Fight Or Surrender

Today I am hung over off of 2 glasses of wine. 2 glasses of wine used to be my appetizer! I am feeling blah and anxious, nauseous and emotionally detached. Too much anxiety to sleep. Too much discomfort to stay awake. And as I sit here writing this I wonder if there ever comes a point of acceptance. Of bliss. Of absolute peace and release of what could have been or what should have been and true acceptance of what is.  Can one absolutely live a life of complete surrender to a life of chronic illness? Can one meditate or medicate of yogasize our therapize our way there? Or are we destined to roam around as tense little bundles anticipating each increase in pain, flash of exhaustion, impending wall we will undoubtedly crash into? Does every yes to an invitation warrant hours of pensive contemplation, will I feel good that day, can I get my basic obligations met so I can go have some fun? Will my body allow me a break from this pain and exhaustion, ever? Do I spend the rest of my life searching for and striving to practice what will always allude me? Do I keep fighting with everything I have, knowing that the pain and frustration of struggle diminish my ability to enjoy life on top of my chronic illness?

Each person must suss out this answer for themselves. We are all different in so many ways. So many different personalities, experiences, values and beliefs. Circumstances and upbringings and stages of life and obligation. There is no one pat answer for everybody. I look at where I was headed before July 2010, reading back through this blog. Had I ever decided to publicize myself, open up and share my writings with others that suffer from the same aliments that I do, I would have been a completely different person than the girl who had strokes. The girl that you got. Would I have found the same compassion in myself, understanding, kin-ship with you all? Would I have been more self-righteous, know-it-all, this worked for me so it will work for you kind of mentality? Would I have been too far into the "recovery" process to remember the acute pain and misery of what it is really like to live day in and day out with Fibromyalgia?

I live a life of truth, to the best of my ability. I keep it real here. I don't soften my observations or encounters or frustrations with a pretty coat of sugar. This is Fibromyalgia and it is real and it hurts and it sucks. While on a gas break during a road-trip to a friend's wedding from college a few years back, my husband's best friend asked me why I didn't just go do something I was explaining to him my husband did not want me to do. I told him that although we don't agree, if I don't have honesty with my husband, then what do I have? His swingin' single bachelor mentality took a pause, and he agreed with me. So that is why, when life is not a bed of roses, when I am hurt and confused and angry and depressed and sad, you know it. For to lie here would defeat the purpose. What really, would be the point? So as my husband watches that Bizarre Foods guy and yells out fast-facts so I can hear them  in the other room where I am writing: "Budapest used to be 2 cities, Buda and Pest. The term gypsie comes from Egypt. E-g-y-p-t G-y-p-s-i-e" he spells out, I find my first smile of the day. I think for me it is a careful balance of both. Some days I fight, and others I surrender.

Thanks for joining,

Leah

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