Playing music loudly in my room and frustrated that "Stumble" on Firefox continues to redirect me from Counterculture, I stumble across a page on Fibromyalgia Management.
http://www.everydayhealth.com/fibromyalgia/fibromyalgia-coping-physically.aspx?xid=SU_
The truth about it is, I'm not disabled...These people are talking about coping with re-entering the workforce, and avoiding household tasks like washing dishes to prevent "Flare-ups". I'm twenty years old, barely beginning to figure out what kind of adventures I can get away with during adult life; some of my favorite things are dancing, gardening, taking long walks and generally getting my heart rate up any way possible. So what am I? Crazy. Not the most social person in the world. Weaker than average.A college student with an anxiety disorder.A terrible friend. A masochist. Just bitter.A little emo. The worlds most predictable cop-out.Under the weather.An eighty year-old woman with the height of a supermodel-Anything I can belive that doesn't summon images of late childhood and early adolescence; that crushing weight of passive doctors and nurses, weekly blood drawings, pick lines, pills and that pressing face of a caring, controlling and out of control mother. Peers with pink faces drawing a chalk line between themselves and my sorry skinny hide, tottering on the edge of understanding my own mortality. I have a handicap parking sticker, but I don't cut myself the slack of believing I'm...
It's frustrating. When people know, when people don't. There are days when I look at you people,through a fog, convinced that you have no idea what pain means or what I would give to have a body that followed the basic set of rules everyone else seems to enjoy. Of course, this isn't true-we all seem to have our own share of trauma.
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