So this one time, I totally abandoned my blog...

...Sorry about that.  Saying things have been hectic is the understatement of the year.  Biggest news:  B and I opened a gaming/comic shop with a couple of our friends!  Friday was our first day open, and it went phenomenally.  And I use that word without irony or hyperbole.  The three or so weeks leading up to our opening were filled with planning, painting, and sheer exhaustion.  I couldn't form sentences well enough for Facebook, let alone write a blog post with paragraphs and whatnot.  I can't believe it's real, y'all.  "Run my own shop" has always been pretty high on the list of things I'd like to do with my life, and it's happening.  Now, I could go on about the pain I've dealt with for the duration of the remodeling of the store, but I really have no desire to bitch and moan.  Yes, I still hurt.  Yes, I blew through my month's worth of pain meds in two and a half weeks.  Yes, my doctor is an incredibly understanding man and wrote my refill early.  But I pulled my weight, did my part, and I'm still around to tell the tale.  I'll take it.

But suffice to say, everyone in the House of Round Cats was completely exhausted today.  We're closed on Monday and Tuesday, so this is our first day off in forever.  Brandell has been playing games on his computer with Caleb literally all day.  Ryan and I have been spending quality time with Gray's Anatomy on Netflix.  However, Ryan did take a moment to punk anyone and everyone with any intention of using the hallway bathroom.

With so many people living here and spending time here, we always have a plethora of empty soda 12-pack boxes.  Often, they're used for wall-building, as was shown in a previous post.  But tonight?  It was time for something different.

Jared went to use the loo, only to find this:

Yep.  The toilet seems to be missing.

Oh, and it's not hollow either:

We voted for Krystal to be the one to undo Ryan's handiwork, since she's the cutest.  Destruction ensues!



So, I'm pretty pleased that this is the extent of the grand excitement of my day.  Aaand, it's time to get back to the living room before my spot on the couch gets cold.  <3

You don't have to go home but you can't stay here

Well, as was made perfectly obvious in my last post, I've indulged myself in a bit of a pity party over the past few days.  Call it reality catching up to me or PMS or whatever the hell you want, it's been rough.  I don't like getting stuck in The Bad Place, but I certainly have no intention of punishing myself for going there and getting it out of my system.  After so many days of pain and exhaustion, it's really pretty normal.

And I try not to take my own bad moods and feelings too seriously.  I've been posting statuses on facebook like "Quick, somebody call the wahhhmbulance, I need a trip to the bawwwwspital." and "Oh my god. If these inconsiderate assbutts don't stop playing the bass in their car so low that it's rattling my BRICK house and making my head hurt worse, I will simply lose my shit and go out there with a spatula and an egg beater and whomp them like their mamas should have."  If anything's going to make the rest of my life bearable, it's retaining my sense of humor.  


I didn't make it to my brother and sis-in-law's this weekend.  My Chronic Fatigue decided to show its ass.  Boo.  I went on an 18-out of-24 hours sleeping jag, and I think today might be the first time I've really woken up since.  I really wanted to see everybody, especially my aunt Linda, but between how shitty I felt mentally AND physically, I would have been a total drag anyway.  

I did get to go see my therapist on Friday, which was definitely a good thing.  It was very cathartic, at least.  I think the most important thing I got out of it was that I need to take my friends and family at face value when they say they aren't angry and that they do understand when I have to flake.  I think I'm just so accustomed to thinking of myself as a slacker and a flake that I can't possibly see how folks wouldn't be mad, or at the very least, hella irritated with me when I can't do the things I want to do or say I'm going to do.  I set up some pretty destructive thought patterns during the years that I kept my pain to myself.  I have to break them or I'll be a miserable old coot well before my time.  He also says I'm not allowed to hole up by myself for extended periods of time until the mental ship rights itself.  Hissss.


