Needless to say, November started terribly. Add that to the rest of the year and it’s a recipe for an emotional storm. If you’ve been with me a while, you know that my body does not respond well to heightened emotions. Depression, check. Fibro flare, check. Psychogenic Dystonia episodes (attacks, as I call them), check. These attacks are bound to happen; I’m not shocked when they do occur. They do however, still hold that element of surprise. Where will I be when it begins? What will I be doing? How long will it last? Which body parts will be affected? Wednesday gifted me with not one, but two episodes. Luckily, I felt them coming and got myself to a safe place. They also didn’t last very long, which I was thankful for. When my mom learned of Wednesday’s episodes, she said I had reached my limit for the week and wasn’t allowed any more. Well, I must be an overachiever because on Thursday I had another one. If this is your first time reading my blog, I have a strange sense of humor and sarcasm; just roll with it.
Cue dinnertime. My husband and I were making tacos and chimichangas. Bellies grumbling, this was going to be a delicious and satisfying meal. Everything was ready, and the oil in the pan was hot, ready to magically turn burritos into chimichangas. The picky eaters (kiddos) had already eaten. My husband had warmed up his tortilla and layered his ingredients when I heard him ask, “aren’t you going to warm your tortilla?”. I wanted to answer, but I couldn’t. I responded in my head, but could not get the words out. Our backs were to each other as I was at the counter opposite of the stove. I was midway through closing the bag of tortillas when I just froze. At that particular moment, my body said I’m done and I guess I didn’t get a say in the matter. I really feel like I should be a part of these major decisions. Once my husband had asked a couple times what was wrong and got no response, he did his best to help me. I am used to the episodes that cause my muscles to tighten and contort me however they see fit, but this one was different. I just stopped, stared off, couldn’t speak, couldn’t move. My arms may have well been cooked spaghetti noodles. I couldn’t lift them, couldn’t grab my plate, couldn’t hug my daughter back as she offered comfort. It was frustrating to say the least. Slowly I regained my words and I did manage with my husband’s help, to get my feet moving. I shuffled back and forth in the kitchen in hopes that maybe some muscle memory would kick in. Nothing. Back to the counter. I asked to have my arms lifted and rest on the counter so I could concentrate on making my hands and arms do something, anything. I attempted to lift my hand. I felt muscles tighten, but they were the wrong ones. What I got instead was a tight upper arm and an elbow that felt glued to the counter and still nothing from my hand. The more my husband tried to help and the more I tried to concentrate on getting body parts to cooperate, the more my upper body tightened. I told my husband to finish cooking his food and eat without me. Being the sweetheart he is, he insisted on waiting for me. I felt bad that his food was getting soggy the longer it sat. Everything else on the stove was cooling down. The oil in the pan was burning and needed to be turned off. Back to shuffling around the kitchen. Then, the familiar muscle tightening I’m used to. Feet together, legs straight, jaw pulling to one side, my husband had to pick me up and carry me to the couch. The whole attack lasted about an hour. I had ruined a great dinner, later evident by the not so fresh taste of the food. Other than the grumble in my belly, all I could seem to focus on during that time, were the negative thoughts swishing around in my mind. I’m a burden. I mess up good things. It’s not fair that my husband has to deal with this. What if I’m the cause of his stress? He probably wishes he had never met me. It’s only a matter of time before he leaves. Does he feel obligated to stay? He resents me. The kids shouldn’t have to take care of me or watch this. Are they going to have the same issues? Is this going to be how they remember me someday? I suppose I have anxiety and depression to thank for all the intrusive thoughts. They are the salt poured into an open wound. As I type this, I know that most of those thoughts are not things I need worry about; at least I hope that is the case. Yet, they still linger at the back of my mind, just waiting for depression and anxiety to open the gates and allow them to overwhelm me.
I know I have no right to complain, but some moments really make me question why I can’t just be normal. I know I need to trust God’s timing and purpose for me. I hope that I am not disappointing Him each time my head fills with so much negativity.
I hope all of you are doing well. Sending hugs.