I never know how to answer this question...

"How are you?"

You would think that would be easy to answer. But, I have to go through a quick list in my head before I bark out my reply.

Does this person know me?

Does this person know me well enough to know I have fibro?

Does this person even  care that I have fibro?

If this person knows I have fibro, are they asking me how I am politely or are they concerned about my fibro?

The other day, I had to go with the Disabled Guy to Home Depot because he was picking out paint. I didn't want to go, but I also didn't want seventeen phone calls in a row of him asking me various paint colors that all had ridiculous names and didn't look anything like their names would indicate. And we were a few miles from home when I realized I didn't take any Vicodin before we left the house.

Does he care? Not really. (he doesn't even ask me how I'm doing or feeling).

So, let's talk about my pain...

I am in pain every single day. Every day. No matter what. And I would rank that everyday pain at around a three or a four. I can tolerate it. I don't always need to take something in the daytime (other than my one single muscle relaxer in the morning- which is prescribed for me in that dose- one 10mg tablet in the AM, two 10mg tablets at night).

Now, this isn't going to be as easy as "the pain is [this number] on the pain scale" because even a good day can turn bad even if my pain levels don't increase. I might swell up. My skin might start to itch. I might have a hot-spot flareup. The fatigue might set in and drag me to the floor.

When I refer to "having a flareup", I actually mean that my pain is so bad that I must take something in the daytime. Pain. Extreme pain. Pain so bad that air brushing by my skin hurts. If something touches me, it sends electrical jolts of pain in a shock wave from the part of my body that got touched.

When I refer to "my skin itching", I actually mean that I feel like my tendons and muscles are trying to escape through my pores. The itching is under the skin, as if my muscles are on fire under the surface. Scratching doesn't help- it actually hurts. Sometimes rubbing the skin with the flat of my hand helps, but who can do that ALL OVER THEIR BODY? Not me.

Some days, the only solution is nudity and two fleece blankets. I'm not telling you anything you haven't read before. But I just wanted to discuss my pain... Mostly because I've had more flareups this year than I have since they started treating me for fibro.

I suppose the good news is, that despite having pain issues at the faire, I haven't had a meltdown like I did last year.  We've got two weekends left in this season. It has gone by way too fast again. Except for Fridays, which crawl by at a snail's pace.

But, to answer the question: "How are you?"... well, that depends on a few things. But let me tell you this- no matter what I answer (which is almost always: "Fine"), I am in pain. I am in enough pain that normal people would cringe. I am always in pain. Always. If I'm standing up, sitting down, or if you somehow end up in my bedroom and I'm in bed under two fleece blankets and my clothes are not on my body... I am in pain.

Despite that pain, I still take awesome photos. Because I can. Because that's what I do. Because I love to take photos. And I love my subjects (people and animals)... Because when I take photos, I feel like I'm contributing to something. Because when I take photos, I can forget how much my body hurts for those few minutes. But mostly, I just love doing it.

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.

I'm "lucky"... if you can call anything "lucky"

I'm lucky in that I don't have depression with my fibro. Turns out that depression and fibro go together like... well, like two things that go together well.

But I'm lucky. I don't have a problem with depression in the actual sense. I'll have a time when I don't feel all that great. Maybe even just have a bad day, but I almost always wake up the next morning feeling fine. And if you know me like I pretend you do, then you know I can also get through almost anything with the use of humor.

Those days, though. They suck. I can't imagine how people live like this on a daily basis. I wake up every morning with the outlook that it'll be a good day and usually it is good. You know how I go a couple weeks without posting a blog or whatever? That's because nothing is happening. At least, nothing worth noting. My pain has been fluctuating but not wildly like it was these last few months. I did have a moment of clarity and I can't remember if I mentioned it or not and frankly I'm too tired and in a crappy mood and don't feel like looking it up to see if I did  mention it or not.

Someone asked me on Facebook, during one of those bad pain days, how it is that I can go all day at the renaissance faire. All day walking/standing/talking/being around people. It isn't a secret. I'm chewing down pain meds like I'm Doctor House and I'm in the thirty-seventh minute of an episode (you know, shortly before he gets his epiphany that leads to saving the patient). On a typical ren faire day, I'll take three Vicodin and one muscle relaxer between ten AM and noon. Then at 530 or 6 PM, I take two or three more Vicodin. I keep a fairly steady level of pain meds in my blood at the ren faire. Or at least I try to anyway.

Well, today's pain isn't all that special. Just the usual kind of pain. I was sitting in the living room for a while today (catching up on DVR shows from last week) and every time a dog stepped on me, it was like a fiery railroad spike had been jammed into my muscle. That's one thing about small dogs I'm not thrilled with- how pointy their goddamn feet are.

No, today's problem is mental. I feel absolutely useless. I contribute nothing to this household. I don't make any money. My "photography business" isn't a business so much as it's just me taking photos. And that isn't really so much of an issue, because while I'm not making money, things are still happening in that area and it could lead to making money. You gotta work to get there, it doesn't just fall into your lap.

But it doesn't help this feeling. I don't feel like I'm important to anyone's life. I feel like I've had a mirror held up to me and I see myself as I always see myself... and now other people see it too. I feel like I've been faking everything and now someone has discovered my secret and I'm terrified others see it now too. "Oh, she's not an adult, we can't take her seriously." ... "You're not an artist, we can't take you seriously." ... "You have nothing to offer us, you don't matter."

Deep down, I know that when I wake up in the morning, I'll be fine. Deep down, I know I'm fine. But this feeling right now, it sucks. I almost prefer the physical pain over this crap.  I can't wait till I fall asleep tonight. Right now, I don't even care about the doctor appointment tomorrow. Normally, I'd be complaining my way through the fasting lab. But right now, I just want today to be over so I can get on to tomorrow. Tomorrow, where I know I'll feel better.