The Conundrum Of Good Intention

Last night I was hell bent and determined to get to bed before 2AM. Although it's not even Valentine's day yet, Phoenix is already warming up. This winter had me on a luxurious "sleep until 11AM and still walk or run with the dogs five days a week" schedule. It's been stressing me out horribly, to know if I want to keep up the exercise I have to get my routine turned around, or come April's 100 degree heat all my progress will melt away into utter oblivion. Of course good intention always has to marinade for a while with me, before motivation to change my evil ways finally sets in. In other words, I'm remarkably skilled at procrastinating until the very last minute that I am staring failure in the face. That's often, not always, but often when I will get my act together. So of course I try to go to bed early last night so I can get up before noon and exercise before it's too hot and...can't sleep.

By 3:30AM I gave up and started writing this blog, because I realized something profound. About a month ago I began doing back twists and side-bends in addition to my yoga routine. A week or so later I started getting all mad and bent out of shape over everything in the entire world, and I stayed that way for two miserable weeks. About a week into that two week rage consumption, I made the mistake of complaining to my husband about my lack of upper body strength. Well, let me say it loudly, Anger+Complaining=Be Ready To Get Advice! I got his opinion in the form of a convincing lecture, where he challenged me to not rely on the neck/shoulder problem excuse I always use to keep from doing push-ups, and just give it a try and see what happened. So obviously modified to a standing position, I did. Low and behold, my neck and shoulder are fine! But then last week happened. I broke out in horrible rash-hives all over my face, felt the painfully familiar flu-like symptoms invade my body, and had such a catastrophic meltdown over the state of my angst-filled misery, it's taken me a week just to catch my breath. Exactly the type of stuff that happened when I first started doing yoga, and when I first started running. 

So what did I go and do today? More back twists and standing push-ups. Is this why I can't sleep tonight, the horrible rear of another Fibro-flare? The rash and boils on my face are finally calming down. I was feeling rather optimistic and positive, is that going next? And that's when the something profound hit me. Healthy people don't have to make this choice. They can start exercising and not release toxic levels of some unidentified disease into their system that consumes months of their lives. At most they get sore, tired, or won't feel all that great for a few days. I'm certainly not saying it's easy for everyone to just get in shape, but come on now. What a completely ridiculous price to have to pay. 

Thanks for joining,

Leah      

What Is, Is, Remember?

For a long four months things seemed to be getting better. At first it was very hard to halt the chariot of destruction in my life. It took continued re-routing, self pep-talks and blatant scare tactics, but I somehow convinced myself that my reaction to life was my choice. That admission affirmed tantrums, meltdowns and anxiety freak-outs were now obsolete, since to choose to behave that way is simply insane. I reached new levels of health under this fragile new government of myself. Things were going swimmingly over here, in positive attitude land. And then one day the rage came back.

Was it inevitable? Is it impossible to simply do away with the emotional reaction to my life's circumstances by just not thinking about it? It worked for a while, why did it stop? Because I had a health issue rear its ugly head? Or does part of this inter-related world of weird illness encompass the rage? Quite frankly, I could sit here all day and ask chicken or egg questions, and never get an answer. What I really wanted was to get back on track, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out how. I was just too damn mad and out of control, and did I mention mad? 

I was driving in the car with my husband this evening when the realization smacked me across the face. Suddenly I knew what the missing piece was, and it wasn't information, the origin of my emotions or even illness itself. It was acceptance. More to the point, it was accepting reality for reality's sake. What is, is, slapped me silly, and reminded me that if I try to bear the burden of life all on my own little shoulders I won't get out of bed. But if I look around and accept my givens, and do my best with what is, I just might.

Thanks for joining,

Leah       

Raw & Bitter

...with a heaping side of anger. That pretty much describes my state of mind right now. It's amazing, how quickly four months of determined progress got swept away in the blink of an eye. I'm still not quite sure how it happened. It started with a scaly rash on my forehead. Then the boil appeared between my nose and eye. Then another boil. Then an itchy, swollen eyelid, which quickly turned into two lizard-textured ocular skin flaps. Four more massive boils appeared on my face and before I knew it, the texture of my skin rivaled puffy, flaking 40-grit sandpaper. 

This hostile takeover has taken about a week and a half, but have I seen a doctor yet? When I finally relented and called my dermatologist yesterday the receptionist apologized profusely for not being able to squeeze me in immediately, and recommended I go to urgent care. I suppose when I laughed and told her I have chronic illness and don't get too hyper about health problems, it earned me a "difficult patient" mark on my chart. Which I don't really care about, that's how bitter I am. Because I am fully expecting my doctor to tell me there is...nothing wrong with me. Besides looking like the Elephant Man, that is. But the last thing I expect is for my doctor to actually help me, take me seriously or, gasp of all gasps, diagnose me.

Clearly this is an absurd perspective, but my PTSD surrounding anything health or doctor related is so explosive, I'm actually plotting my own demise over here. It's far easier than expecting anything else to change, since it never does. Maybe for a minute, but doesn't it always come back to me being sick and inept and miserable? My husband keeps reminding me this may be something "normal" and if I don't go to the doctor I won't ever know. How many times have I heard that one before? But I now look so deformed I don't have much of an option. And the itching, heavens to Betsy, the itching! My emotions have the stability of the Richter Scale in a 10 point earthquake, and anytime anyone asks me how I am, I start crying and freaking out like humanity is coming to an end. Which I really do feel like it is. So...back to isolation mode I go. I can't deal with this world. I can't deal with people, doctors, illness, concern or medical bills. I can't deal with trying to make people understand my reality. And I most certainly cannot deal with the rash consuming my face! 

Thanks for joining,

Leah