Observing You

Dear Fibro,

Today, I feel like you are hovering all around me, like you’ve fashioned yourself into a suit of scouring pads, hugging me tightly at every turn. I can’t remove you while you scrub into me. Abrasive to my peace of mind. Bruising me with invisible bruises. 

I feel the weight of you with each move I try to make. Whether I sit, stand or lie down, each position brings its own individual challenges — stabs, jabs, or prickles of pain. Shooting pain or radiating pain. A never-ending menu of surprises.

I stare at you in the mirror sometimes, and it’s like staring at myself but more elusive.

This week, I noticed that I have worn a hole in my sheet with restless legs in pain at night.

I have no questions for you now — just making these observations so that I can remember these days.



Asking for Sunshine

Dear Fibro,

I don’t understand why you always feel the need to bring fog with you when you come to visit . . . it’s a bright sunny day outdoors, but in my mind, everything is suspended as though on damp, low-hanging clouds, moving slowly through humid mental air, floating, never quite landing. Focus is a challenge, and there’s so much for me to focus on between work, house projects, relationships . . . and of course, I can’t get by with just standard self-care because you want more time, more attention–demand added rituals and more complex steps. Sometimes you’re so needy. Any chance that you could just part the fog temporarily and allow the sunshine to stream in for the afternoon? That would really help.