I can't let this disease win...

Firstly, let me say that the new drug still seems to be working well. I've had a few rough days now and then, but those days were also pretty bad weather days (high humidity, thunderstorms rolling through, and in one case, we were actually being rained on at faire). That said... let's go to the title.

Last Sunday, I was in a full-blown flareup. Every muscle ached, moving caused me great pain, and walking up and down the hill at Bristol was damn near impossible. Damn near. Every weekend this season, my left foot swells up along the bottom (the outside edge down to and including the heel). I've tried all manner of insoles (I have doctor-given orthodics and for some reason, they're causing bruises on the arches of my feet and I've had them for five years now). I've been doing one day with shoe inserts and the second day with only the soft double-foam inserts.

Now, I try to do things during flareups. Nothing serious- I'm not going to mow the lawn or participate in a power-lifting competition- but you know, just stuff. Mostly it's photography stuff- like taking macro shots of flowers and raindrops or even going to faire.  There is no way I will let this disease keep me from a faire day. I get asked by folks now and then why I do it. Why do I cause further pain to myself? (it's usually said in a "you're so strong" capacity, not in a "what the fuck is wrong with you, lady" way).

If I don't get up, if I don't go to faire, if I don't take my photos, or put on garb, or do any one of the things I do during a flareup, then the fibro wins. And I don't want the fibro to win. Fibro sucks sweaty donkey balls and I can't let something that sucks sweaty donkey balls have what little joy I find in life.

And honestly, take a look at these photos and tell me- why do I do what I do? Because I fucking love to do it. I love these people and I love what they do and I want to be a part of their world. And they care, because they're awesome people. Getting through a flareup, surrounded by people who actually care and who also make you forget how stupid this disease is for even a minute- well, goddammit, they're worth it. They make the pain I'm in at the end of the day worth it. I want to be with these people, I want to share their amazing talents with the world, and I want to be needed.

However...

There are plenty of photographers at the faire- official and unofficial. The faire doesn't need me to take these photos and hell, even if I didn't show up, the faire would go on and these moments would still happen. But if I sit here at home, whining and lamenting how much pain I'm in, instead of walking around the faire and capturing moments, well, that might as well be the end of me. I don't want to give up. I may end up in pain, I may cause myself extra pain, and my left foot might look like a flipper for three straight days... but goddammit, I am not letting this stupid disease take one more thing from me. It has taken enough! NOT ANY MORE! (that's a silly joke with my kids- "not any more").

And, with that I say good night and I'll see you at faire. Enjoy the tsunami of ren faire photos.

What happens when you get ALL THE SPOONS!

"Spoons? What the hell are you talking about, crazy lady?" says you, in a really snotty tone. I mean, really, we're one sentence in and you're already sighing and rolling your eyes. Aw, c'mon... there's going to be photos related to this down below. And maybe some illustrations!

You'll love the illustrations! I'm so talented.

Not at illustrating, just in general.

First, let me link you over to The Spoon Theory by Christine Miserandino. Go on, go over there and read it. I'll wait here...

Hey, while they're over there reading the article, I'll just talk about the gist of it- you see, the "spoon theory" uses regular old spoons to demonstrate how people with chronic illnesses get through their days. You start out the day with X-number of spoons. Each task takes a spoon from you. Some days, you have a HUNDRED SPOONS and you never run out! Some days, you have no spoons and those days suck ever-so-hard (and not in the good way, know what I'm sayin'?). Some days, you have four spoons and the very act of getting out of bed takes a spoon. Walking down the stairs takes a spoon. Getting your breakfast takes a spoon. And you're down to one spoon and you haven't even gotten dressed yet. And guess what? Those hundred spoons you had the other day? Yeah, you don't get to keep those. They don't carry over like those rollover minutes on your outdated mobile phone plan.

What's all this got to do with me? Well, I'll tell you...

Welcome back, guys. Did you enjoy that article? I hope so. It made me cry the first time I read it. But then, yesterday, I cried during "Independence Day", so don't listen to me about things that make me cry. (it was the Russell Case scene when he says: "Do me a favor... tell my kids I love 'em..." and BAM! TEARS!).

For the record, crying takes a spoon.

But back to today! TODAY!

I was going to illustrate today's stuff in a series of photos. But, I ran out of spoons before I got to the photo part. I had to go to the store and that took all the spoons I thought I had.

So, let's get started.

Today, I woke up having a pain flareup. I struggled to sit up on the edge of my bed. It took two tries to turn off my alarm. I use my mobile phone as my alarm clock. And the alarm that wakes me up first is a song by Steam Powered Giraffe. Hey, I like to wake up to a smile and SPG makes me smile. Especially that song.

