I woke up the other day, and realized that I didn’t much like the fact that I have turned into a wuss.

A little back history is probably in order. When I left my ex, I was determined to never again allow myself to be treated badly, by anyone. I had spent most of my young life being afraid of my own shadow, and so scared to stand up for myself. I let kids tease me, and make fun of me. I tried to ignore it when someone got snotty with me for no other reason besides the fact that they just didn’t like me. I would let them make me cry, even as an adult. I can count on two hands the number of times in the past that I started to cry on the job. I let these people hurt me, and by the time that I was 27, I was just done with it all.

I got tough. My skin was thick for the first time in my life. I was no longer going to be that person anymore, not if I could help it.

Back in 2011, I had my mental breakdown. I know it isn’t my fault, or rather, that there was nothing that I could have done to prevent it from happening. From experience, mental health has a mind all of its own. The force was stronger than my will. My hard ass veneer had shattered into a billion pieces, splintering off in a myriad of fucked up directions. I’m still trying to put them all back together, Humpty Dumpty style.

It’s not easy being an ultra sensitive in this world filled with so many vast personalities. People clash. Some will take any opportunity to take their own misery out on you. They will take your friendly advances, and reject them. I always get a prickly feeling down my body when someone does that to me. I do my best not to take it personally, but I have noticed that I am letting it again.

I don’t like it.

I am also realizing that this lack of spine is trickling down into my arch nemesis, fibromyalgia. I am so damned scared of hurting myself that I have basically wrapped myself in an imaginary bubble-wrap. I don’t go anywhere unless I have to. I don’t do the things that I loved before, like cleaning, and cooking. I rarely push myself to do much, because what if?

What if I have a flare?

What if I sleep for 4 days straight?

What if I can’t form coherent thoughts?

What if the pain this time makes me give up the ship?

On Saturday, my husband decided to do some rearranging of the living room. He wanted more space, especially with our puppy Maya getting so big now. I was then motivated by his energy to clean my kitchen. I washed down the cabinets. I used hot, soapy water. I took my time, taking breaks. When I was done, I helped him with a few little things here and there. We now have a more functional, inviting living space.

I even made dinner, although it wasn’t anything grand.

The flare came last night. It started in my legs, as usual. They ached from deep within. Today, I am very sore, and feel like there is a milky film over everything, something that is called fibro fog. Yet somehow, I am still able to write this. (This would qualify as a thoughts from the bong post.)

We’ll see if it makes any sense.

There are repercussions for every one of my actions now. If I do too much of that, I will feel like hell on toast.

But my kitchen is clean. I didn’t die.

I am still here, breathing.

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