I was chatting with my amazing friend Alice yesterday, as we usually do on a mostly daily basis. I never dreamed that blogging would gift me with another best friend to add to my short list of the two other people who have qualified as “best friend” material in my 40 some years on this planet.

Let’s face it, not everyone we meet is destined to be a real friend, someone who needs you as much as you need them to get through this thing called life. Someone who really gets you. My mom told me years ago that if you have one good friend, you’re lucky.

I think that I must be extra lucky.

Someday I will find a way to fly to Texas so that I can give her a hug and we will laugh and cry together.

“Did you ever see the movie “Lilo and Stitch?” she asked.

I said yes, of course, since it came out when my daughter was little and it was still cool to go see a kid movie with your mom.

“Broken, but still good,” she quoted from the flick about a little Hawaiian girl who loves Elvis and her adopted alien who she originally thought was a dog.

broken

You see, we are broken in our own unique ways and both of us question the fact that we are still good despite the brokenness.

“We are, you know,” I typed back, trying out my newly positive approach to life.

“Yeah,” she wrote back. It was a lackluster yeah, but it was a yeah nonetheless. I’ll take it. When she’s happy, I’m happy. That’s what true friendship is all about.

I am always honest when I write something and today is no different.

It has taken me 5 long, difficult years to get back to some kind of new “normal.”

I would make out with my Effexor every morning before I swallow it down if it wouldn’t be considered strange and creepy. I haven’t had an antidepressant work this well since I took Prozac at age 23.

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Maybe you could buy me dinner first?

Not being able to do leg lifts or raise my arms still freaks me out. Just last night, I tried so hard with all of my might, but all they do is shake in response to my best efforts. My body is weakened by some unseen force deep inside of me and the doctors have no clue as to why.

But there might be a chance that they will figure it out someday. Or perhaps not. Things could get worse for all I know, but I will deal with that when the time comes.

It takes me a long time to walk somewhere and I need to pop a squat to rest often. I am now the tortoise instead of the hare and that’s okay.

Getting up from a sitting position is always followed by sound effects like “humph.” I totter until I get my footing again and then I toddle off like a penguin.

Being in some level of pain 24/7 is something that I am used to by now. I have ways of dealing with it, although sometimes it literally takes my breath away and I have to bust out a random swear word.

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I know that I’ve used this one before, but it’s my favorite.

Needing to nap out of nowhere is just a part of my life. I cuddle up with my dog Maya and we rest together. I often have dreams that I am still working or flying through the night sky, free as a bird, my fingers brushing the tops of the trees.

Having numerous brain farts (official term is fibro fog) daily is part of my quirky personality. I can’t think of the right words for a common object and I get distracted easily. My brain will turn into mashed potatoes within minutes.

Watching my muscles twitch and spasm is annoying, yet can often be entertaining depending on my mood.

Knowing my medications by shape, color and size is something to be proud of. Knowing when to take what is a learning process that I have almost mastered.

I can’t cook for a living anymore, or even for my own family much of the time. I can’t clean 3 houses a day and still have the energy to go home to clean my own. I have learned to live with the dust-bunnies and have interesting conversations with them.

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I have never taken a shower.

They lead a dirty life, by the way.

I bounce around the 5 stages of grief like a ping pong ball.

I feel sad sometimes. I get angry, although this is happening less and less. My depression comes and goes like clouds in the sky, changing from white and puffy to dark and ominous in a quick fashion. My anxiety gets so bad that I still have days when all I want to do is hide in my messy closet that I don’t have the stamina to tidy up.

But the majority of the time, I am ready to wake up and face my day, slowly rebuilding and reinventing myself.

Hey, Alice, sweetie?

We might be broken, but damn it, we are still good.

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