There's some definite bright spots, though.  I did go get a massage like I threatened to in Tuesday's post.  I found a really amazing therapist.  I got there and filled out all the paperwork, then told Ari I was on day 8 of a come-and-go migraine.  He did some sort of wizardry with peppermint oil and face/scalp/neck massage, and I was out of pain in the first 5 minutes.  I wish I could say I got to just relax for the other 55 minutes, but he gave me the most thorough neck and shoulder massage I've ever had, some serious deep tissue shit.  It hurt like hell, especially when he'd hit trigger points (which he then attacked vigorously), but HOLY CRAP, that man is magic, and I felt well enough afterwards to go to Jeff's birthday dinner.  Two hours late, but I wouldn't have been able to show up at all had I not gotten some substantial relief.  I stuffed my face on Eggplant Parmesan and Lemon Buttercream cupcakes.  Jenny, Jenny, is there nothing you can't do?  It was a really chill gathering with awesome people.  I hissed a bit at the fact that I couldn't try the sexy-looking sangria, but them's the breaks.  I'd rather have the level of pain control I have now than revert to alcohol as self-medication, that's for damn sure.


Today's agenda?  THE SPRINGS.  And Fatkini Alchemy.  Mix two way-too-small triangle tops, some thread and ribbon, and maybe come out of it with a triangle top that will make sure I retain what dignity I have remaining.  XD  Can't wait.


Before I go put on my wizard's hat, I want to thank everyone for all the kind words and encouragement recently.  I do know that I'm loved and that people think I'm awesome, I just tend to lose sight of that when I get my head stuck up my own ass, because it's awfully dark up there.  I also want to say that we have our first reader submission on Fatkini Riot!  Go check out the hotness!!!

FATKINI.

I've had a really rough, busy few weeks. Sorry about the lack of updates. There's so much that's happened/is still happening. Mostly good things. One really viciously bad thing. But I don't want to talk about it.

So what do I want to talk about?

MY NEW FATKINI.

Yep. I bought a bikini from loveyourpeaches.com. I've been considering it forever and decided to go ahead and take the leap. $90 is a lot to spend on a swimsuit of any sort, but my husband said it was totally fine with him as long as I wore it more than once.

Ha.

I've been living in that thing. So far, it's seen three trips to the springs, one trip to Reed Bingham state park, and a trip to Jenny's pool. After all these years of "hiding my shame" in a one-piece or tankini, I could never, ever go back. First and foremost, a bikini is infinitely more comfortable than any of the other options currently available for plus-size women. Easy access when you have to pee. No carrying heavy layers of wet lycra/spandex around with you when you get out of the water. No standing there, wringing your suit out, looking like you're peeing, before you can walk from one place to another. Cool breezes on the tummy.

I know it's not everyone's cup of tea. Honestly, I don't think I ever would have gone through with it were it not for my fibromyalgia diagnosis. I've finally hit the "anger" stage. I'm not mad at "god", because that's pointless. "Why me" makes no sense to me. Why not me? What makes me so damn special that I'm supposed to be immune from life's slings and arrows? And I'm certainly not mad at my body. It's doing the best it can. I'm just...angry. Angry that I'm going to hurt for the rest of my life, and that it's likely going to get worse. I know that the longer I keep my big ass in motion, the better my chances of retaining my mobility are. I just received my first cane in the mail yesterday, and while it's all pretty and blue and happy-looking, ordering it certainly drove home the point that I've got to start really living and enjoying my two working human legs right now.

I'm sort of...throwing myself at life. Yeah, that's a difficult proposition for an agoraphobic, but it's gradually getting easier to get out and do things. I want to do as much as I can, while I can. And if I never lose my mobility, well, good for me...I've led a full life.

