Where do I go, when I feel like this? When I'm on the verge of total crisis, like my life's about to spin out of orbit? When a meltdown of such epic proportions is on the horizon, I'm certain to never return? My book. For the last three horrible, awful years, I've poured all my angst into my book. It provided a fabulous distraction from a life I didn't want to be living. Whenever my reality became too sorrowful or burdensome to bear, I'd escape into a delicious fantasy-land of my imagination. It was easy to focus all my energy on making my characters lives so much worse. Or better. Or sweeter, more vindicated, less pathetic, and at the very least, infinitely more interesting than my lowly existence.
I don't think I'd be alive today if I hadn't started writing my book. It started out as the byproduct of this blog. I knew I wanted to shout Fibromyalgia awareness from the rooftops, but I didn't know how to get on the rooftops, let alone get anyone to listen once I was there. What I did know how to do was write. So I set out to demonstrate the devastation this miserable disease can have on a life by dropping it into a fictionalized tale.
While I was busy constructing this world of absurdly behaved people doing absurdly ridiculous things, my life has undergone a complete metamorphosis. Changing my expectations and behavior got me to a really good place. One where I started to believe in my future again, and wanted to actively participate in improving my quality of life. Except now my grasp is slipping. I suppose it's fitting, that I descend into another round of Fibro hell as I prepare to write the conclusion of my story. I just pray once my latest battle with this disease is done with me, I'm not left holding nothing at all.
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