I have not done any writing lately. I have not been cursed with writer’s block, actually the exact opposite: So much to write, but not knowing where to begin.
In recent weeks, my life has been consumed by fibromyalgia or chronic pain. My doctors have not been able to control my pain effectively, as I was taking up to 14 Vicodin Extra Strength on a bad day, and five on a good day. They are now experimenting with other medications that will hopefully help ease my pain.
I have not made any motions towards writing, my body paralyzed by this pain. The pain taunts me every single minute of every single day. I even wake in the middle of the night moaning in pain. With its lasting presence, it consumes most of my thoughts and actions, and most detrimentally leads to the waning of my passions and questioning of my dreams.
I know writing in my lifeline. I maintain that without writing and the support of others, I would have undoubtedly not made it through this ten-month ordeal. Not just the physical devastation of my body, but the emotional toll of this natural disaster.
About two months ago, I emerged from the shock, denial and self-preservation mode only to realize my life is utterly unrecognizable. I knew my body was not the same, I have always maintained a keen awareness of this fact, but what I did not anticipate was the emotional breakdown I would suffer, a domino effect triggered by my illness, causing relationships to fall despite my efforts to carefully align them as my close inner circle.
I have dealt with the utter devastation caused by the loss of several friendships, the fracturing of familial relationships, and an inevitable feeling of isolation. I look around, and none of the people who I thought would be here are actually here. For one reason or another, they are not here. I feel betrayed, abandoned, dismissed. I have been hurting intensely.
The only thing preventing me from harboring hate and ill will is the knowledge that we are all dealing with our own issues. These lost friends are dealing with issues, which have prevented them from being there for me. Though I do not understand and disagree with their actions, I cannot fault them anymore than I can fault myself for my flaws. I know I am living with certain things every day that seem insurmountable, and I have to assume the same for them.
As my 32nd birthday approaches, I am excited, yet in utter disbelief. I look back on my life one year ago, and it was totally different. I think back to my brain surgery, realizing that I have beaten the odds; I joined the 30 percent who actually survived this illness. I look back on my recovery from my stroke, and I am striding beyond all of the expectations of my doctors.
And I look at now. My biggest battle is my pain. Maybe it will go away, but likely I will be living with this painful condition for the rest of my life. It’s a painful prospect, even more painful than my recollections over the past ten months, primarily because of hazy uncertainty.
I cannot imagine living like this for the rest of my life. But then again six months ago, I never thought I would be able to walk without a walker. So maybe, just maybe, I can walk through this pain, and dispose of it like have done my wheelchair and my walker.
There is only one thing I know. I can’t stop fighting, despite the fact I am more emotionally and physically tired than I have ever been in my life. I know the path God has paved for me, and I am just trying to figuring out how I will muster up more strength to keep walking.
But it has to be done. Because anyone who knows me, or even read my writings, knows I just done lie down and die, I just take extended breaks from time to time. But I always get back up, and start walking. Albeit slowly, but I will finish this medical marathon in my own time.