For My Boyfriend

It takes a strong, patient, loving and kind man to have a girlfriend with chronic pain, a history of abuse and numerous mental health issues.

When I met my boyfriend Steven on June 3rd, 2018, I had no idea that we’d end up in a relationship. What were the chances that my FIRST DATE in over 15 years would introduce me to the man that I’d fall in love with?

It was a shock and quite a surprise. To both of us, might I add.

Things haven’t been as smooth as buttermilk, though. I’m easily triggered and due to this, I’d convince myself time and again that he was also abusive; that I’m only able to attract toxic men.

I was so afraid to let my guard down and allow him to get too close.

I’ll sometimes think that there’s no way that he truly loves me, because how could anyone?

I’m poor, on disability, experience depressive episodes, have recurring anxiety attacks and I’m often unable to go anywhere because I’m just too fatigued or in pain because fibromyalgia is an asshole.

On those days, he comes over and we play Pac-Man. Or we’ll cuddle up on the couch and watch TV together.

He plays with my hair and kisses me on the forehead. We both enjoy the little things in life and that makes me happy.

He also brings me food and in return, I love to cook for him as often as I can.

He’s the opposite of what I’d grown so accustomed to.

He’s reliable. Honest. He’s respectful of my distaste for overtly sexual talk. He’s affectionate and holds my hand in public. He even pushes me in my transport chair when we go someplace where there’s a lot of walking involved, without any complaint.

It gave my mother some peace knowing that I had him in my life now. They got along well and I’m glad that they were able to meet before she passed away.

He carried her casket.

He also has a strong faith in God, which is extremely important to me.

He buys me flowers each 3rd of the month. He hasn’t missed a single one. He tells me how much he loves me every day, but it’s not just words, it’s in his actions.

There are days when I’m just amazed at how much my life has changed because of him. He makes me smile and feel like perhaps I am lovable, after all.

Although there’s no way to know what the future holds, right now I feel so blessed and I pray that he’ll be a part of my life for many more years to come.

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Fibromyalgia & Suicide

fibromyalgia-its-symptoms-and-causes

Add 10% higher risk of suicide.


I read a post on The Mighty¬†yesterday that really disturbed me. The topic was about how fibromyalgia and mental illness coincide, which I’ve already been aware of due to my own personal experiences.

But the part of the article that bothered me the most was the statement that “Fibro sufferers commit suicide at a rate of 10 times that of the general population, according to a report in Psychology Today.”

Just fucking wonderful.

It upset me so much, I got the shivers after I read it and then shared the link on Facebook, which only a handful of people reacted to, since it’s a taboo topic that is mostly avoided.

I told my boyfriend (he’s fully aware of my mental health history) and I asked him to read the post himself. As usual, the scary “S” word makes people uncomfortable. It happens every single time.

Even my beautiful mother, who always fought for and fully supported me while she was still alive, hated to say the word itself.

It’s not a pleasant topic, is it? No, it most certainty is not. Yet every 40 seconds, someone on this planet decides to end their pain and leave this brutal, yet wonderful world behind. It’s the truth and it’s happening. There’s an excellent chance that each one of us will be touched by it in one way or another.

Steven hadn’t really said much after he read it, so on the way to our Thursday evening couples bowling league, I asked him what his thoughts were.

“I don’t really know what to say,” he replied quietly.

Ah yes, ding ding.

“Yeah well, most people don’t,” I said knowingly, with a twist of snark in my comeback martini, on the defense.

Then I sighed, feeling quite defeated.

“It scares the fucking shit out of me,” I revealed, trying to honestly explain my feelings further. “It’s scary. Actually, it’s fucking terrifying. And I’m so afraid that it’ll happen again. I’ll live with that fear for the rest of my life.”

I noticed him squeezing the steering wheel a bit more tightly than normal.

“I might not understand it, but I’ll never run away with my tale between my legs.”

I made the noise I make when someone mentions asshat, a sort of disgusted snort.

“It didn’t help that you had someone constantly putting you down and abusing you, treating you like a worthless cripple and saying that maybe you should’ve just done it, after all! The fucking dirt bag.”

Another snort from me.

“I won’t let anything like that happen to you, not on my watch. I’ll do everything in my power, honey.”

I smiled and patted his leg, then left it there. He took his hand and started stroking my hair. We didn’t talk for a few minutes. I just closed my eyes and enjoyed the sensation of his strong fingers comforting me and listened to the windshield wipers whisking away the chilly rain.

“I want you to be able to talk to me about it, to tell me when you start feeling like that,” he said. “That way, we can get you some help.”

I nodded and kissed his cheek. “Thanks for rubbing my head, that felt nice.”

“Anytime, my love.”


As most of you already know, my soon to be ex-husband (hooray!) decided to stick his dick in the mashed potatoes instead of coming to the ER to be with me on that shitty July day in 2015 when I tried to overdose on my pain pills.

My mother was the only one there and she was already beginning to show symptoms of her “mystery” illness. Now we know what it was that took her from us, an extremely rare medical condition. (A little too late, but that’s for another post.)

My boyfriend hates to discuss asshat and I don’t blame him, but I felt from the beginning that he needed to know my prior background in order to help him understand me better. We’ve been together for over a year now and the last thing I want is for him to someday exclaim “I didn’t sign up for this bullshit!”

And now that my precious mother has passed on, I hope that if I ever lose my battle with my suicidal thoughts again, I’ll have Steven to love and support me.

If I really have a 10% higher risk of suicide because I have fibromyalgia, then I better start praying hard and hope that I have a few compassionate people in my life, beginning with the man who plays with my hair.

The Sign

Each day this week, I’ll be posting a song that explains my current mindset (although it rapidly changes because I’m a bit kooky like that.)

But this particular song always rings true.

How can a person like you bring me joy?


The Sign  Ace of Bass 1993

(I was 18 when this song was popular.)

I, I got a new life, you would hardly recognize me, I’m so glad
How can a person like me care for you?
I, why do I bother, when you’re not the one for me?
Oo-hoo-hoo-oo-oo
Is enough enough?
I saw the sign and it opened up my eyes, I saw the sign
Life is demanding without understanding
I saw the sign and it opened up my eyes, I saw the sign
No one’s gonna drag you up to get into the light where you belong
But where do you belong?
I, under the pale moon, for so many years I wondered who you are
How could a person like you bring me joy?
Under the pale moon, where I see a lot of stars
Oo-hoo-hoo-oo-oo
Is enough enough?
I saw the sign and it opened up my eyes, I saw the sign
Life is demanding without understanding
I saw the sign and it opened up my eyes, I saw the sign
No one’s gonna drag you up to get into the light where you belong
But where do you belong?
Oh, oh-oh-oh
I saw the sign and it opened up my mind
And I am happy now living without you
I’ve left you Oh, oh-oh-oh
I saw the sign and it opened up my eyes, I saw the sign
No one’s gonna drag you up to get into the light where you belong
I saw the sign
(I saw the sign, I saw the sign)
(I saw the sign, I saw the sign)
I saw the sign and it opened up my eyes
I saw the sign