This is a recreation of the event. I wake up early, before the sun is up. And when I got the idea for this blog, it was well into the daytime and I didn't feel like recreating it with a photo. Hence this lovely illustration. We have a reasonable facsimile of my room. A window with a dream catcher, me sitting on the edge with my red mobile phone. A lump in the bed representing the Disabled Guy.




I was rested, which is shocking, but I was in agony. All-over aching pain. I felt like I'd been thrown down a flight of stairs and stepped on. So, when I finally made it down the stairs- getting up and walking to the bathroom- one spoon and Putting on a T-shirt and yoga pants- one spoon (I sleep naked. Yeah, I'm naked in that illustration. How about that, Internet?)... Where was I?

Oh, yes... when I finally got downstairs- which took about ten minutes- I did my morning usual: took my thyroid pill, and 20 minutes later, took my morning muscle relaxer. But today, I had a Vicodin chaser with that. About 45 minutes later, I got up to go take the rest of my stay-alive medicine (some asthma stuff, a couple water pills, a blood pressure pill, and some vitamins the doctor told me to take) and to get my breakfast (I had Raisin Bran). I felt good. I felt really good! The muscle relaxer and Vicodin cocktail on an empty stomach worked!

YES!

I HAVE ALL THE SPOONS!

Normally, on a flareup day, I end up going back to bed after breakfast. Sometimes I sleep, sometimes I don't. Okay, most of the time, I sleep. But today? No way, man. I didn't need to sleep! Instead of stripping down and crawling back under my two fleece blankets, I stayed up. I took a shower.

I HAD ALL THE SPOONS!

*photographic evidence of ALL THE SPOONS*



"Wait a minute," you say, "Is that a whisk?"

Yes, that's a whisk.

"I think I see a ladle." you tell me.

You do.

"And a spork. Is that a spork?"

Yes, it is. You see, when it comes to having ALL THE SPOONS, we don't discriminate. WE HAVE ALL THE SPOONS! AND A WHISK! AND A LADLE AND BY GOD, WE HAVE A SPORK!

So, imagine my disappointment when, during my morning routine of blowdrying my hair and getting dressed, my spoons were being rapidly depleted. I don't know what happened. A task that was supposed to take one spoon was taking two. And I might have dropped one. All I know is that the spoons were gone by the time I had to drag myself to the store.

All the spoons...



And I no longer held them in my hand. No, they were gone. Sure, they look like they're on that table, but they're not. What happened to the spork? I have no idea. Even when I came inside, the spork was gone.

Instead of having ALL THE SPOONS, I was now being crushed by the spoons.

*artist rendering*



By the time I was done dragging myself around, I decided to do the photos. And halfway through the two photos, I said: "To hell with this standing and moving thing, I'm going to draw some stuff in Paint."

And that brings us to now.

Today's spoons were an illusion. They were held up to me and I was toyed with and still managed to get to the store and I made chicken casserole for dinner. Because comfort food, goddammit.

When you think you have ALL THE SPOONS, make sure you do. And if your spoons are rudely taken from you as mine were today- don't mentally obligate yourself into doing tasks that take energy. Stick figures in Paint are just as good- IF NOT BETTER- than photographs.

Also, I made today's chicken casserole with fresh chicken. It really wasn't any extra work than using canned chicken. I suggest you give it a shot if you haven't already.

The worst part of losing today's spoons? I didn't have the energy to bake the cheesecake I was going to bake.

Dammit. DAMN YOU, SPOONS!

Let's talk about Closing Weekend, okay?

Here we are, just over a week after our three-day closing weekend at Bristol. I've still got callouses on the arches of my feet (yes, on the arches!). And I'm still struggling with random bouts of fatigue. (and that fatigue may or may not be related to closing weekend, I mean, it has been over a week now).

But let's talk about closing weekend... Why? Because that's what I put in the title, we have to do it now. People are expecting it.

Saturday morning, I awoke to some mild all-over ache-y-ness. Sort of a pre-flu feeling. You know it well- the muscles are sore and tender to the touch. You feel hot, but when you actually touch your skin, you feel cool. No problem. I just moved a little slower than normal on Saturday. I got home and was exhausted from the day- expected, but I was so exhausted that I fell asleep without issue. If only I could have stayed asleep.

Sunday morning, my body screamed me awake with muscle pain and my right hip grinding in such an un-sexy way. I struggled to stay awake for the hour and fifteen minute drive to Bristol from my house. I dragged myself through Sunday, taking my Vicodin on a schedule. I remember moving slow, walking slow, not rushing around.

