I haven’t done anything remotely taxing in days, yet I am still so very tired.

I have come to the conclusion that no matter how easy I take it, I’m still going to feel like that stuff that gets caught in the corners of my mouth.

Yeah, I feel sorry for myself far too often. I am aware of this fault of mine. It comes natural to me, it’s a part of who I am.

I am more a pessimist than I am an optimist.

I feel like I spend the majority of my time trying to find the answer, and a sudden epiphany that will make it all better, a balm, something for my bitterness to adhere to. I wake up each day and pray that there is no pain, and that I can do whatever the hell I want without repercussions.

Every morning I am left disappointed. Then, I pull myself up by the bootstraps and….zzzzz….

Sorry, I’m back.

I’ve tried to stop thinking about the past. I have stopped explaining myself to everyone. I’m still attempting to discontinue the phrase, “but I used to be able to…”

Instead, I think of all of the things that I still can do. The list is shorter, but at least it’s not empty.

I tell myself that I am lucky to have outran it for so long. I kicked fibro’s ass for close to 15 years.

Now, it’s fibro’s turn to kick mine. It wins often.

I remember many moons ago, while I was still working at a nursing home as a dietary aid, I had stopped washing the dishes suddenly.

It had been one of those days. An occasional horrific one, when no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t muster up any energy. My body ached and I just wanted to pick my daughter up from daycare so I could plop her in front of the TV so I could snooze on the couch.

I stuck it out, because that was how I rolled then.

Yes, please.

But the thought that I had another 30+ years of this had entered my mind. And damn it, I had wished myself disabled. In that kitchen, I had hoped that there would be an out someday. I was frightened of it even back then.

Some things are inevitable, aren’t they? It’s just a matter of time, or at least that is how I see it now. For whatever purpose, I have this disease. I can’t work. I am still fairly young, and there is always a chance of a cure or a helpful medication in my lifetime.

Until then, it is my job to take care of myself. It’s a full time gig.