Tuesday, July 21, 2015

As I've come late to diagnosis of my fibromyalgia, I am coming to the realization that there's so much bullshit around the diagnosis, medication, and knowledge base of fibromyalgia.  There's a lot of similar traits that I've seen in many people with fibro.  Many of us have survived abuse.  It's a gross generalization to say that every person with fibro is the same, but I've noticed it's a common trait, often.

I'm in several support groups on Facebook.  I even started my own, which has been growing leaps and bounds, in just a few months.  It's been an adventure.  It's difficult sometimes to reckon with people like me, who simultaneously might forget to bring their butts if they weren't attached, due to fibro fog or some of that brain fog that goes with so many auto-immune disorders, people who get ticked off and then forget why they're ticked off, people who are simply ticked, sad or depressed because they're dealing with the results of PTSD-induced auto-immune symptoms, and people capable of deep love, support, kindness and gentleness, too.

I know with my depression and sadness that it's very much a tidal thing, as it ebbs and flows. Sometimes, I get triggered because I read something or there's my weirdness with hairbrushes and sometimes just talking about it, can get me in a funk.  At this point, though, my funks are very short-lived.  I get down.  I get funky with it. I move on.  I meditate.  I count blessings.  I feel very much like an explorer in a oft-visited cave. I spelunk through it on out to fresh air, sky and sunshine. 

When I start thinking about my blessings, that's often all it takes.  I'm breathing.  My children are healthy.  My husband is darling. 

One of the things that comes up for me a lot is when I read Facebook game things like, "If you could change anything in your life, what would it be?"  Sometimes, my mind heads right to that sore spot in my life, when I was so brutally abused. Then, I realize all the people I've helped and spoken to and for, and I know I couldn't have done that without that sore spot, without those wounds.  Learning to tend for wounds of the psyche remind me to be humble and that I am loved deeply.

The mother in me comes forward and cares for me.  She reminds me that I'm OK.  She reminds me that it's over now.  She reminds me to breathe.  She strokes my hair and off I go.

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