Time

Time.  We always seem to think we have all the time in the world to take care of things.  I'm not talking about waiting until the absolute last minute to finish a term paper or business report.  I'm talking about thinking "later" when it comes to spending time with friends and loved ones.  For almost 14 years, I kept planning to see my grandfather in California.  Either my work schedule was too hectic, or I didn't have enough money.  Then I had the money--but by then, it was too late.  We lost him the month before.  I was always proud of him--he had an amazing talent to create beautiful things from wood.  What I did not know until after his death was that he was a decorated veteran.  Too many questions left unanswered.  It will be one of my biggest regrets that I didn't try harder.  On rare moments, like this weekend, I hear his laugh.  I was just like my father.  I don't have a single bad memory of him.  The man I knew was caring, nurturing, and understanding.  The best piece of advice I ever received from him in the year before his death came from a song--"Simple Man."  He couldn't be more correct.  Over the years, I've thought of contacting old friends to find out they're gone as well.  Always keep those you love and care for close to you.  Let them know, don't waste the chance because you never know how much time you have with them. 

Waterfalls

Waterfalls.  That's about as much as I've cried over the past 15 years.  Yet, I can't recall one time until this past weekend that it was for a good thing.  As I sit here wishing I was outside working in the yard, I have nothing else to do but think.  I picked up my charcoal and an old drawing pad this morning, but my hands hurt too much and my mind was exactly what the pad reflected--a blank slate.  I did my usual book-a-day summer routine, but now it's back to thinking.  Part of starting this latest "project" is to help bring about awareness and education--even if it's just one person--what it's like to live with chronic illness.  Yes, I look normal, some days I am even able to "act" normal.  But the pain?  The pain never goes away. Every morning I wake up and know I am still here because it is a constant reminder; every night it continues to remind me that it is there.  Most days, I am able to function as a "normal" human being in some capacity because I have gotten used to a certain level of it.  This is what friends and family members of those with "invisible illnesses" do not understand.  It doesn't go away.  Unlike cancer, there is no treatment that can either "cure" you, or eventually kill you.  It's just there.  Invisible to everyone around you, but far from invisible to you.  In most cases, there are small things we can do to help ourselves, but they are a far cry from a cure.  Or a cessation of the pain.  It simply affords us some time to almost feel normal, to join the rest of the world, even if it's for a few hours.  It also helps prevent numerous other problems.   Now that I am once again fighting my ninth battle with Lyme Disease--and the worst thus far, I have reached the point that there is nothing doctors can do.  Antibiotics have been shown to work for the first two to three flare ups, but by this point, the only thing they succeed in doing is making you more miserable feeling while causing certain strains of bacteria to become immune.  So it's plenty of rest, plenty of fluids, and wait.  I had just enough energy to get through my 15 minute workout this morning (nothing more than light weights and stretching) before I felt like I was ready for bed.  Now I sit here, computer in front of me, feeling like my joints are being torn apart and my hands and feet have been crushed.  I'm refusing to take pain medication.  I have spent too much time over the past several years relying on it for even the smallest touch of relief.  More than anything, they've provided more of an emotional escape than a physical one.  On this note, I will say I have never taken any pain medication solely for the purpose of escaping emotional pain.  It became almost a welcome side effect.
     Which brings back the point of waterfalls.  I have spent most of the past 15 years in and out of abusive relationships.  There have been VERY few exceptions.  It's one thing to recognize in yourself this pattern of behaviour--and say the word yourself, but it truly hits home when one of the closest people in your life says it out loud.  No one but my former partners and I know the true scope of it all, but just hearing that word--"abuse"--makes it take on an entirely new meaning.  It is at that moment it hits home.  And the questions begin.  Why?  Why so many times?  And the most bothersome one of all: do I truly hate or devalue myself that much that I allow it to happen so often?  I have no answers to these, but I do know that I would rather spend the rest of my life alone than allow it to happen again.  Even if it is not real (of which I still have serious doubts about), I was shown what it is to be treated with respect, to be treated like a human being.  Treated well without wondering how am I going to pay for this later.  

A New Outlet

     I used to write.  Short stories, poetry, streams of consciousness, and like most females, diary entries.  For awhile, I tried my hand at blogging, then life got in the way.  Ten years ago, I was a mechanic.  I also tried my hand at art (not nearly as good as my brother or mother, but fair enough to stand on my own).  Life has a funny way of throwing curveballs and obstacles in your way.  For the past eight and a half years, I have been unable to work and have found myself starting over or adjusting parts of life I could not let go.  Reading and music were two things I never stopped loving.  And here I am, almost back where I began my journey:  writing.  I will admit being inspired by my sister-in-law in deciding to return to blogging.  
     Growing up, I knew something wasn't right.  Even playing multiple sports, I found myself ceaselessly exhausted and achy.  "Growing pains" was everyone's explanation.  Almost 9 years ago, I found out that I was right.  There is nothing scarier than ending up on the floor resisting the urge to scream because the simple act of changing clothing was unbearably painful.  My primary physician, like most then, believed it was entirely in my head.  Three specialists explained it wasn't; after 22 years, I had what was the first of many diagnoses:  fibromyalgia.  By 2004, migraines, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, carpel tunnel, and the worst of all, Lyme Disease, were added to the list. Some I still feel are incorrect, but two I cannot deny:  FMS and Lyme. 
     There is nothing more difficult than finding yourself in your early twenties and realizing your life is irrevocably changed.  Years went by trying to not only digest this information, but accept it.  All I wanted to do when I grew up as a child was become a mechanic--and I did.  Then I was forced to not just slow down, but stop.  Then as I learn, and continue to learn, my new limits.  The second hardest part of accepting a career loss to something you had no control over is figuring out now what.  I had no backup plans.  Then in 2007, after many poor experiences in the medical field--medicine and psychiatry/psychology alike--I decided I would return to school to help others like myself.  It is still a huge question and mystery if I will ever actually enter the field, but I've learned I must try.  Even after three years, two Associates Degrees, and working towards my Bachelor's, if I am able to help just one person by the end of my education, it will be worth it.  Sometimes you have to take the chance knowing the possible outcomes.  It's far better to look back twenty years ago from now and know I at least tried than it would be to wonder if I could have made it.  There is much more to say, but I shall leave it for another day.