(A sort of Letter to the Editor, if you will.)
I’m aching tonight. I’m tempted to beg of you to cut me some slack. Please, just a break? You’ve had hold of my knees for years. Grinding, little pebbles in my knees. Pain while walking with insides made of gravel.
A while later, you grabbed the ankles. Crack. Super to shop in the shoe departments, and find shoes I like. Gotta buy double, though. Why? Because some days I wear a Size 8, and other days, when my ankles are especially painful and swollen, I upgrade to the same shoes except in a Size 9. On especially fun days, one foot requires the 8 and the other the 9. When I look down, I think of circus clowns. The ones with the sad faces. I’ve always hated clowns. They look demented.
Not so long ago, I began hearing noises come from my shoulders. Crunch. Choosing a blouse in the closet and removing it from the hanger, the pain is not only intense in my shoulders, but added to it? The action, the movement, to slide the garment off the hanger shoots burning pain down my arms as if lightning had struck my neck and was sending electric currents through my wrists.
And now you attack my hands. Deform. Was it not enough when Fibro-Fog began snatching words here and there and stealing memories? Now you must also charge a hefty price in order to be able to type and share my thoughts, my stories. What a thing to do to a writer. I awake groaning for help. My husband grabs the Vicks or a prescription gel to apply to my hands. We then get the gloves on my hands and wrap them in a heating pad.
All of that has caused many nights full of tears. All of that has made me sometimes want to hide under blankets all day and cry. I will admit, a few times I’ve almost lost faith, or questioned why this is allowed.
But, we need to clear a few things up, you and I. Let me tell you something. You will not ruin me. You will try, and you will continue to cause me much agony, and I fully believe it will be far, far worse before it is ever better. But you see, I have something you do not. I know where you reside, Ruiner. I know the one you call Master. I know of the darkness and despair. Here is something wonderful that I know. Your black void and even this place is not my home. Earth, this world, it’s not my home. My home is full of light and love. I will feel no pain. I will bask in peace and praise my Savior. I will spend time worshiping, singing, dancing, kneeling – all things you’re robbing me of right now. I’ll get through this, your vile acts against my body and mind, but ultimately, I’ll go on to my true home. My time here is but a blip. I will go on to meet the Creator, and you will remain a slave to something evil and perverse, forever enduring that same pain you inflict upon me.
Go on and give it your best shot!
11.28.18 blog entry ~ Oh What a Difference
Twenty-four hours ago I thought I would get nothing accomplished today and just prayed I would be able to get out of bed this morning. I was dealing with depression, anxiety and paranoia was trying to set up shop in my mind. Today, a totally different person. This version got things done, got above and beyond bonus type stuff done and feels well.
With Bipolar, I always know what goes up must come down and all that jazz. I know 24 hours can make all the difference, and oh, what a difference…problem being that it cuts both ways.
I get done what I can on the good days and take the win.
Take care of yourselves and each other. ✌💛🙏💙
(Photo credit: Google images Health Magazine)
I survived. I thrive. If I stumble, I take two more steps. If I fall from a blow, I get back up. Every time. 💪🖤✌
Tile & Thoughts by @jenm_curry 2018
Mental Health IS Medical Health. Just because mental health, and many chronic illnesses and autoimmune disorders for that matter, cannot be seen, doesn’t mean they don’t exist.
Let’s take care of ourselves and each other. Let’s share our stories with others. Let’s insist on being treated for medical issues that can and *cannot* be seen.