Monday, March 19, 2012

I am Jack's Raging Bile Duct, I am Jack's Disturbed Nightmares

I haven't switched meds in weeks. I'm managing and controlling my pain...adequately. It has been cloudy and stormy and rainy for 7 days now. There have been a couple of breaks, for a few hours, where I did not feel as if I was drowning in a shitstorm of pressure and pain. I even got to see the stars for an hour or two last night. But then the clouds roll back in.

I am stressed. I am angry. I am so very angry. So very annoyed, displeased and openly hostile towards everything.

I am not talking to anyone, for fear that I will go off on some undeserving, unaware bystander. No one deserves that. I am carefully, gently working out and meditating a lot. I am taking deep, calming breaths. I do manage to divert the anger, to lower my heart rate and calm myself, to feel some moments of peace.

But again my ire bubbles up, seeping from my skin, pouring from my ears, wrath spewing from my mouth before I can stop it. Hurtful sarcasm abounds.

I don't know what's happening to me, and like so many things that I cannot explain or control within myself, I am uncomfortable. I am wary. I am afraid.

I am rather optimistic by nature. I can't help but see the positive in almost every situation, every person I encounter, everything life throws at me. And life certainly likes to throw some interesting things at me.

I understand that anger is a natural process, a normal human emotion. Given a proper outlet, anger can even be a good thing. It can motivate a person, it can help you assert yourself, it can perhaps even save your life if you are physically threatened.

I personally do not like to experience anger. I believe words and logical, rational discussion, can achieve so much more than anger can. I don't think anger is ever a smart choice or solution. When you have knowledge and experience and stop to think, anger seems like such a stupid, ridiculous, ignorant way to respond. I choose not to engage anger as part of my process for dealing with things.

I am Jack's Raging Bile Duct.

I've had Fibromyalgia for 5 years, that I know of. It is constantly changing how it chooses to display itself. Constantly changing how it plays with my body. Constantly changing how it's going to fuck with me every morning, every afternoon, every evening, every night. I go through cycles, but just when I think I have a grasp on the cycle, it changes. I am constantly analyzing, monitoring, recording details. Nothing ever stays the same long enough for me to do anything more than form theories. I question my sanity frequently. I have had honest discussions with medical professionals about it. I still question it daily, sometimes hourly.

One theory that keeps coming back to me, that I can neither prove nor disprove, is that we do this to ourselves. Fibromyalgia is becoming more and more widespread, and no one knows why. No one knows where it comes from, what causes it, how to stop it. You just wake up, day after day, and your body betrays you more and more. And one day, after you've tried every pill and alternative therapy known to man, twice, you have to ask yourself if the common denominator in all of this isn't you. If you're not doing all of this to yourself. How sick and twisted would that be?

When I sleep I am tortured by dreams and memories of how my body used to do what I asked of it. Tortured by memories of every single thing I did and didn't do, up until I hit 21. I dream of all the silly, mundane things that healthy people take for granted, of things they despise. I remember boot camp wistfully. I dream of running and marching and doing pushups and situps and flutter kicks until I think I might die. I remember the bitter-cold Maryland winter, waking up at 0430 to go run around the still dark park with my friends, in my sweats and reflective gear and knit cap, muttering under my breath about how I'd rather be in bed. I remember walking everywhere, no matter the distance, never doubting I could easily reach my destination and return.

I dream of wind-sprints, of swimming laps for hours, of feeling the cool rush of air in my face as I run or bike against the wind. I dream of pushing my muscles to their limits, of increasing the weights level after level, just to see how high I can go before I cannot move them at all.

And then I wake up. I wake up and I'm trapped in a body that CAN still do things, if I push it. But then it will exact revenge for days afterward, until I've forgotten what I even did to deserve such pain. I am forced to think and weigh my options and calculate my energy needs and risk of injury before doing anything. What a cruel way to live one's Twenties.

I am Jack's Disturbed Nightmares.

I joke that I'm just getting all of my horrible medical stuff out of the way while I'm young, so I can enjoy my Forties and Sixties and Eighties. It's not untrue. Everyone must someday reach the point where their body starts to betray them, where they have to come to terms with the fact that they're not invincible. Where they realize that they will die someday, that that day might not be too far off, that every single day counts.

The other shoe's going to drop and that's when you have your true midlife crisis. That's when you run full-speed into a brick wall of regret. When you reevaluate everything you think is important. When you realize just how frivolous and irrelevant most of the things that fill your days really are.

You may think you're aware. You may think you've been there, that you're prepared. But you're fooling yourself. Just wait, it's still coming. You will lose. your. shit.

And I'll be supportive. I'll offer a shoulder to cry on. I'll help in any way that I'm able.

But inside? There will be this cynical bitch, leaning back against the wall with her arms crossed and a smirk on her face. She told you. She tried to warn you. She tried to stop you from being hurt, tried to shield you from the pain. But she only did it once, because you knew better, you knew what you were doing, you were young and what did she know, anyway?

When the other shoe drops, the cynical bitch will take one small moment, she won't even rub it in your face or remind you of it. But one corner of her mouth will turn up, just a bit, and she will know that she was right. She's always right. And fuck you for making her doubt herself.

I am Jack's Smirking Revenge.


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