Sunday, September 13, 2015

Hurts So Bad

Today's ear worm is brought to you courtesy of Little Anthony and the Imperials. 1965 was a very good year for popular music.

I know you
Don't know what I'm going through
Standing here looking at you
Well let me tell you that it hurts so bad
It makes me feel so sad
It makes me hurt so bad
To see you again

I knew it was coming.  Despite feeling pretty good the past week, there was some part of my brain whispering "don't get used to it." The pain started early yesterday, in my side, and it was a sharp S.O.B. I thought I might be able to walk it off, but that didn't work out the way I had hoped, and by yesterday evening my nerve endings staged a protest. Standing, sitting, walking - I guess I had a hell of a nerve (bad pun) trying to get on with my life in a normal matter.

It's hard to describe how this all feels, but at some point all I can do is roll up in a ball while crouching down on the floor.  That was yesterday.

Today the pain is all-encompassing, and that has scrambled my brain a bit.  I had some minor plans for today, but even a trip to Publix is beyond my abilities.  Harvesting one tiny eggplant and two cherry tomatoes has done me in. I am back upstairs on my bed, waiting for the ibuprofen to kick in and take the edge off.

Sometime last night I dreamt I was dancing with Henry Winkler.  I can't dance, at least outside of my dreams.  But then, I dreamt I was back at the psychiatric hospital.  Good dream, bad dream. I have flashes of being back there, just sitting and seeing the halls I walked endlessly and the door to my room, stark and sterile. Then today I realized something - that the best medication in the world cannot protect me from the dark depression that comes with a flare-up of fibromyalgia.

No recipe today, I am truly sorry.  I had great plans to perfect those okra fritters, but I never even got close to the front door to pick up more ingredients. Instead, I fell asleep listening to music.

Feel like I hit a brick wall.  We'll try this again tomorrow.

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