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.