So that brings me back to the bikini. My awesome friend Brandy let me borrow one of hers for a summer when I was 15, but I only wore it when we'd go swimming in my neighbor's pool. I bought one on clearance when I was 18, but only wore it to the beach when I was going with 1-2 good girlfriends. I've never just put on a bikini and strutted my ass down to the nearest large puddle. Age 15? I was a size 16. Age 18? Size 18. At 30, I'm a size 24, and have infinitely more confidence than I did as a teenager. I think I'm more attractive now because of it. Oddly enough, other people seem to feel the same way about it. Every single time I've been to the springs in my bikini (with my pink hair and tattoos and piercings), people have felt the need to talk to me. Complimenting my hair/tats/etc., asking random questions, commiserating about the icy-cold water...and sometimes, I happen to lock eyes with someone and get the biggest grin, which is contagious and leaves me grinning, too. Something about being so purposely visible draws positive attention. I haven't seen or heard any heckling, pointing and laughing, or any negativity directed towards me. Either nobody's hating, or the haters have the good sense to closet themselves. I mean, you all know I'm a kitten in wolves' clothing, but they don't know that. I look like I could do some damage.

I'm on the right.  Age 15.  Thought I was too hideously fat to have anyone but Brandy see me like this.  WTF, Julie.

It feels really amazing to go to my favorite place and swim and paddle around completely unfettered. Madison Blue Springs is a vital part of my therapy, mental and physical. It's beautiful, it's peaceful, and I've always been a water baby. Water is calm and comfort to me. The river is swimming and floating, warm and cold currents, rocks and slime, a constant game of paddling or balancing or finding new and creative ways to anchor myself to a foam pool noodle. And yep, it's actual exercise too. Twice a week of all that has got to be good for me. My skin is golden. The spring itself is bravery in the face of icy water, floating and looking at the perfect circle of trees above my head while the cold water reduces the inflammation in my back. Putting on goggles to stare at the fish and letting my imagination wander through everything that could be down in the cave below.

It really is complete and total freedom to do all these things that I love and that heal my mind and body in ultimate comfort and without an ounce of shame. It's one of the things that's going very, very right in my life right now.

Want your own fatkini? Hit up Janelle at www.loveyourpeaches.com. There's several styles of tops and bottoms available. I chose the bandeau top with the bow in the skulls print with red trim, and the high-waisted boy shorts, also in skull print with a red waistband. Both pieces fit perfectly, and are incredibly well-made. I'm a 42DD, and the top is actually supportive enough to not need an underwire! Janelle provides awesome customer service, too. I highly recommend Love Your Peaches, and when I wear this fatkini out, I'll be back for another.

Tu-tu Tattoosday!

After my earlier post about spoons and learning to evaluate reality before agreeing to every offer of fun times that comes my way, I decided that the spoon tattoo was definitely happening. I got a quick shower, put on a fun outfit, decided makeup was unnecessary, and got the hell out.

So, we got to Diabolik Ink and I discovered that Bob, my usual artist, wasn't working today. However, Erik, who did Jenny's tattoo about a month ago, was available. This sort of caught me off guard. Bob's been there every time I've been in since the first time he tattooed me. I sort of stammered out "Well. Uhh. You're good, right? Duh, what am I thinking, of course you're good, Jenny's tattoos look awesome." GOD ALMIGHTY AT THE FLAVOR OF SHOE LEATHER. He seemed unfazed by my unintentional rudeness, and we talked about what I wanted. He got the initial drawing done, and Brandell and I left to go grab a burger since we'd barely eaten and I'd hate to pass out, and when I got back, I decided to be a mega-dork and email myself with some content for this post. LOL

Currently sitting at the shop waiting for Erik to prep everything. I'm getting a spoon on the inside of my left wrist. Told him why, and the drawing came back with some red liquid in the spoon. Spoon with meds? Fuck yes, even better. So yes, I am tattoo-cheating on Bob today, but this...this just had to happen. I feel like it's important to cement my new reality in my head in a very real, permanent way. It will be a reminder to consider how I actually feel and my current mental and physical state before over committing. That sometimes, it's ok to put my needs first. And I'll always have an extra spoon when I'm running low.

