongs as they bring it, and just...hang out in the place that has the clean toilets and plenty of places to stretch out.  I felt so miserably guilty about that.  I knew I was sick.  I knew something was wrong.  I've never been the type of girl who stands back and lets the men do the heavy lifting, so it wasn't just guilt about failing to help my husband, I felt like I'd failed the very essence of who I am.  I went to the doctor several times, but they couldn't find any reason for my nausea.  I tried everything they threw at me, but nothing helped.  When the nausea reappeared with severe lower abdominal cramping, I was sent for a CT scan, which showed everything in fine working order.  I sucked it up.  I learned to live with it.

That's when the decline started to become painfully apparent.  I almost entirely quit drinking.  Fifty percent of the time, alcohol, even one beer, would cause severe back and stomach cramps, and a headache about 80% of the time.  Shooting for that magical 20% of good party times ceased to be worth it.

Well, in this town, there's nothing to do but go out and drink and/or eat.  Really.  We have a movie theater and a pool hall, and that's about it for entertainment for adults after 9pm.  So I became pretty reclusive, and still am. 

As a lifelong slob, I'd vowed to myself not to let my new house get as dirty, cluttered, or otherwise befouled as my previous residences.  I did really well for awhile.  But that's fallen off, too.  Doing the dishes, cooking dinner, sweeping, vacuuming, all the normal household chores mean severe pain within the space of minutes.  I go through periods when things aren't as bad and I actually have some damn energy, and I give the kitchen a huge once-over and reorganization, become really aware of what's in the fridge and pantry and cook like a wild woman.  These are my favorite times.  My husband, my friends, and I are all huge foodies, and it makes me really happy to be able to feed people well, to see the simple joy that the perfect bowl of chili or fried chicken or coconut rice pudding can bring to the people I love.  I've been cooking since I was old enough to see over the counter by standing on a chair, and it's the only household task I've ever truly loved.  But I couldn't do it anymore.  Sure, I'd cook a big meal or bake a cake when it was a special occasion or someone's birthday, but these efforts always felt herculean and leave me drained for at least a day afterwards.  This, my friends, is when I should have known that something was seriously wrong.

Throughout all of this, every time I went to the doctor, all my vitals were exactly where they needed to be.  I've seen no less than 7 different doctors/PAs in the past three years, and not one of them has said an unkind word about my weight.  All my blood work has come back beautifully.  When I asked one of my doctors to test my blood sugar so my mom would stop harping about YOU'RE FAT.  YOU GET LOTS OF URINARY TRACT INFECTIONS.  YOU HAVE DIABETES., the doctor laughed and said he would have already done so if he thought there was the remotest possibility that I do, but humored me anyway out of pity.  

So, I had this notion that, as the doctor who was trying to figure out why my stomach was stuck on "reject" mode had stated, I was healthy as a horse.  So, I'm not proud of this in the least, but I started blaming my fat for all of my aches and issues.  And I shut up about them.  I took on more than I could handle, and did ok at first, but in no time, I was letting my friends down left and right.  More guilt.  Clearly, I'm too fat to maintain a social life.  As a proud fat activist, I am so ashamed of myself for letting myself buy this bullshit for as long as I did.  But fuckin' ey, I'm going to own my shit, good, bad, or ugly.

Because of the frequent migraines and back aches, I'd been looking for a new doctor.  The practice I'd been going to for two years refused to treat me for migraines any longer unless I booked an appointment with a neurologist and had an MRI.  I'm self/unemployed (more on that some other time).  I don't have money for that shit.  I understand that they wanted to make sure we weren't missing a brain tumor or anything, but they didn't bother trying to understand my side of the situation.  Better to have someone out there in debilitating pain than have to possibly deal with a lawyer, right?  

On my second doctor-finding attempt, I wound up in the right place.  Dr. Wonderful has been practicing medicine for 30 years, both as an MD and in the psychiatric field.  He's the only physician in his practice.  The office doesn't accept or bill insurance, at all, period, so office visits are only $60, and the urinalysis I had to have last visit was $25 (compared to the $130 I've been charged elsewhere).  This amazing man has chosen to operate this practice for the people who can't afford or don't have insurance, people who likely don't have annual check-ups, and are likely to come in with acute symptoms as well as chronic conditions for which they're currently undiagnosed/untreated.  I wound up there on Day 7 of a migraine.  He spent, literally, 45 minutes with my husband and I, discussing my migraines, my general health, everything under the sun.  He proposed that I simply have so many headache triggers that the bastards never leave, and gave me prescriptions for each of my symptoms and scheduled a follow-up appointment for a month later.

