Today, in a fit of extreme gratitude, I impulsively kissed my arms like I would a child, and cradled myself. All I could do was speak thanks to this vessel that is burdened everyday, but treks on regardless. Over these last 5 years I have spent more time being angry at my body then I ever have in my life. I have hated it, wished for a different one, felt resentful at the sickness that changed everything. But along the way, I stopped hating it. I started to realize how strong it really is, and how courageous. How it allows me eyes to see, ears to hear, legs to walk and dance and play (albeit with repercussions, but I still have the ability), a voice to speak, arms to open books and hug people, and all of the mysterious inner workings that are not visible to the eye.
I started to really love it.
During the really dark seasons of this journey, when the depression engulfed me and anger was my best friend, I gained a lot of weight and grew to be the heaviest I'd ever been. The secret life I had of binge eating- sometimes 2-3 bags of candy a night, hiding food, and hating myself, was a cycle I could not escape. No one knew about my self-loathing, or if they did, they did not know how deep that self-hatred went. How could they when I didn't even know? Like most things, I did not realize what I had until it was gone, and what I had was a thick wall of sadness and self blame for being ill. I felt like I was a failure, that I would never be functional in any capacity again. I took all of the judgment cast on me from those who refused to accept the new me- the me in transition, as I struggled through the stages of grief on an endless loop- and the judgment I placed on myself, and I just sank. I sank so far down into the depths of endless blue of the mind. I could not, for the life of me, get out.
There was no one moment that brought me clarity and acceptance, and I've learned that acceptance is actually quite fickle. It would be dishonest to say that I never have moments of anger or sadness anymore. My moods are sometimes contingent with how much pain I am in, or how severe the exhaustion is, just like a healthy person. When we are sick with a cold, or tired from a long day at work, sometimes we may be grumpy. A healthy person has moments of feeling blue, even if they are regularly a joyful person. And that is where I am at. All of the moments over the last few years, each tearful prayer, each time I sat in silence before God- stubborn and resentful or heartbroken, each friend who spoke encouragement and life, each book or movie or quote that lifted my soul, each new victory (moving away, rediscovering who I am aside from daughter, friend, sister, aunt, niece, cousin, mentor, nanny, conquering the sugar addiction, losing weight, traveling, riding the bike, juicing, and everything else), each gentle moment... they all strung together and gave me my life back.
It took long enough.
I say that in jest, but there is also a grain of truth in it. The process wasn't pretty. All of the worst parts of myself taunted me on a daily basis. I could access the joy deposited in me by the Holy Spirit, I could find happiness in some incredible moments, I could laugh and smile and talk with people, but I couldn't hold on to the peace. It would slip away and I would fall backwards; down, down, down into the rabbit hole of self loathing and desperation. I said and did things as if I were someone else. I was someone else.
A transitional version of the self is still the self... except it also isn't. How could one be an anchor when everything has been dismantled and they have no idea who they are, what to do, how to be?
That's how sickness is. It comes in and turns everything upside down, and then it sets up camp. It gets comfortable: a vine twisting through the soul, choking off every sweet and wonderful thing. It terrorizes, both physically and mentally. And in that, we must choose: give in or fight and so I fought- sometimes against my own self.
I felt worthless, hopeless, drained, entirely ill, and unnecessary. I begged to not live this way. I strained to hold on to each pleasant moment, desperate for it to carry me through until the next moment. The darkness suffocated and stole until one day it didn't anymore. And it was simply just the moments. The invisible, dot by dot, choosing life, choosing to try, choosing to trust God moments. The waking up everyday, the taking a shower, the talking it out, the praying, the being honest even in the face of accusations, the determination to live anyway.
When I was younger, I prided myself on being strong. Physically and emotionally. I lost a baby and marched on, I broke my ankle and went in to work the next day, I had a precancer scare and kept on, I got tendinitis in my dominant wrist and continued to work anyway. I could make that choice. I was emotionally sound and all of those things were temporary... but Fibromyalgia? This is not temporary. This shook everything loose. There could be no pride, there could be no ignoring it (though I tried for 2 years), there could be no easy fix. No, there had to be the moments.
All of that self hate has become self love.
Fibromyalgia has allowed me to learn real boundaries. It has allowed me to appreciate strength- of the will, the mind, the heart, the soul, the body. It has allowed me to face the monsters in my spirit. It has allowed me a true freedom in learning to love myself- sickness and all. I am still in just as much pain and I am still as exhausted as when this journey began, but my spirit is unfettered and my heart has been unclogged for months now.
I no longer blame myself or judge myself for being sick. Sure, I have moments of discouragement (if you ever meet a Christian who says they never have doubt or pain or weakness- don't trust them. They are lying. Knowing Jesus does not make us immune to emotions, it just means we take those weaknesses and let Him work it out. To claim to never struggle is unbiblical and a great disservice to God) and anxiety is a part of the illness. There are very real physical things that happen of which we have no control over with Fibromyalgia but now that the fog has lifted, I understand the power I have in my choices.
I can choose not to participate. In activities, in stress, in conflict with contrary people, in blaming myself, in speaking death over my life, in judgment because I am not able to do what I used to, in anything and everything. I have that power. I can say no. I can live without guilt. I can have Fibromyalgia and not be defined by it.
For a long time I could not feel very kind when otherwise healthy people told me of their common colds or flu viruses. I resented them, because they were complaining but they would be better in a few days and I wouldn't be. I also felt like I had to explain my illness to everyone. I felt embarrassed and earnestly desired for everyone in my life to understand what I was going through. I felt like I owed everyone an explanation for everything. Such lies, but it was all a part of coming to understand that change is not a bad thing, and being sick is nothing to feel guilty about.
Health is a treasure, and of course I miss it. I think a part of me will always long for it. But sickness has been an unexpected treasure, too. I am much more aware of how much the human body does, All of the simple things: brushing hair, eating food, listening to sounds, how the blood flows, the organs that work together to give us one more step, one more day. I feel so very lucky that my body persists even when my emotions have wanted to let go.
Having Fibromyalgia feels like a death sentence 98% of the time, even with acceptance, even with gratitude. But it's NOT. It is so not.
It is a chance to really live. To love ourselves with the same tenderness with which we love others. To choose to be thankful, even when we don't want to be. To say instead to our battered bodies: "hey, thank you for trying today. I know you hurt so bad, I know that fatigue is blinding your senses, but you can do this, you little trooper." It is a chance to know love, and be love, and give love. It is a chance to be so full of wonder for a vessel that wears and tears, but still chooses the YES of living everyday, anyway.
There is power in acceptance, and even more power in choosing gratitude.
I wish this for you, whoever you are, reading this.
We don't have to explain. We don't have to hate ourselves. We don't have to pretend we aren't sick to make others feel better.
WE MATTER. Our feelings matter. Our process matters. Our hope matters.
We have Fibromyalgia, but it does not define everything about us, even when it feels like it does.
Thank you, sickness, for teaching me how to really love myself.
And thank you, Jesus, for loving me even when I am the worst version of myself I can ever be.
