Tidings

Disclaimer - this very well may be one of the most depressing posts I've written. You may not want to read this if you're having a bad day. Just sayin'. And please don't leave me any judgemental comments about this post. You are not thinking anything I'm not already thinking about myself, okay?

I put this up the other night, then promptly took it down the next day. Now I'm putting it back up again with the tag "rheumatoid arthritis" with the hopes that other people looking for answers about this sucky condition may find me. And for the record, there's no such thing as being "too young" to get RA. Don't ever let a specialist tell you, "Well, all your symptoms point to RA, but you're too young, so it can't be that...." And especially don't let them pat you on the head and tell you that there's nothing wrong with you, that you must just be "more sensitive to pain than other people" and try to push you out the door with a prescription for some stupid narcotic pain pill. INSIST that diagnostic tests be done. If that doctor won't do them, go to another doctor who will. Fire your rheumatologist if he starts acting like a misogynistic a-hole, and go get one who will actually listen to you. I did.

I know it has been a very long time since I have posted on here. There are so many things to say, and not enough words to say them with, and sometimes not enough energy to even turn on the computer to post. I'm trying to stay positive, and I have moments where I can pretend, and smile and act as though I'm not questioning - asking "But why? What did I do? WHY?". Perhaps this is why I have not posted lately.

I have this horrible tendency to cry if I talk about the things that are bothering me. Something terrible can happen, or I can be in the darkest pit ever, but so long as no one asks me to speak of it, I will not cry. But if I open my mouth and begin to speak the words, to give form to that which is hurting me, or frightens me, or makes me sad or angry, I weep. So I tend to try to avoid talking about the things that are truly and deeply upsetting me. But sometimes, I have to let it out, lest I go mad.

Much the same with writing. If I speak it or write it, then it become real. I can no longer ignore it, belittle it or wish it away. With each word spoken or written, it grows - lifting off the page or through my voice to plague my life and ensure that I most probably will never be the same again.

Jamie will never be the same again.

With each day that passes, I'm losing more and more mobility. I can no longer run or dance; in reality, I haven't been able to run in years, nor to dance in months. But there again, I've been ignoring that little reality for a long time. Heck, I can't even bowl - walking up to the lane properly is beyond my capability now. I wake up in the mornings barely able to move. I often accidentally break things because they slip out of my hands. A lot of times, I can't feel my fingers completely, so I don't realize I've lost my grip on things until they've fallen and shattered. I'm exhausted by such simple tasks as walking down the hall to retrieve a stack of papers from the work room.

My house looks like a pig sty because I can't keep it clean and Jamie has a ton of homework to do without being expected to keep the house clean, too.


I feel like my life, like my body, is falling apart. And yes, I know I sound like a spoiled little girl, whining at her parent, but all I can keep asking is, "Why? What did I do wrong?"

I said it was depressing. I'm sorry. Like I said, I can pretend for so long, but then there comes a point where I have to talk about it or write about it or else I will break completely. And I've been so good about cutting myself off from everyone over the years that writing about the things that are upsetting me is just about the only outlet I have. I have to let it out somewhere so I can continue to be strong for Jamie. He's upset enough by all this without me showing him how completely freaked out I am by my inability to do things the average two year-old has no problem doing.