*Disclaimer: This is not a Peppy Patty post. This is from my journal and it's not going to lift you up.I'm not wanting advice or comfort or someone's super inspiring story. I'm sharing for those of you are also battling sickness and for those who want to know what I feel.*
Facts:
I AM EXHAUSTED.
I am tired of being sick.
I cannot handle this anymore.
All of my joy is being sapped.
Seriously, the knowledge of many more days like this is too, too much. I am not happy. I am so angry and easily moody. ALL relationships take too much effort. I am so drained of life. I wasn’t this way before Fibro, but after all this time, I have hit a limit. I cannot handle this.
God, are you listening?
I am so miserable. I can’t stand just sitting here waiting for the next, brief version of a good day. I am losing hope. Losing perspective. I do not want to live like this. ANY request from anyone floods me with rage.
I can barely function. I have to wake up every single day, endure a shower, wash clothes, lift a fork to feed myself, try to distract with books or blogs or television, and make it through… only to go to bed at the end of it all, to realize the next day is just going to be a varying shade of today.
This is no way to live. Not at all.
I don’t feel like being a poster child for Fibro wellness today. I’m not some motivational speaker. I have clung to optimism for the last 4 years. When I was kind of sick, then when I was really sick… bleeding, aching, infection after infection sick… and later when I was sick but finally diagnosed… I tried to stay hopeful when I moved cross country, when I had to leave Mylie… I have stayed hopeful through all of the mindless paperwork, all of the rude doctors, all of the crap put in my body.
And now…
Now I just feel hopeless. There were goals, I suppose. Goal one was getting diagnosed. Goal two was finding a doctor to treat me. Goal three was starting treatment. Goal 4 was recovering after the move. Goal 5 was facing my diseases and letting go of my old life. That season was rough, bleak, and absolutely dark. Goal six was finding a doctor here. Goal seven was learning to “manage” my particular sicknesses and work with it. I started another new medication and began to exercise. Life started to have more color during the 5th and 7th goals. I went out more. I laughed more. I found my center again. I felt like life was full of promise. And then I crashed around Christmas. So much stress, but wrapped up as Christmas shopping, a spa day (meant to be relaxing), Christmas and New Years in itself… and everything else that was an activity or a hindrance to my fragile “managed” state.
I muse that perhaps it was getting slightly “managed,” and realizing that was about a good as it was going to get,then being knocked on my behind soon after that, led to realizing that being “managed” means nothing.
ABSOLUTELY NOTHING.
To get “managed” meant a few good months, but still having to endure pain and fatigue every damn day. It meant that “managed” was just a way to pass the time, because this disease is vicious and rude and will rob us whenever it feels like it. Rape of the mind, body, and soul. We do what we can- diet, exercise, meds, rest… but it doesn’t matter really. It’s just passing the time. There is NOTHING that gives us our health back. No amount of exercise allows us to be normal again. Hours of sleep does not replenish. The body is literally under assault all day long.
Chew on that.
Really chew on that.
This is torture.
It’s excruciating.
“Like being nailed to a cross is excruciating?”
Wow.
I hear you, Jesus.
And no, not nearly as excruciating as dying on that cross.
Not even close.
But Jesus?
I have no more grace or dignity with these viruses and conditions sucking the life out of my bones. I have nothing to give and I’m losing the drive to stick it out. I’m angry. I feel the losses every day. Fibromyalgia mocks me. I don’t recognize myself in my behaviors anymore. I’m sullen and sarcastic, morose and private, believing again that I do not deserve to be loved. I’ve said too many unkind things, exhibited too many harsh tantrums. I’ve become a shadow. I covet, I yearn, I grieve. I even hate sometimes. How can I be lovable? How can YOU, God, love me? I cannot forgive myself. I cannot let your blood wash away my harshness. I don’t deserve it.
“Grace is free.”
I want to have this illuminating moment where I just accept that grace anew… not the grace of 2001, or 2005, or 2009, or even the grace of yesterday… but grace for now. Grace for this moment. It seems so unattainable.
All I feel is the tight cord of misery as my bones ache and the exhaustion sucks me absolutely dry.
How?