Monday morning greeted me with a full-blown flareup. I could barely move. I forced myself to my feet. I winced my way through my shower. My joints felt like they were on fire (even the cyborg joint). At the last minute, I opted to wear my thick-soled hiking boots (my favorite pair of Dr Martens). At first, my body was all: "Yo, bitch, watchoo doin? You expect me to drag all this extra weight on my feet?" But after a few minutes of walking on the Bristol dust and gravel ground, my body was all: "Well, my dearest, you are such a clever little thing..." because my body changes its vernacular when it shouts at me.

I moved slow through most of Monday. I chose my photo vantage points for the joust based on how far I had to walk to get over to the area. (and in one case, someone else stood where I was going to stand before I was able to get up and walk over). By the time the closing time came, I was running on auto-pilot. I barely hugged anyone, I barely said my farewells. So, basically, I owe everyone a hug. (you hear that, everyone? You have to come back now!).

I went through the entire closing weekend in varying degrees of flareup pain. And this past week- which one would think would be a week of recovery- hasn't been much better. The weather has been playing with my body like a cat with a housefly. It pulled my wings off and now its just batting me around on the floor. And this floor really needs to be vacuumed. This week's hot-spot is my lower back and right hip. So every step is a delicious reminder of how much this stupid disease sucks.

As I sit here, in my central-air-conditioned house (and the weather outside is in the 90s for heat), all my muscles are stiff and sore. I took Vicodin to go to the grocery store today, so my lower back isn't quite so bad right now. Just don't ask me to turn my head with any kind of speed. Much like closing day, I'm moving in slow-motion today. And unlike closing day, I'm not having any fun doing it.

And, if you'd like to see my faire photos- I have a lot of them uploaded here on Flickr. And that's about 1/3 the amount I shared on Facebook. And as of this typing, I still have one day's worth to upload on Flickr. (I'll be getting to that on Wednesday- which is tomorrow, and it won't be till the afternoon because I have a product shoot in the morning).

Apparently, I forgot how this disease works...

Saturday at Bristol, I did a lot of painting. A little bit of lifting of painted things, but for the most part, I painted. And Sunday, I painted more. On Sunday morning, though, before I was even dressed, I tripped on my stairs and banged my forearm against a corner on the wall.

Why am I telling you all this?

Because Sunday I could feel things starting to drag me down. By the end of the day, I felt like a giant sloth. Sloooowly dragging my body across the road. Gravity pulling me down to the ground and then poking me with a sharp stick. Monday was downright miserable. Tuesday even worse. I'm in agony. I feel exhausted and everything hurts. I feel like the pain is radiating from my feet and then spreading through my body. By the time it gets to my head, the pain has changed into mind-numbing exhaustion.

Monday, I kept wondering what I had done to myself to cause all this pain. I mean, I painted. That's all I did. I wasn't hauling heavy things around. I wasn't walking the entire length of the faire multiple times. I was sitting on my ass, painting benches and other such wooden things. I tripped and banged my arm, but surely that can't be what's causing all this pain.

Today, I took the dogs out and I was leaning against the railing on the deck. Let's go... I'm tired... I have to take a shower and get my day started (we're going back to Bristol today, to help in the garden again). And I suddenly remembered... This disease does this. How in the hell could I forget that this disease makes its own flareups? I mean, really. REALLY.

I've been officially diagnosed for the last three years. I've dealt with symptoms for at least eight years. And I stupidly allow myself to fall into a false sense of security when I have a slew of good days.

I'm in a full-on flareup and I feel terrible. But,  I'll have a steady flow of Vicodin in my blood today and that's cool.  And, I get to go to Bristol today and I'll see some people I don't get to see except for at Bristol and that's cool.  And if I keep this steady flow of Vicodin in my blood today, there will be a lot more things that I think are cool. And that's cool. (also, don't worry, I'm not driving to Bristol. The Disabled Guy is... and that's cool).

I had to go and open my big mouth...

All that flareup pain I said I'd missed out on the last couple weeks?  Yeah, it came back. Somewhere around one PM today, my body just said: "Fuck this feeling good shit" and the pain set in. I was at the grocery store when I felt it coming on. And I still had to get through the grocery store. One good thing about it, I was hungry when I went to the store (I had cereal for breakfast at 4 AM and a banana for lunch around noon), but as the pain started to settle into my muscles, I sort of lost my appetite and passed up the snack foods I was considering putting in the cart only a few moments before.

On top of the pain, we have the itching again. I say "we" because you're in this with me, right? I mean, all this pain can't be for just one person, can it?

