When the simple act of your sixty pound dog walking across the vinyl kitchen flooring on the other side of the room from you causes your body to send excruciating tremors of pain throughout every inch of its being until you nearly vomit from the waves each footstep brings, you know it is time to do something about your fucking incompetent rheumatologist who tells you that you have \”in quotes, fibromyalgia.\”
I have come to the conclusion that I am not going out tonight. How have I reached this conclusion? I am so fucked I had to leave my goddamn car at my grandparent\’s house and hitch a ride home with my ma. The unstoppable Agent Relaxed has finally reached a dead end, ladies and gentlemen. Momentarily, I assure you. As soon as I get just one decent night\’s sleep I will be back on the ball, at least that is my hope.
I do not know if being diagnosed was a blessing or a curse. Before May, when I felt lousy I would simply stay at home and rest, damn what people thought. Now if I stay at home because I am feeling poorly, I am \”giving in to my disease\” and \”being a coward\”, \”letting it control my life\” — things I have been told I am not allowed to do, by my friends, by my doctors, by my family. So I ignore it, I push on, I go out when I feel like shit and then I end up feeling like the shit that even shit does not want to shit. Diarrhetic, liquefied, smells like something crawled up your goddamn ass three months ago and laid some eggs that are only now hatching, eating regurgitated vomit and then defecating it out, shit. Yeah, that is exactly what I feel like.
This is still a good weekend, but somebody, please, please, please give me drugs that will not make me psychotic. (i.e., not pot.)