I feel pretty crummy, but I don’t know what’s wrong. I just don’t feel quite right. I had to cancel today’s appointment with my personal trainer and tomorrow’s shopping outing. I figure, if I feel this horrible with nothing tangible attached (other than a vague “creaky” feeling, which would feel better if I just exercised a little), I won’t get better overnight.

It doesn’t help that I’ve been sleeping so poorly: I can’t get comfortable enough to fall asleep at a reasonable hour (after plenty of winding down and rituals and lavender-and-chamomile scentedness), I can only sleep when I’m absolutely exhausted and, then, I keep waking up at least every hour.  Even naps have been sucking big sweaty donkey balls. My doctor suggested having a set nightly bedtime and moving to the guest room as soon as I start having trouble. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that’s where the litterbox is and it would be easier to try to convince my husband to sleep there (which we’d both hate – I cherish the 5.3 minutes of quiet talking before he is suddenly unconscious, and he cherishes the soft mattress, many pillows, and the freedom of having a boobie within arm’s reach all night).

I’m back to the level of non-conscious bodily discomfort I was at months ago, where I start feeling nauseous until I realize I have to use the bathroom and I’m having trouble maintaining my body temperature (I feel hot-cold-hot-cold-hot…).

Maybe I’m sick. Maybe it’s a UTI. Maybe I need more/better sleep. Maybe I just need some not-overly-strenuous exercise.

But right now, I’m finally feeling nauseous enough to want to use the bathroom and then make my way to bed. And poor Stewie’s finally so comfortable in my lap. Oh, well – life’s hard for a pimp-cat.

I just watched Pixar’s “Up” for the first time, again (since the 1st time was during my ECT, I remembered little more than sobbing through the beginning montage). It can’t help but make me cry – especially after this most recent flare. Let me explain.

The movie is predicated on this Great Love that lasts from childhood through old age and beyond…

When I first saw it, I probably felt two things (1) love for my husband and the hope that it would be that wonderful, and (2) guilt over having been depressed enough to be hospitalized, which I believe hurt him more than he’ll ever say, especially to me.

I still feel that horrible, gnawing guilt over the fact that I thought he, and my other loved ones, but mostly him, would be better off without me in his life, especially if it was deemed an accident, and that they all now know just how selfish I had been.

However, I now feel a second guilt: we aren’t aging together, despite being approximately the same chronological age. At 29.9, my husband is rather healthy, despite untreated allergies, and in relatively good shape while I, at 30.2, I waiver between being a seemingly competent person and a decrepit nearly-bed-ridden crone.

I’ve seen marriages crumble, or at least become very strained, when the age difference suddenly becomes significant and limiting, or one person becomes more disabled than before… The disabled individual, like me, is often humiliated by how much they can’t do (or can’t let themselves do, due to potential consequences) and feels guilty. The younger or non-disabled partner is taking on more and more responsibilities, feeling more pressure at home and work, their recreation is limited as well, and so he or she can be a bit resentful. This leads to tensions and disagreements and miscommunications, or just resentful trudging-through.

So, this time I saw “Up,” I cried because I don’t know if we can have that kind of loving, lasting partnership when I now behave like I’m more than twice his age. I feel as though my only real hope for having a happy, loving, lasting future with the man I love is losing at least 35 lbs over the next year, getting my business running, and personal-training by someone who’s had experience and success with fibromyalgia patients. It may not be true, but it certainly feels that way.

I’m finally feeling better, though. Last weekend, I was basically in bed both days, and was in increasing pain over the course of the week. However, Friday night I slept over 12 hours and then last night I slept 8 hrs and then had two 1-2 hour naps later on today. With this sleep, my skin no longer hurts and I was able to do some cleaning of the kitchen floor, with Peter’s help. Tomorrow, I have my first training appointment, Tuesday, I have a woman from the dachshund rescue coming to do a home visit before approving or denying my application, and then Wednesday, I have a former-tutee-turned-pre-teaching-college-student helping me get my tutoring room together.

This means I’m praying I can get the table down to the rec room and get the first floor and downstairs a little cleaner by the end of this long weekend, with my husband’s help, and still stay relatively low on the pain-scale. We’ll see how that goes.

