How I Write With Fibromyalgia

Fibromyalgia's tough.

While there are those who suffer the occasional flareup and then continue with their lives, relatively unscathed, there are others, like me, who suffer an intense 'baseline' of pain which never recedes. I've had a headache for four years, my left back has been in a Charlie horse-type spasm since shortly after Declan was born, and my left leg has been numb/tingly for two years. That's my every day. Oh, and I'm not so bright anymore. Even when I can think of the right thing to say, by the time it makes it's way to my mouth, it just doesn't sound like I intended it to. Brain fog. It makes me dumb, or at least sound it.

As such, my flareups are devastating. Like, can't get out of bed/off the couch. Need help walking.  Can't stop crying because I just feel like I'm gonna die. And my back...oh, Lordy, my back.
Have you ever had a toothache? One of the ones deep in the nerve, that needs a root canal? You know, when you fantasize about getting some pliers and wrenching the damn thing out of your head?
That's how I feel about that spazzed-out muscle group in my back. Like I just want it out, consequences be damned.

It's a desperate, helpless feeling of defeat, friends.

So, I've learned to plan each day so flareups are few and far between. I have a couple hours in the morning during which I can accomplish some things - throw a load of laundry in, make myself a tea - and these days, write. Then I eat lunch, and then I sleep for 3.5 hours. Every day. Just to survive until bedtime.

And those couple of 'productive' hours in the morning are not without their challenges. Looking at the screen always hurts my head, so I spend much of my writing time gazing blankly out the window. My brain talks to my fingers and the words manifest themselves, largely unsupervised by any conventional method (such as looking at the screen!). And thus, for me, writing is the easy part. And editing HURTS. I'm often surprised by the errors I've unknowingly made - forgotten paragraph separation, extra spaces (or not enough) - ugh. Editing takes far more time and energy for me.

And I don't just sit and write until I'm completely spent; I have to get up and walk around a bit every 20 minutes or so. I stretch, already stiff from sitting still. My shoulders and wrists ache from their workout. It's ridiculous.

In fact, when I started writing again the first few times after being diagnosed, I very nearly gave up right away. It was depressing. The effort it took. The pain it caused. So different from the old me. Do you know that I used to be called on at work to write for anyone and everyone that needed it? And I LOVED IT. Now, even having complete freedom to write whatever I want, I'm limited by my body. .

But I persevered, trying different things to make it work.

And, dear readers, it's been worth it.

The cost of devoting my good hours to writing pales in comparison to what it's done for me.
I'm like a hermit now - sticking close to home just in case that nauseating pain rears it's ugly head. Even outings to the mall or the drug store are timed and limited, unless Chad is with me; not having to drive and be alert helps a lot.

But now, here, reclining in my bed, I can escape into any world I decide to create. I can hop along railroad ties with Margot, or take long walks to get ice cream with Peyton. I can cry with Rose over her tragic loss, and laugh with Maggie and Max as they goof around. I can travel. I can paint. And the coolest part: at the end of it, I have a tangible product that I can share with others, and they can go on those adventures, too.

It's saved me. Writing has saved me, y'all.

And I'm so, so grateful.