Right about then, Erik bee-lined for the door to smoke a cig, so I followed him out for "Smoke 'em if you've got 'em" time. We went back to his booth, and I saw he'd added a red and orange sun behind the spoon. Oh sweet lord, yes.

See, all I'd told him earlier was that I'd recently been diagnosed with fibromyalgia and wanted a tattoo of a spoon. He didn't know what fibromyalgia is, or about the whole "spoons" concept, or that being diagnosed after three years of misery really is like the dawn of a whole new life for me. As he worked, I explained all of this to him, and we both thought it was definitely...interesting that he'd come up with that without any input from me.

What I'd requested as a simple line drawing just grew and grew in complexity and color and depth. This is by far one of my most beautiful tattoos, hands down. It's number 10 for me, and I hate to say this because it almost always jinxes me (the artist moves to a bigger city), but I think I've found MY artist.

There's just no words for how much I love it. The detail is impeccable. The treatment of transparent and reflective surfaces is unlike anything I've ever seen. Holy balls, Batman, this guy is GOOD.

(Never mind the mirror images, I was screwing with FXCamera on my Droid and wound up getting a better picture than the previous one. LOL)

After a trip to Big Lots in which we purchased everything but what we meant to purchase, we stopped by Captain D's to pick up some dinner. We were both beat.

After we ate, Brandell used the cat as a pillow while I took my meds and changed into my pajamas.

...I gotta say, it was a good day.

<3

Alarm fail.

Well, suffice to say, my ass is NOT in Tallahassee right now.  I set three alarms.  All of them were within two feet of my head.  I also had Jenny call me twice, and did not hear the phone right next to my head, either.  Fail, fail, fail. 

I guess part of my problem is that the post I made last night got me thinking.  I thought about what's mandatory, what's obligatory,  what's optional, and what I really, truly, legitimately want to spend my spoons on. 

Time, effort, and energy are precious commodities to anyone, but doubly so when one runs smack into the reality that it's not a matter of laziness or being antisocial...the mind is willing but the body says FUCK THAT.

For example:  Can I comfortably sit on a bar stool or stand for 4-5 hours?  Hell no.  Can I drink with everyone else?  LOL, no.  Do I enjoy being sober around drunk people?  Do I even have to answer that question?  Do I really think I'll be able to spend quality time with the person I came to see?  Yeahhhh no.  Will I be relaxed and comfortable in a loud, unfamiliar place?  Not at all.  Logical conclusion?  Send regrets and possibly a thoughtful gift.

Today, I'm going to Diabolik Ink to set an appointment to have the Tree of Life I had outlined over a year ago filled in.  It's effing huge.  It goes from the ankle to the knee on the back of my left calf, and is wrapped in a banner that says "I have seen in a forest of myself little books from tall trees", a quote from Release, my favorite Blackalicious song.  I'm going to have the artist add in some wisteria to the branches, too.  And if there's an artist free today, I'm going to have a wee spoon tattooed on my left wrist.  It just seems like the thing to do.

I suppose it's time to break free from my mentality that I'm a shitty friend if I can't make it to all the things I say I will.  I get so excited, so very very excited, when I hear about fun things to do.  I don't consider my limitations.  I don't think about the realities that said situation will entail.  I need to learn to say "That sounds like fun.  Let me get back to you on that." and stop agreeing because the annoying-ass idealist who lives in my brain forgets my current reality.

The Rise and Fall of One Magnificent Weekend

Now that I've become conscious of what's going on with my body, I'm learning pretty quickly that there's two sides to this coin of feeling better.  I decided to have my birthday party a week early this year.  My dear friend TJ came to town this week, and since I'm going to be out of town on my actual birthday, why not rally the troops to hang with TJ and to celebrate me getting hella old?

