Poor Girl

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Thank You For Being With Me

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“I don’t care that all you can do right now is sit in your chair, I love you. You’re not six feet under and you’re here with me, that’s all that matters.”

Hot tears slipped down my flushed cheeks as I looked away from him, the ugly truth of one of my biggest fears uncovered.

Will he cheat too? Decide that I’m too sick for him to deal with as well and end up regarding me as a worthless, mentally ill cripple?

(Who doesn’t sexually please him well enough?)

It’s a real demon of mine and my boyfriend knows that.

“From all that you’ve told me about your past, you should be patting yourself on the back, honey. Don’t even get me started on the first one who put you in the hospital and then the second one, who did you even worse if you ask me…”

Which one is worse? Abusive relationship A or abusive relationship B?

Flip a coin?

As hard as I try to run from my two abusers, they continue to seep into my current reality. I’m just a middle-aged woman with a love of fuzzy socks, not a sorceress who can cast a magical spell, abolishing the memories of my past traumas.

It takes time, people tell me.

How long?

Everyone is different.

Are all men nasty, evil swine?

No, of course not.

Is there something wrong with me that I found not only one, but two of them?

No, I was just asleep for a long time.

My boyfriend kisses me on the forehead and smiles at me.

“Thank you for being with me.” I reach out to take his hand.

“No, thank you for being with me.”

Living That Blanket Burrito Life

What can I say about fibromyalgia that hasn’t already been said about a thousand times here on my blog?

  • Um, it’s worse in the winter.
  • It doesn’t like it when I overdo the things.
  • It always catches up to me, every single time.
  • It’ll make me so exhausted that I’ll end up missing an entire day or two, just sleeping.
  • Once the fatigue is back to some kind of normal, then the pain steps in and takes over.

I wrap myself into a human burrito and rest, layer my medications and wait until I’m back to my normal self, which isn’t all that great to begin with, really, but at least I can do the things that I want and need to do again.

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I live for my good days.

On my bad days, I cry, pray and remind myself that this too shall pass.

I try extremely hard nowadays to allow myself to feel my emotions instead of ignoring them. It’s alright for me to feel angry, sad, frightened and disgusted. When I face my inner feelings and thoughts, it’s only then that I can take my power back.


My boyfriend has seen me at my worst and he’s still here, by gum. (An euphemism for the archaic “by God.”)

This morning before he went to work, he stopped by because he read that pineapple was good for inflammation (fresh cut by him) and then he also brought me a pepperoni chop flat bread that they make at the bakery he works at. After work, he’s picking up my pills at the pharmacy.

Between Steven, my daughter Brooke and my neighbor Dave, I am well taken care of on the days when I am suffering from this hell-beast disease that is called fibromyalgia. It’s a wonderful feeling knowing that the ones who care for me aren’t doing it just so that they can take advantage of my illnesses for their own personal gain, like some asshat that we all know and despise.

I’ll be filing for divorce within the next month. Then I can finally be truly free of that waste of sperm.

Oh and guess what? For those of you living in the states, spring is only 40 days away.