Spoon shortage

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I’m running a major spoon deficit this week. I did my best to pace myself in the lead up to Christy’s shower last week, but I knew the fall out would still be bad. I don’t think I anticipated it being this bad, though. I’ve been fairly useless since Saturday night, with a small rally on Tuesday. Dirty dishes are stacked in the sink. Laundry, both dirty and clean, are piled precariously in their respective baskets. My days have been spent on the couch or in bed, using any energy I have to take myself and ZoĆ« to the bathroom, (she’s back in a pull up today so I don’t have to be as vigilant in getting her to the bathroom) putting together lunch, and trips to the kitchen to get leftover cake gluten-free Brussels sprout surprise.

The fatigue that makes me feel nauseated not only affects my body, but my mind. The previous sentence took a few minutes to write simply because my brain could not pull up the necessary words. Rather than being able to easily pull up the language file like FitzSimmons scrolling through holographic images, I stare into space and push through the gray sludge to the words I need. The negative correlation between my patience and the girls’ whining is on a steep decline. It is so easy to become overwhelmed by the needs and noise my girls insist upon. And then, there’s the depression. In the midst of my darkest moments, the depression lies and pushes my head back under the water before I can gasp for air. It says that maybe my girls would be better off without me as a mother after I have yelled at them for bad behavior and acting their age. It says that the fibro will never get better and I am bound in this way of life forever. It says that the rest of my life will simply be existing within the pain and fatigue and that there isn’t anything better for me to look forward to or for which to hope.

In those times, I’m grateful to have a partner in Mike. I’m thankful for his gentle reminders that I have good days, and that not all my best days are behind me. And there I lay, physically exhausted by the tears and heavy breathing through my mouth. My mind, ravaged by the mental assault, is left with a dense blankness. I relax and hope tomorrow is a good day. I hope to find some of my lost spoons.

Potions and snake oil

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Fibromyalgia and ME/CFS are syndromes that vary in symptoms and experiences. This makes it difficult to treat. There is no magic bullet which will cure everyone. For some, medication and mild exercise is enough. For others, going gluten free makes a dramatic difference in the pain and fatigue they experience. Then there are people for whom no interventions make a bit of difference.

As I scrolled through my Twitter feed this morning, I came across a couple of links which touted success stories with different types of treatment options. I’ve seen vitamin blends which are supposed to fix your fatigue levels. I don’t know that I fully buy into that, but I at least appreciate that it tells you to consult your doctor. (And Vitamin D on its own does boost my energy.) What bothered me about the treatment I saw today, (I stopped after one because I became annoyed) was that it reels you in with the promise of hope and then, BAM! That’ll be a shitload of money for the cure, please. It feels very snake oil salesman-y.

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I understand people need to make a living, but it stinks of bullshit to supposedly have this miracle cure that you used to heal yourself. And you’re willing to share it…for a price. Maybe this isn’t fair of me, but it just rubs me the wrong way.