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'Cause I know that I'll never be fixed
Tell me why, oh why are my genetics such a bitch?
Oh, I want to go outside. . .
I'm counting spoons carefully. There will be no trip to Philly tonight, for dinner with lovers and lover's lovers and a crazy Steampunk Shakespearian play.
Since the Savella, the pain has been much more managable for me, but what's getting harder to live with is my depressed immune system. It seems now whenever I do something more strenous than simply going to a local bar or restaurant, I get sick for a week. And . . .it sucks. I'm 31 years old, still young enough to paint the town red and then take a Sunday off to recover and be up to snuff on Monday.
Except I'm not able to do that. Every time I think I've outsmarted my body with new meds, more and more careful choices in how I live my life, my body finds new ways to betray me. It's really hard on me sometimes. I've never been the homebody type, I've always been much more into going out and doing things and finding new adventures. And some days I can trick myself into thinking that small adventures near the house are just as good, the adventures my heriones go on in my stories are as good as having them, spinning yarn is just as satisfying as an after party, and sometimes sitting at home drinking wine and watching old movies is actually better than a noisy bar. Some days. And some days I can't. Some days I want to be out in my fancy clothes, drinking with friends, smoking cloves, having a new adventure. But since getting the fibro, travel has been exponentially harder along with other more physically active things.
Lately whenever I do something outside of my carefully managed box, I pay for it by being sick for a week and . . .I hate that. It's a really stiff price to pay for one night of fun. As long as I do what I'm "supposed" to do, work part time, write, craft, small bits of house work, have a few people over, go out to dinner, my body will let me believe that I'm holding the leash. And I need that illusion most days, honestly, just to get by. But if I step outside the pre-approved parameters set down by my body, I'll have a night of freedom, running loose, wild, and free. And then the next week, the choke chain is back on and my body reminds me who's in charge and who's the bitch in this situation.
I get tired. Not fibro tired, tired of living like this. Tired of counting spoons, pills, hours of sleep, everything. And when I rebel against it, I pay the price. Like other tiny puppets, I too wish I was a real girl.
Tell me why, oh why are my genetics such a bitch?
Oh, I want to go outside. . .
I'm counting spoons carefully. There will be no trip to Philly tonight, for dinner with lovers and lover's lovers and a crazy Steampunk Shakespearian play.
Since the Savella, the pain has been much more managable for me, but what's getting harder to live with is my depressed immune system. It seems now whenever I do something more strenous than simply going to a local bar or restaurant, I get sick for a week. And . . .it sucks. I'm 31 years old, still young enough to paint the town red and then take a Sunday off to recover and be up to snuff on Monday.
Except I'm not able to do that. Every time I think I've outsmarted my body with new meds, more and more careful choices in how I live my life, my body finds new ways to betray me. It's really hard on me sometimes. I've never been the homebody type, I've always been much more into going out and doing things and finding new adventures. And some days I can trick myself into thinking that small adventures near the house are just as good, the adventures my heriones go on in my stories are as good as having them, spinning yarn is just as satisfying as an after party, and sometimes sitting at home drinking wine and watching old movies is actually better than a noisy bar. Some days. And some days I can't. Some days I want to be out in my fancy clothes, drinking with friends, smoking cloves, having a new adventure. But since getting the fibro, travel has been exponentially harder along with other more physically active things.
Lately whenever I do something outside of my carefully managed box, I pay for it by being sick for a week and . . .I hate that. It's a really stiff price to pay for one night of fun. As long as I do what I'm "supposed" to do, work part time, write, craft, small bits of house work, have a few people over, go out to dinner, my body will let me believe that I'm holding the leash. And I need that illusion most days, honestly, just to get by. But if I step outside the pre-approved parameters set down by my body, I'll have a night of freedom, running loose, wild, and free. And then the next week, the choke chain is back on and my body reminds me who's in charge and who's the bitch in this situation.
I get tired. Not fibro tired, tired of living like this. Tired of counting spoons, pills, hours of sleep, everything. And when I rebel against it, I pay the price. Like other tiny puppets, I too wish I was a real girl.
