Platitudes are nothing like Platypus. Don't be fooled!

"What doesn't kill you..."

"[your version of "God"] doesn't give you more than you can handle..."

"You're such a strong person..."

I really like platypuses. Platypi. That's the best of the platypus- because you get pie too!

I bitch about the pain a lot in this blog. I mean, that's what I started it for- so others out there would know they aren't alone. After searching and searching for medical facts and finding TONS of blogs and not so many articles, I realized that most of those blogs were trying to hide themselves in work clothes. "I have fibro, I'm not a doctor, but I copy/pasted this from WEBMD and I hope it helps..." And there is a place for blogs like that, because I did actually find links to legit medical sites where I was able to gather my information.

But, there were very few "This is happening to me, it might be happening to you, and it sucks. It sucks so hard that you'd think it was getting paid for sucking. Goddamn hooker of a disease" blogs. And very, very few (or not any, actually) that used humor. I'm no comedian, but I like to cushion bullshit with humor. Because this disease is such bullshit. Stupid and annoying and fickle- like that twelve year old with ADHD who didn't get her midday meds and now she's hot-glued flower petals to the cat and keeps screaming: "ART! I MADE ART!" at the windows in the house. And then we have to say: "Caitlin, honey, the cat's name isn't 'Art', it's Mister Fluffykins McCutesyface."  Also, platypuses are awesome.

I bitch a lot about the pain and the aching and the itchy skin and the total exhaustion. A lot. But this is my blog, not yours, so stop trying to rearrange the furniture! I like the sofa where it is, goddammit. But I realized that I never bitched about something that goes along with the pain. Weakness.

I don't mean the weakness that makes you cry and then people pet you on the head and hope you don't wipe your nose on their sleeve while you cling to them and sob. But that's totally what you're doing. I mean physical weakness.

I've compared this aching thing to a post-workout pain, then recanted and said, "Nuh-uh, this shit is totes diff and whatevs." (I'm paraphrasing). But that next-day-I-tried-to-be-Arnold-because-a-girl-was-there pain? It feels somewhat good and you can still function. And while it hurts to lift that Diet Coke can to drink it (why you'd drink Diet Coke is totally your thing, I don't judge), you can still do it. You can lift that can, pick up a stack of dinner plates, pull open a door.

So, not only are the muscles burning in agony and feeling like they're being pulled off your bones, you're weak. You're a delicate flower and you can't lift up that Diet Coke can without spilling half of it. And that shit will eat through you clothes faster than the "Aliens" alien's acid blood will tear through your pretty face. Weakness. I can't lift anything much heavier than my camera (and when that gets to heavy for me to lift, I may as well be dead) when I'm in pain. And I don't mean the weakness from: "OW! THIS HURTS! I WILL SET THIS DOWN!" like you get from back pain. There's a special place in hell for back pain. Its really close to the knee pain hell. That's not weakness, that's common motherfucking sense. "It hurts, don't lift that day bed."

This is like muscle failure weakness. I grasp a door handle and my hand is too weak to keep my grip. I pick up that Diet Coke can to throw it as far from me as I can, but it slips through my fingers because I don't have the strength to grip it and now it's ruined my favorite Docs. Some days, my muscles feel so weak that I can't grasp the prescription bottle to dig out the pain meds I need. And it isn't just my hands. There are some days I can barely walk up the stairs. But I do, I pull myself along like a pathetic mountain climber whining about the lack of oxygen before passing out and being left for dead by the sherpa he hired.

"But wait, Lady Platypi," I can hear you say, "How do you know this is related to the fibro pain and not just, you know, you being a punk-ass bitch? I mean, do you even lift, bro?"

"Sit the hell down, Chauncy!" is what I say, because this will be on the test later and the final exam is like, 80% of your grade and I need you to focus, goddammit! Also, your name is Chauncy now. Get used to it.

No, this isn't just me being weaker in the sense that I'm no longer that spring chicken who shows off her gams to the fellas. I know this because on good days, I can pick up a small car and throw it at the owner. "You left your Hot Wheels here, smartass!" and they shout back, "Who are you!? Put my car down!"

On good days, I've pushed a full-size Chevrolet Silverado out of the mud. I've opened doors and thrown Diet Coke cans. I'm like the female Hulk, but without the steroid abuse and CGI effects.

So, while you're sitting there and shouting at your monitor: "I LOVE YOUR MOTHERFUCKING BLOG, BUT WHY AM I SO WEAK MY KITTEN KICKED MY ASS?!", now you know. With the pain comes a weakness. And because this is fibrofuckingmyalgia, it doesn't happen every time. No, that would make too much sense. The weakness comes and goes like the pain and numbness and exhaustion.

And because you stuck it out with me through this, here's something pretty that I did this week. You earned it, my Precious Platypus.