Pain sucks. Yeah, I knew that already. And I’ve spent many nights up awake, in too much pain to sleep until my eyes started to close themselves. However, this is different. It’s horrible, nauseating, and has not gotten better within an hour of a vicodin and a flexeril. Because I have four horrible pains.

1. I have a horrible sinus headache because trees and grass and flowers are blossoming. Every sinus on my head is swollen and hurting.
2. I got my first period in 6 months. How is that possible? I’m on the three-month birth control pill, Seasonique, and three months ago my period came late and barely lasted for 1 day (it was more spotting than anything). Since I have fibromyalgia, my muscles get achy from being contracted/used as they usually are, and hurt a lot if more than usually used. So, since I haven’t used my uterine muscles for 6 months, well, a surge of cramps will cause nauseating pain.
3. My grandmother-by-adoption (and marriage) broke her wrist and a good friend broke his hand. Since everything happens in 3s, I thought “who’s next?” as I was walking on the stairs. And my left foot turned. So my ankle is killing me. The only way I know it’s a normal turn/twist and not broken is the lack of any swelling or discoloration. Stewie is lying on it now, and it’s feeling a little better. But I did something to my left wrist as I tried to break my fall and that’s hurting as  I type.
4. I’m an idiot. That given, after the couch and chair were delivered, I moved and turned them (they were heavy, but on sliding casters) so that they switched sides of the seating area of the tutoring room, and then moved them back 6 hours later. Now, my arms (especially my left arm) feel like someone tried to rip them out of the sockets.  Again. I felt this way shortly before we went to LA, and couldn’t even hang shirts up, only this time my neck kills, too.

I better feel better quickly, because I’d had plans for this weekend involving putting books on shelves and clearing 2 kitchen counters!

Ahhh… it felt good to get that whining out. Thanks for listening.

Of course, renovations are stressful. Not only is there a lot of money on the line, but there are so many decisions and a great deal of varying levels of skilled labor to deal with. Then, there’s the time demands, the loss of any semblance of a routine, and (in this case) the loss of a bedroom and closet access. It’s enough to tax even the most patient, together, organized person who has plans and subplans and time up the wazoo. However, despite the fact that I am extremely patient when dealing with the disabled (or merely stupid) and I have everything so organized it’s gone ridiculously smoothly even when we’ve hit bumps in the road, I also have fibromyalgia.

FM’s something I’m not good at advocating about; I am more likely to just try to tough things out whenever possible, especially when the only other option is verbally laying into someone repeatedly. Unfortunately, my husband avoids confrontation whenever possible, sees the renovation as My Project and therefore something he just puts up with, does not always see how my FM is being inflamed by what is happening, and has not always been of the “here, let me say or do something so you are as un- uncomfortable as possible” frame of mind. He’s more of the tough-it-out, you-brought-this-on-yourself, if-you-need-to-embarrass-me-by-using-a-cane-you-shouldn’t-go-out mentality. And I can’t have my mommy call his mommy. In fact, I didn’t have the subcontractor’s (I’m sorry, “project manager”) cell number until Wednesday, when he called me at 9:45 to say he was running a little late and would be here by 10:30-11, which wound up being 11:45.

But tonight, as he went home yet again saying “all I have left is…” (which was what he said Tuesday morning, claiming he’d be done by the end of the day), I just lost it and took my carefully organized box of “last details” to innumerate them all with him and made it clear that I expected him to be here during the day. That was as harsh as I got. He left. I’ll see him bright and early (”earlier than the usual time”… so, maybe not long after 9?) tomorrow and make it clear that he needs to physically stay here until the job’s complete because I need to be able to have plenty of time to clean the bedroom while it’s still light out. I’ve also sent an email to his boss to let him know that that’s the expectation.

The issue is really how the stress interacts with my fibromyalgia. I am hypervigilant during the hours they are expected to arrive/return as well as during the time they are here. I wake at 8 and rush to get dressed and ready. I’m lucky if they’re here by 9:30. They often leave for supplies, men, etc. (a lot of etcetera), as well as meals. But after 4 they work until somewhere between 6 and 11pm, with only 1 or 2 trips out. However, that gives me 12 hours of vigilance (unless I collapse into a brief nap that usually just leaves me feeling nauseous). Add to that the fact that I’m not in my own bed and there are no quiet corners to hide in, and I might as well be working for all the pain I’m in. Plus, I don’t feel comfortable leaving the house except for an emergency (out of a vital Rx or a very necessary doctor’s appt) and as we get closer to the end, they need immediate input (and reminders that what he named isn’t close to all that needs to be done, even if it all fits into a small box) often enough that I’m kept on my toes. Also, as the subcontractor/PM said that he’s not coming back once he’s done unless there’s a case of gross negligence, I check up on the project often enough that I caught the mistake of the backwards shower door (so the special water-beads-up coating was on the outside of the shower) today.

