What if …cont’d

What if I told you that I was professionally diagnosed with all my symptoms and it really pisses me off that you people who are having a bad month and wants pity will self diagnose yourself with depression, anxiety disorder and even PTSD?

Do you really think that its great having those illnesses and it makes you look cool? Ask someone who was diagnosed by a doctor to have these illnesses if they feel cool or want pity.

What if I told you it hurt me and insulted me every time you say I’m so depressed when all you are feeling is down over something that happen?.

What if I told you about a day when my depression is at its worst and how my day would go, would you even care?

My day begins when I awake at 4am with a million thoughts consuming my mind and still tired because I didn’t really get any sleep except for a few times my sleeping pill left me to choice but to pass out. So I get up so I won’t wake my husband and toss and turn in the guest room for two or three hours until my husband gets up to go to work.

Then I go back to my bed and watch the news or check out Facebook until 11am. Then I will get up with my PJs on and wash my face and go out into the living room and close all the blinds my husband had opened before he left for work and sit until I am forced by the dropping of my glucose to get something to eat. I will go back to bed several times that day and get a bath where I lay there on really bad days and like I said before think about being dead. I don’t think about killing myself all the time mostly just the thought in my head how death wouldn’t be so bad.

Shortly before my husband gets home I will try to look as nice as anyone can with PJs still on at 4pm, sometimes I will open the blinds again and prepare a meal.

On these days when I am feeling at my worst my husband will usually come home with some take out food and we will eat and then go lay on the bed where I will put my head on his shoulder and he will tell me about his days and I will tell him about mine and then he will tell me all the reasons why he loves me and how I am the most wonderful person alive because I will say “tell me baby”.  He will tell me how sorry he is that I have to live with pain and depression and I will tell him how being with him makes me fight everyday of my life so I can have more good days than bad and give back to him when he’s in need of comfort and encouragement.

What if I told you that was my depression

post traumatic stress disorder, anxiety, depression, blah blah blah ……. What if?

Yes I have been diagnosed with all of the above and yes I suffer with it every day of my life but you don’t really want to hear that do you?

You would rather I didn’t talk about it and the reason I am like what I am because that way you wouldn’t have to think about it or show me any compassion. You would rather I didn’t embarrass everyone by acting like someone who has a mental illness and just say I am in pain so therefore I get down sometimes.

How would it make you feel if I told you the reason I am like I am and have a mental illness is because I was psychically and mentally abused for over thirty years?

What if I told you that P.T.S.D means this; Post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD)  a mental health condition that’s triggered by a terrifying event either experiencing it or witnessing it?

What if I reminded you that I live with chronic pain every day of my life now and just three minutes before the photo below was taken, I lay in the tub and thought about suicide


What if I told you that last week I thought about suicide too  and played out the scenario in my mind of how me being gone would affect certain people?

What if I told you I don’t  want to die and neither do most of the people that have considered or already taken their life?. What if I told you what we want is understanding and extra care in a world that have treated us with such cruelty? We don’t need to hear “oh it happen years ago your safe now so be happy” or to be told that we are just seeking attention. You may not be able to save everyone not even half but.

What if ?

Who made you god? You don’t own me.

I WANT PAIN PILLS!!! Who do you think you are doctor of mine? Who gave you the right to decide how much pain I have to bear? Who gave you the wisdom to even think that if you gave me a higher dose of pain medication I would become addicted and one day roam the streets slutting myself for a fix?.

Every damn miserable day of my life I am suffering in pain and you take your pen and write me my allotment of comfort like you are the blessed drug dealer of medicine.

Tramadol/Ace 37.5/325 mg just enough opioid to render a snail helpless and a high dose of acetaminophen made only to leave your liver and kidneys shriveled and useless. So explain to me again why I can’t have a reasonable  dose of pain medication.

Why do you think it’s okay for me to live everyday in pain and refuse me any sensible plan of relief but to write prescriptions for me to abuse the high dose of acetaminophen and render vital organs of my body to uselessness.

Can you just take away my misery and let me be a painless unhappy drug addict.


I just got through, no, got through sounds like some kind of victory.  I just crawled while crying and begging for death through two of the most painful days I have had since I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia.  I can honestly say I know how it feels when every fiber of your body is hurting, not something I wanted the distinct honor of proclaiming but I know nevertheless.

I have to confess when you are laying in bed and the only thing that is mildly working is your brain and its reasoning and facts are somewhat distorted, you come up with a lot of crazy shit. For example the few minutes I sent myself in a free falling panic when I thought about how having a terminal illness would be easier to deal with because at least there was a foreseeable ending.

Although there are rare days when I  can actually make it through a day without the aid of pain medication or when walking down the hallway to the bathroom doesn’t seem like a hike on the Appalachian Trail, days when I act like I’m a normal overweight fifty nine year old who has slowed down a little with age and extra padding, there are actually hundreds of more days when I cry,  get angry and flip off a maybe existing god that could be so cruel to let the remaining of my days be so painful.

I have so many start over positive days I’ve lost count. I try  not to let the pain get the best of me and send me into a depression but it seems the fight is getting harder everyday. I fight to hang on to my life and on days when I feel maybe thirty percent of a person my age and extra padding level would feel, I work like a son of a bitch to prove to everyone around me and of course to the maybe existing god and myself that I am normal, so fuck you!

Then the next few days I am sent to my bed to cry and hurt while I think about all the things I did wrong on my somewhat good day.

Living with fibromyalgia is not easy, its a struggle everyday even *good days* and when you see me and I can carry on a conversation and shop at a thrift store for an hour or ride in my car as a passenger of course for a couple of hour or go grocery shopping,  please know I am trying my best and before I left home I prepared for my day by taking double doses of pain medication, put on a bra that doesn’t feel like its digging into my body and will have to be surgically removed and nine chances out of ten no panties because I can’t stand the feel of the elastic on my skin and a handicap sticker so I won’t have to walk as far back to the car. ……………..hereiam

What is happening to me

I woke up this morning feeling good. My mind was more clearer than it has been for awhile, I still had my pain but it wasn’t as bad as it had been.

I don’t know what is happening to be since I have been diagnosed with Fibromyalgia it seems I go through period when the pain is so unbearable I cry and beg God to help me I also get into some kind of mind fog where I stumble through the days putting vegetable in the freezer part of my fridge instead of the vegetable drawer and open the cabinet doors above my microwave to put something in there to reheat. I stand at my fridge with the door open for so long sometimes wondering what I wanted the alarm goes off for the door.

I don’t know how to handle this new me. I struggle with spelling and sometime I will type words that is not at all what I was supposing to be typing. I get so frustrated with myself I mumble insults to myself about myself. I guess now I talk to myself.

I miss me, that would go to a movie theater and watch a two hour movie or go for long drives and enjoy every moment. I miss me, that could walk through flea markets for hours. I miss me, that had the most beautiful relationship with my husband. I miss all the things we did, some I can talk about and some you don’t want me to talk about.

Where is that me? I told Mike yesterday after going out and getting groceries and coming back in pain that this was my life now forever and eternity and just to hear myself say those words made ME cry

“I have been hanging here headless for so long that the body has forgotten
why or where or when it happened and the toes walk along in shoes
that do not care”   –Charles Bukowski