I finally got my mental health back to some kind of new “normal.”
So why shouldn’t I be surprised that the fibromyalgia is starting to get worse?
I’m weaker. More easily exhausted. In pain constantly, a level 6 or above. I’m having digestive problems and finding it difficult to urinate. I feel like charcoal briquettes most of the time, hot and ready to cook a steak on.
My husband asked a buddy of his about getting me some of that plant, the one a few people still think is of the devil. (I got it last night and it’s an actual strain called Damnesia which is used medically for pain and the gang.)
Tom gets it. He see’s how much better I feel after I smoke it in one of my well-seasoned pipes. If there’s anyone in this world who knows how fucking miserable I am, it’s my husband. Chronic illness is difficult on a marriage (or LTR, I have to include everyone.)
He’s my caregiver. He didn’t sign up for this. But although he’s had some issues with my mental illnesses, he’s always been great about the fibro.
He cooks, he does laundry, he picks up dog shit, he brings me coffee, he texts me from work during the day to check on me. I’ve started to take these things for granted and that really needs to stop.
He kisses me goodbye, he kisses me hello. He hugs me when I need one. He hugs me when I don’t need one. He hates to see me hurting, I often catch tears of empathy in his eyes.
I feel really sick, you guys. I don’t let on because I use humor like garlic salt.
But I really need to rest.
My photo from yesterday was how I feel, physically.
I’m in a continuous loop of grieving.
I’m not suicidal and I am stronger mentally for the first time in years.
I’ll be alright.
If you want to reach me while I’m away, email me or follow my Facebook page. I’m not on Twitter or that Slap Chat that the kiddies love so much.
And if you are still able to walk, walk your fucking feet off for me.