If my husband could have played the bad guy or even just hadn’t had a tough-it-out/we-knew-what-we-were-getting-into approach, I might have said something to minimize the effect this is all having on my body. But, then again, I could have mentioned that the longer days (a direct result of their less-than-determined daytime work) was having a negative impact on my pain index, or even that having the distraction of his calm company playing a game or going out for an hour would help, especially given how little I saw him this weekend… But, instead, couple’s therapy Monday night and the Sabres’ playoff game Wednesday night each magnified my stress and pain exponentially, and Peter’s refusal to commiserate with me or even listen to me bitch has really driven me crazy. But, again, I could have said something. Even exploding about it is better for me than holding it in.

But then, even 13.5 years later, I’m still the girl who went down below 95lbs and up to a near-toxic level of medication because I wouldn’t let my weakness discommode anyone by complaining about the lack of effects or the overabundance of side-effects (such as panic attacks, school phobia, and a marked increase in my depression and suicidal thoughts). I just said that yes, I do want to get better and will do my best to try to tolerate a higher dosage.

Tomorrow morning, though, I have a facial I’d rescheduled from Wednesday evening that I refuse to cancel (even if it makes my face look worse, I should heal in a week’s time), and Saturday is my body-glow-and-wrap. These should be relaxing, moisturizing, slough off dead skin, and include at least some scalp massage. And, once we’ve left for Cali, I can relax during the day on Thursday and Friday of our vacation next week (family stress starting Friday night, despite my awareness that it is all in my own head, will negate the relaxation factor of any breaks I take the remainder of the time).

Ahhhhhhhh… I feel better now that I’ve gotten this all down/out. I know I can’t control people and I really don’t want to be a bitch or OCD, but I also have feelings I need to get out and if I dump them on Peter, he feels responsible in some way or somehow I’m not doing the mature adult thing of sucking it up and dealing with the consequences of my choice to renovate the bathroom. Maybe now, I’ll be able to fall asleep

By the way, the bathroom does look gorgeous and luxurious, despite its tiny size.

Most people see a decade-marked anniversary with dread, resignation, and a little resentment. It isn’t “look how long I’ve lived,” but looking at all the youthful years behind you that you can never experience again. Although 40 is the new 30, it is still seen as that milestone between young, fledgling adult and Adult.

However, this is the first year I’ve had a birthday without a nugget of depression lodged in my brain. This is the first year I’ve looked at all I’ve experienced and look forward to the future. In fact, my thought was that I’ll only get to live those years twice-more-over, if I’m lucky. Compare that to turning 17 and crying that I was still alive. Or last year, where all I felt was pain and all I looked forward to was more pain and disappointment and further making my loved ones lives difficult. Don’t get me wrong: I still see fibromyalgia as something that won’t be magically disappearing anytime at all soon. However, I see hope for having a future with less pain. It will be a long road and there will be bumps along the way (heck, I’m awake now because I’m in too much pain to lie down comfortably and am just waiting until I’m too exhausted to stay awake), but it can and will happen if I do what I’m supposed to.

In any event, I am happy to be turning 30. I am happy to be old enough that people take what I say seriously – I always knew what I was talking about and have always known best, but it’s a lot harder to take from a 4-year-old, or even a 24-year-old fresh out of grad school. But now I have years of experience and a track record to fall back on (and not just in the teaching field). I am happy to feel a separation between myself and my students. But even more, it’s like starting fresh. All the advantages of the ECT, without the post-ECT oh-no-what-did-I-do-to-my-brain-and-what-did-I-do-to-myself-this-past-year crisis that was jumping into way too deep a pool too quickly.

I look forward to see what the next 3 decades (and the 3 after that) bring:  hopefully, love, children, contentment, and chocolate. Oh, and a size 8 figure (I looked hot, but could still eat). Hey, it doesn’t hurt to dream