All good things must come to an end, we are told.
My 25 day remission has screeched to a halt. The Trammie drought is over and I have begrudingly abdicated my 25 day pain-free reign.
I thought I would be prepared for the return of pain but I was preoccupied with enjoying myself in the present moment, ala Eckhart Tolle-style.
Today, I can see I was wholly unprepared for the emotional smackdown that accompanies a relapse. To use common vernacular, I'm really bummed out. It's not even a bad flare-up, if I can call it that. I know it's going to be a bad day when I don't have the energy to haul my aching ass into the shower. Just standing requires a monumental effort on my part. As a fair warning to people within the near vicinty: if I begin to quote pithy platitudes from fictional literature, RUN. That means I am in a pissy-ass mood but trying to appear cheerful and composed.
Last night, I felt nauseated. It disappeared as quickly and mysteriously as it came. On it's tail came the familiar body aches and pains. To get any sleep, I decided that a Trammie would be required. To a certain extent, I felt a sense of defeat as I swallowed the pill. I had held off for 25 days, albeit I had no pain, therefore no occasion to take one. I struggled with a feeling of guilt and letting myself down, or rather, that my body had, once again, betrayed and disappointed me. If anyone believes that fibro is solely a physical condition, they are sorely mistaken, pun intended! Fibro comes with a complete serving of anxiety, guilt and disappointment, for your recommended daily allotment.
My rational mind tells me it was not a contest - I was not Master of My Domain, to coin a phrase from Seinfeld. The pain-train might have been delayed but my name was on the next stop. I have no idea why it went AWOL in the first place, let alone why it came back. I am almost positive that I didn't do anything (that I am aware of) to cause a relapse.
To be honest, I have been feeling stressed this week. There are a few minor problems niggling at the back of my mind. As a not-so favourite former doctor of mine once said to me, 'these are the daily vissitudes of life.' Yeah, bite me. Who the hell uses the word 'vissitudes' in the 21st century?
If I were to adopt a Pollyanna attitude, I would have to admit those 25 days were absolutely blissful. To wake up in the morning and be able to put my feet on the floor, without effort and a will of iron was refreshingly welcome. For the first time in a long time, I felt like a normally tired, sweaty, menopausal woman - and that's a big step up!
Tomorrow is another day, Scarlett O'Hara, said. Oh shut up, Scarlett because frankly I don't give a damn.