Knocked Over By A Feather


How to mix a fibromyalgia cocktail

My post yesterday was pretty heavy. I’ve been dealing with a wicked awful fibro flare this past week, plus some personal issues. I’m not in the greatest mood, you could say. I’m not apologizing for it, just explaining why I was so morbid.

Here’s something funny, just for shits and giggles.


I get a little stir crazy being stuck at home. I did finally manage to get to the drugstore yesterday to buy a few things. The big grocery store was not happening, so I end up overpaying for some things out of convenience, like toilet paper.

Because newspaper just doesn’t do the job.

I like to shop by myself without my husband’s help, because I am still independent deep down inside. It really rustles my feathers that I need so much assistance doing normal tasks.

My husband tries really hard to make my life easier. He made me eggs, and toast this morning. I was halfway through eating when all of a sudden I felt like I had to throw up.

“I feel like I poisoned you!” he said after I came out of the bathroom.

I had to reassure him that it wasn’t his fault. Food just hits me wrong sometimes.

My pain has lessened from a level 8 to a tolerable 4. My muscles are not twitching badly, at least not yet. I can toodle around the house without too much discomfort. I am still lethargic, but not as foggy headed. My anxiety is ramped up, though. I am trying not to take an anxiety pill, but I might have to.

I updated my status on Facebook the other day with this little gem:

How to mix a fibromyalgia cocktail:
Take 10mg of vicodin, a naproxen, a flexeril, and 2 klonopin. Swallow with liquid of your choice.

If that doesn’t tell you that I was in a world of hurt, I don’t know what else could.

All I can do is take it a day at a time.

Thanks for reading what I write, even when it’s as dark as Satan’s asshole.

A Candid Conversation About Fibromyalgia

Fibromyalgia, in and of itself, is not a terminal illness.


But it will most certainly shorten your lifespan, and I will explain why.

  • Because of being in pain, and having extreme fatigue, plus a host of other mysterious symptoms that differ from person to person, a sedentary lifestyle will likely occur. And we all know that being exercise resistant is an unhealthy way to live, since Nike says to just do it. But, what if we can’t?
  • The more we sit around resting, the more our bodies become open to a slew of other health conditions, such as heart disease, and diabetes, which will kill you if left unattended.
  • People with fibromyalgia tend to be more prone to other side illnesses, and becoming overweight, with a lessening of muscle mass, and strength.
  • Depression is a highly common co-conspirator with fibromyalgia, which adds to the likelihood of suicidal thoughts, and behaviours. It’s fairly difficult to be happy, and lighthearted when you are in pain, feeling like a shit-kabob most of the time, unless you are a superhero.
  • I personally do not wish to live to a ripe old age. I will be battling this monster of an illness for the rest of my days, unless they find a cure. Another 20-30 years of living my life like this does not appeal to me. Although I am thankfully not suicidal at the moment, it could easily happen again sometime in my future.

So no, having fibromyalgia can’t kill a person by itself. When someone says thank God it’s not terminal, I just shake my head sadly.

There are some days when I wish that it was. 

Memories of Gym Class

Gym class. I fucking hated gym class.

Especially dodge ball, or as I like to call it nowadays, slaughter ball.


That actually did happen to me, twice. The first time, it broke my glasses, and left me with a permanently indented nose.

The second time just pissed me off, and taught me that swearing really does feel pretty damn good.

I sucked at everything sports related. Running, kicking, throwing, sit-ups, dodging, batting, catching, and thrusting my body in ways that should be illegal before you become an adult.

I was always picked last for teams, not like I could really blame the captains. I was a burden, a useless mass that just stood there, hoping not to be forced to partake in whatever activity that was happening that day.

If I did end up having to do something, I messed it up. Then I would receive dirty looks, and muttered complaints about my suckage.

Even the gym teacher was disgusted with me.

I seriously hate my job.

The thought of gym class gave me an anxiety attack. How I wanted to just stay in the classroom, reading a book. Or washing chalkboards.

Or cleaning up the vomit from that first grader who ate too much glue during art class.

But no, it was a law, a rule. All kids must participate in gym class, no matter what their athletic ability was. It was like having my head stuck in a banister, trapped like an animal in a cage.

On second thought…just leave me here.

Couldn’t they have just given me a basketball, put me in a corner somewhere, and let me bounce it by myself? That’s technically exercise, right? Just let me bounce the fucking ball around, man. If I didn’t catch it, nobody would care.

Relay races were an invitation for the boys in my class to tease me about my boobies. They started coming in at around age 9. Look at her, she’s like Dolly Parton!

Dolly Parton boobs!

Boys sure do love boobs when you get older, Mer. 

Thanks, Dolly. I know that now.

My memories of gym class still haunt me to this day.

Tell me, did you love or loathe P.E.?

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