Right now, the majority of the pain is in my arms/hands. I feel like my elbows are trying to separate from my body and the muscles between my elbows and wrists are trying to pull tighter to keep the elbows from leaving. And the itching is mostly in my hands, between the burning aching in my knuckles and stabbing jolts of pain in my hands.

And, of course, the same sprained feeling is in my left foot and ankle. And my left hip. My "hot spots". And there is a general all-over pain right now too, but the intensity of the hands/arms/hot-spots is higher than the all-over stuff.

There's an article or few going around about a breakthrough in how doctors have perceived fibro. I've read three or four versions of it (because people have posted it on my Facebook and I follow a few fibro support pages on FB). I won't bore you with the details, but here's a link if you want to read it. I'm just going to sit back and peel the skin from my arms and hands with a vegetable peeler while I await the new and amazing treatment that will take this imaginary disease away from me. That should totally work, right?

Right now though, I really wish I'd gotten some of that snack food.

The new flare-up from Hell. They can't ALL be from Hell, can they?

I started having this flare-up on Monday. At first, it wasn't an issue, because I figured it was Faire Weekend spill-over. I always hurt the Monday after a faire weekend. But, as the day went on, the pain got worse and worse instead of better. Tuesday wasn't terrible, but I felt awful. Just that all-over achy feeling, sort of like the pre-flu. Wednesday sucked. I took pain meds all day. And on all those days, I had to take a nap in the morning. I had no choice. It was either "go take a nap for an hour" or "fall down on the floor and be smothered in Chis" (say that out loud).

Then we have today. I woke up in agony. And I mean agony. I had pain all over my body. From my toes to my head and just about everything in between. I couldn't even walk. I had to shuffle. The only way to describe that astounding amount of pain is to liken it to a sprained ankle... if that sprained ankle pain is ALL OVER YOUR BODY. It was an intense, constant pain. Every step shot a jolt of pain through my legs. My ankles felt like I had actually sprained them (I haven't, by the way. And they STILL feel like that now, late in the evening).

I couldn't take daytime Vicodin though. I had to run some errands and go to the grocery store. I hate the whole upright, living, doing, clothing thing on flareup days. My skin didn't just itch today, it felt like I was on fire. My skin still feels hot, almost like I have a fever, but its only a fever I can feel. If you were to touch my skin- that is, if I let you close enough to me to try and lay even the gentlest finger on my body- it would feel normal. I'm not sweaty, I'm not actually feverish. And as if that wasn't fun enough, the itching is doing that thing. Those hairy-legged spiders are trying to escape through my pores again.

When I got home from my errands, I just sat down at my desk. Within an hour, my body decided that my super-soft sweater was sandpaper and that my jeans were designed by the same guy who created wool blankets for the US Army. The neuropathy in my feet decided that my shoes were made of bear traps. I went upstairs and crawled into bed, leaving my clothes in a random pile near my dresser. I wasn't tired, I just needed to go starfish and even out the pain or the gravitational pull. I did end up taking a short nap, though. Not on purpose, it just happened.

I'm a few hours into my pain meds and my body finally feels a little better. The agonizing edge has been dialed back a little. Now instead of "agonizing", the pain is closer to "terrible". The itching level is at "insanity" and the fire-skin has cooled to a Girl-Scout level as opposed to "arsonist".

Tomorrow, I have to take it easy. On Saturday, I'm doing a charity photo shoot as the second photographer and since its a charity for a woman's self-confidence, I'm taking part in it. (The Traveling Red Dress- my daughters, four years apart in school, both had red prom dresses and they're going to donate those dresses to the cause. Oh, and they'll be at the photo shoot too). But if I expect to function on Saturday, I have to take it easy tomorrow.

I could do without the sprained-ankle feeling in my ankles. The thing about that pain is that it doesn't hurt if I'm not standing or moving my ankles. Right now, I'm in that proper typing position- sitting up straight, wrists resting on the padded thingy for my keyboard, and I have one foot placed slightly ahead of the other, flat on the floor. My ankles do not hurt. But if I go to flex my ankle or rotate it (one of the moves for reducing swelling in the legs), it screams in agony like I actually sprained it.

There's a comedian (Greg Behrendt, actually) who jokes about hurting oneself while one sleeps. Of course, his version is a lot funnier than mine. What do you expect? He's a comedian. I'm a fat housewife with fibrofuckingmyalgia and an obsession with renaissance faires and photography. (speaking of renaissance faires, we're 44 days from OPEN WIDE THE GATES!).

Part of my errands today was that I had to get my dad's mail (he's out of town again). While there, I weighed myself on his scale (I don't have one, he has a fancy one from the doctor that does everything but point and laugh at you). I haven't lost any weight, pounds-wise, but my clothing feels looser. I don't know why, but I wanted to mention it in case I fall into a sinkhole or something. "Well, Patty didn't stop-up that sinkhole like we expected... has she lost weight?"  No, apparently not.