In the meantime, I was getting to know my dear friend Wendy, also a fibromyalgia patient.  It impacts so much of her life that I decided I'd be a bad friend if I didn't just google that shit and learn a bit about what she's dealing with.  And that's when the bomb dropped.  I kept reading, page after page, about the symptoms and diagnostic criteria for fibromyalgia.  My pulse was racing.  This new information--all of it--was describing me.  After some discussion with Wendy, I decided to print up a 6-page symptom checklist I'd found, fill it out, and bring it to my follow-up appointment with Dr. Wonderful. 

The morning of the follow-up appointment, I had an appointment with Dr. Curmudgeon, my psychiatrist.  I explained that I had wide-spread pain, as well as frequent headaches and migraines, and asked if I could change antidepressants from Pristiq to Cymbalta, since they're both SNRIs and Cymbalta works wonders for pain in some patients.  Much to my surprise, he immediately agreed and wrote the prescription.  I had to have my annual blood work done immediately after my appointment with Dr. Curmudgeon, and when the nurse was verifying my meds, I had to tell her that as of one week from that day, I'd be on Cymbalta and to maybe put that in my info instead.  She asked why, and I told her about my issues, and she said "Oh honey, that sounds like fibromyalgia.  I have it, too."  

That afternoon, when Dr. Wonderful walked into the exam room and asked how I was doing, I told him that I was pretty sure I'd solved The Mystery of the Never-Ending Headache and handed him my questionnaire.  He read it and said "Yep, I think you're on to something."  He, my husband, and I talked for 30 minutes or so about my symptoms.  He wants to do some blood work at my next visit to test for Epstein-Barr's Syndrome just to be sure, but when we checked out, I saw it there on the diagnosis line on the paperwork, in black and white, Fibromyalgia.

Prior to my appointment, I'd already had my big freak-out about all the things a fibromyalgia diagnosis might mean for me.  My husband offered to drive.  I was completely numb.  It was real.  Oh dear god.  I actually do have fibromyalgia.  I didn't freak out or cry.  I completely surprised myself.  The farther we got from the office, I realized what a positive thing this actually is for me.  The prescriptions in my hand meant that I now had tools to systematically obliterate my symptoms.  Never mind the impending narcotic haze, I thought about the weekend I had planned (going to the Azalea Festival with my girls), and how I knew now that even if I was short on energy, not being in pain would mean that I would have the bodily fortitude to drink an energy drink, then get out there and have fun.  The plans I have for my birthday (8 days left of my 20's, y'all!), the trips I have planned, all the projects I want to work on, just...everything opened up to me in that moment.  

Then I started thinking about all the guilt I've been carrying.  Guilt for preferring sitting at my computer to most everything else because of the comfortable chair that fully supports my back.  Guilt for not doing more with my friends.  Guilt for all the times my husband has needed a back rub and I simply haven't had the strength or energy.  Guilt for flaking on plans because I was sick or in pain.  Guilt for not visiting far-flung friends and family more.  Guilt for letting my house stay far messier than I'd like.  A huge weight lifted.  I hadn't been a bad wife or a bad friend or a bad daughter or a bad sister or a bad aunt, I'd been fucking SICK.  

So, I've taken the long way around to telling you all why I have been one manic motherfucker since my diagnosis.  I feel better.  I feel healthier, ironically enough.  I've spent time with my friends.  I've spent time with my husband.  I've been out in the sunshine.  I've been crafting like a madwoman.  The house is still a wreck, but I'll get to that soon enough, likely tomorrow.  Now that I feel better, I feel hopeful about my future for the first time in a long time.  I've also developed a new gratitude for all the friends I still have, the ones who have stuck by me through the pain and my lack of desire to leave my house and the days that I'm just not worth a damn for anything but a sarcastic remark or two.  There's good-times friends and there's all-the-time friends, and I feel like my life is truly enriched by being surrounded by only all-the-time friends.  I have so much more gratitude for everything in my life right now.  Aside from having to keep my spending habits in check (one of the things I have major issues with when I'm manic), I haven't felt this good in years, physically or mentally.  Don't get me wrong, I'm not leaving therapy any time soon, but I feel like I'm on my way to genuinely healing the things that are wrong with me that can be healed.

And it feels fucking fantastic.

On a completely unrelated note, I went to the gas station to buy cigarettes tonight, and the cashier carded me.  When he handed my license back, he took a long look at me and said "I never would have guessed '81."  I thanked him kindly for making an old lady smile.  <3