So, me and 12 of my nearest and dearest got together Saturday night.  Since I can't drink due to my meds and I'm slightly bitter about that, the party was BYOB.  Thankfully, if I take all my meds together, it's like taking a trip without leaving the farm, so I was a good little patient.  My husband grilled hot dogs (and veggie dogs) and Kristin brought potato salad and her AMAZING olive dip--seriously, the stuff is THE BEST EVER and if you eat enough, you smell like a salami the next day the first time you sweat.  God, I love garlic.  Pretty simple spread that required very few spoons to get together.  I even bought my cake, which would have been unheard of previously.  So glad I did though--Publix Bakery makes a damn fine Caramel Pecan Crunch cake.  Leftovers?  There are none. 

I'd had some fancy-pants party outfit planned, but I wound up staying in my t-shirt and cut-off shorts.  I dunno, I guess my priorities are slowly but surely rearranging themselves.  I wanted to be comfortable and have fun with my friends and not have to act ladylike in the least. 

And the guest list--oh good god, some of the finest human beings I know.  Brandell and myself, OF COURSE, and TJ, who lives in Denver and we get to see him maybe once or twice a year, Jenny and Jeff, who brought Rock Band and always make for a lively gathering, Eric, the fantastically hilarious artist who I hadn't seen since training class at the failed experiment which was my employment at Convergys, MY GREGGIE PIE, who's been my BFF since age 12, drove up from Jacksonville.  I spent a good portion of my night attached at the hip to Greggie, including making Two-Headed Snuggie Monster while watching Gorillaz: Demon Days Live at the end of the night.  And of course, Jared and Steve and Scott and Samantha and Kristin and all those fantastic people who make my world go 'round.  Try to show me a finer group of human beings and I'll call you a goddamn liar.  I'm so grateful to have all of these people in my life, and to have them all show up to celebrate with the old gimp who's politicking on the alcohol?  I feel loved.  <3

So, we stuffed our faces and played some Rock Band, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't indulge in a bit of herbal refreshment.  Hey, if this were California, I'd be prescribed it by my doctor to help mitigate my pain, so why the hell not, especially on a night when pain is the last thing I need.  And god, that was good times too.  There's something magical about the campfire circle, how it can take a group of people who don't know each other and turn them into friends by the time the joint's out.  Especially those moments when everyone is quiet and you look at the faces of those around you and think of how lucky you are to be surrounded by these people, folks who probably never would have come together were it not for that one common interest.

And since I wasn't drunk at the end of the night, Brandell and I got all the food put away and the house mostly restored to its pre-party state.  I crawled into the bed and was asleep by the time my head hit the pillow.

Yesterday morning, the other side of that coin came down HARD.  The grocery shopping trip/Kohl's run (because TJ needed a party outfit, ain't that sweet), what little party prep there was, plus being all over the place all night, sitting in uncomfortable positions, and generally acting the fool took its toll on me.  My back was screaming.  Muscle cramps and spasms that reached into my lower abdomen and hips.  I spent most of the day trying to find a comfy place to sit.  Couches?  Fail.  Comfy computer chair that ALWAYS helps my back?  Well, I found the exception to that rule.  I think the most comfortable place I wound up was sitting on the edge of my bed, a pillow behind me, leaned up against the wall.  Thus, I spent a good chunk of yesterday after Greggie left in my room crocheting.  Not a bad deal, if you ask me.  Still, the pain was nearly unbearable, even with all of my meds.  And...I just had to deal.  I distracted myself as best I could.  More importantly, I accepted that after a big, busy, active day, this will likely be the fallout. 

So, lesson learned.  Go on, have fun with your friends.  Do the things that you want to do.  But don't overestimate your spoon count.  Schedule relaxation time, and if you can't schedule it, take it anyway.  People will understand or they won't.  It's that simple.  I feel incredibly lucky that I do have so many understanding, supportive people in my life.  Anything that enhances my gratitude for what I do have and the things that are going right can't be entirely bad, now can it?

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