Today felt worse than any of the other days that I've complained about through this blog. The pain was exacerbated by the fact I couldn't take any pain meds. I went through the grocery store almost on autopilot. There were a few times that I slowed down so much that I had to tell myself to keep moving. "If you fall down here, it will be embarrassing and they'll probably call an ambulance and you can't afford that. Plus, you have dairy in your cart. It'll go bad if you fall down here..."

I rationalize with myself. But I really did just want to stop walking and let gravity have her dirty way with me. She's pulling down on me awfully hard, she must want me closer to the ground. That's the only thing that makes sense.

I have no idea if gravity is a dude or a chick. Either way, Gravity is a bitch.

Here's hoping that I feel good enough to enjoy Saturday. My part of the red dress thing is that I'm wearing a skirt that I've never worn in public. And it shows my legs. I haven't shown my legs in a skirt since before 2004. How do I know that? Because in December of 2004, I started having issues with edema. My legs still swell up. Sometimes quite bad, sometimes not at all. I'm going to wear that red skirt with a red shirt and I'm going to rock it as hard as I can.

Right now, my only issue is footwear. Because of the pain and edema, I can't wear sandals. All I have are different styles of Doc Martens boots.

One good thing happened today. I unintentionally had a "Fro Knows Photo" theme going on with my 365s this week. Monday, I was wearing my favorite "I shoot RAW" T-shirt.  Tuesday, I put on my new "I shoot RAW" hoodie (Mother's Day gift to myself) for the photo. Wednesday, I was wearing my "FroNation" T-shirt (I have seven "I shoot RAW" shirts and the FroNation shirt as well as the new hoodie).  As I started my drag-shuffle to go lay down, I remembered I hadn't done my 365. So, I picked up my camera and grabbed my "I shoot RAW" bracelets (they come with the special deal orders. I gave one away this weekend). And since I was laying all starfished in bed, naked under the fleece blankets, alternately dying of the fire in my skin and shivering from the chill I got when I uncovered, I got artsy with my 365 and managed to stay within my unintentional Fro Knows Photo theme.




So at least there's that... and my pain meds tonight DID take the edge off my pain. Here's hoping I can get through tomorrow and enjoy Saturday.

Who am I kidding? Pain or no pain, I enjoy taking photos. I just really want to wear my Dr Martens Triumphs instead of the sandals.

Each flare-up is like a new adventure!

An adventure!? 

That sounds fun!! 

Can I come along?! 

Wow, you always have the most fun EVER! An adventure! Whew! I wish I was you, crazy lady. 

Today's flareup is a continuation of something that's been going on for about three days now. This is an all-over-muscle-stiffness flareup. I feel as though my muscles are being pulled tight to the point of burning. I can't turn my head to the side very well, which comes in super-handy while driving. Everything hurts. My clothes hurt my skin. My cross-body purse strap hurt my shoulder, my cleavage and my back. . Walking hurt. Pushing the cart (trolley) at the grocery store hurt. Sunglasses on my goddamn face hurt.

Picking up a 16.9 ounce water bottle hurt. Walking up the stairs- which I have to do if I want to go to the loo, yes, I said "loo", deal with it- took so much energy I had to rest at the top before I continued the three whole steps to the bathroom. (THERE! HAPPY NOW, AMERICAN DEVIL!)

I sat on the sofa for less than a half hour and when I tried to get up, it took three tries to beat gravity. Three tries. I should be glad I got up on that third try. After the third attempt, the judges automatically disqualify you from the event.

Wow. That doesn't sound much like an adventure. That sounds pretty miserable. I- I don't think I want to come along. 

I didn't think you would. That's okay. I wouldn't wish this on my worst enemy. And that says a lot, because being a superhero the way I am, I have a few extremely sinister enemies. Archenemies, would be the right word. Supervillains. Don't worry about me, though. I'll be fine as long as they don't have an meteorites from Planet Fibromyalgiaaan. Our speaking language is a lot like English, except we shout it angrily and usually high-pitched. Shrieking. That's how we speak. We shriek. Its just an odd coincidence that your language of "English" sounds the same as ours from the planetary system: "Chronicosius Illnesseans".

What? You did know I wasn't human, right? I mean, no human could put up with this bullshit. Of course I'm a super-powered alien from a different planetary system.

I leave you with a photo.  I was doing my 365 and Gypsy came outside with me. And she decided to be adorable and I decided to take a photo. Enjoy.

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.