Would you like a slice of Reality with your wine?

If there is one thing I can say without a doubt about myself, it’s that I tend to do things backwards or just completely out of order: willy-nilly, if you will. My willy-nilly nature made going through the five stages of grief interesting to say the least. Before my diagnosis, I spent much time being angry, then in denial about the condition my body was in. Those were my two favorite steps, and the ones I subsequently spent (spend) the most time on. Some days I’d pretend I was sixteen again and I could physically do as I pleased. I even went to a dance class with Jeremy’s younger sister, Victoria, just to show that “I still had it.” I don’t know who I was trying to prove “it” to. Myself, I suppose. However, I quickly learned that “it” was long gone and running as fast as Usain Bolt in the 100 meter dash, never ever to return.

We started with stretching. This I could do, mostly. We pointed and flexed our feet in a straddle.

What the hell…my feet are sickling. STOP THAT. Turn out, turn out!!!

(For the non-dancers, sickling means turning your foot in, instead of out. Bad ju-ju.)

Then we began the floor combinations. The nice 30-something year old teacher with her mid-drift showing (post-baby and looking darn good) quickly ran through the combination. I stood at the back of the line to give myself more opportunity to learn it. (My brain isn't that fast these days.) She added floor work to the beginning of the combo…I’ve always hated floor work. By the time it came to be my turn I decided to just go after it.

Fail.

            “Hold your center! Don’t fall out of your turn! UP UP! You’re behind! Chasse, Tor Jete, Soutenu, Plie!” the too skinny teacher shouted as I made my way across the floor with the grace of a walrus on dry land.

All of the little teeny-boppers were watching, smirking. I was mortified. Not only could I not complete a simple Pique turn without sickling my damned foot, I couldn’t get my fat arse off the ground fast enough to stay with the music. I stood at the back of the line once more, holding back my tears as Victoria gave me an encouraging look.

           

          “Don’t worry. I’m out of shape too. I can’t do near as much stuff since I tore my hamstring," she whispered with an encouraging smile.

That didn’t help. But she tried.

“It’s just so frustrating! I used to be able to do all of this, easy. And now I can’t even point my toe correctly!”

            

          Giggling, she said, “It’s ok. Neither can half of these dumb girls either. Just have fun!"

Once again, she tried, but it didn’t help. How was I supposed to have fun when I was failing so miserably at one of the things I used to be so confident in? This was one of the biggest ego-destroyers I had ever encountered.

  

It’s kind of funny how Denial has its way of hiding its big, scary-self when Reality comes to give you a swift round-house kick to the face. Right about the time my face met with the bottom of Reality’s shoe, I decided to add “Dancing” to my list of “Things I used to be able to do, but I can’t do anymore because of this stupid Fibromyalgia crap.” Ok, so maybe that isn’t the exact name of the list, but you get the idea.

There are several things on that list that I cannot do, at all, or at least without some assistance. The list includes but is not limited to: lifting heavy objects, vacuuming the stairs, scrubbing the bath tub, giving the dog a bath, dancing, standing on hardwood/concrete floors for long periods of time without proper shoe support, sitting up-right for long periods of time, lying down for long periods of time (unless a muscle relaxer or two is involved), crossing my legs, sitting “Indian-Style”, holding a blow-dryer….the list really could go on and on.

You might be asking yourself at this point, “Well what on earth can she do?” It took me an extended amount of time to figure that out for myself. I spent a good portion of my time hanging out in the Step 4 Lounge after I received my diagnosis. It’s actually been one of my favorite places to frequent on and off for the last fifteen to twenty years. Needless to say, Depression and I go way back. If we were to have a relationship status on Facebook, it would be “It’s Complicated”. If we were to have a song, it would probably be “I Miss You” by Blink 182. Just call us “Catherine and Heathcliff.”

I think I’ve made my point.

In the past, we would tango every once in a while about things from my childhood, some tango’s lasting longer than others. Ever since I had met Jeremy though, my "dances" with Depression were getting shorter in duration with longer periods of time in between. After Reality hit me though, I basically tried to adopt Big-D as my BFF. It took several friends’ encouragement and a TON of research for me to finally ease my way out of the Step 4 Lounge and start inching towards Step 5 Adventure-land FunPark.

But wait, I skipped Step 3! Yes, actually I did skip Step 3. Completely. Unfortunately (or fortunately?) with my existing knowledge of Fibro with my mom, I didn’t bother with the "if only's"; which is odd considering I was inducted into the Dweller’s Hall of Fame at the early age of six. However, I knew in this case, there wouldn’t be much use in dwelling. If only (haha) I had taken that approach from a holistic perspective, I probably could have skipped straight to the Step 5 FunPark!

Ah….Step 5 Adventure-land FunPark. Arguably one of the best places I have ever been in my life. It most definitely beats any park I ever visited as a child. The entire place is tailored completely for ME (says the only-child, with excitement)!!!!! As soon as I arrive, a good looking man that strikingly resembles Chris Hemsworth hands me a pair of glasses that conveniently flatter my features. When I put the glasses on, everything turns bright! There are rainbows and happy people all around who understand everything about Fibromyalgia. There are no stair cases to climb or uncomfortable chairs to sit in. Everything I touch becomes as light as a feather. All sodas are sweetened with Splenda, and fresh fruits and vegetables are available at every corner. If I start getting fatigued, a big fluffy bed appears out of nowhere to sweep me off my feet into a comfy, deep sleep. The best part about this place, though, is the attire. Only soft sweat pants and t-shirts with fuzzy socks and memory foam slippers are allowed to be worn. It IS the perfect pla….you aren’t seriously buying this crap are you?

Alright, let’s get real, shall we? Acceptance isn’t this perfect little place where suddenly everything becomes OK again. In fact, that place doesn’t exist and it never will. But, with the right tools and state of mind, you can get really close. And that’s what I’ve been doing.

Yes, I have finally accepted and determined that I have Fibromyalgia and I will continue living.

All together now, “I have Fibromyalgia, and I WILL continue living.”

Good.