Electrified

It starts as a tingling sensation in a limb or two. If you’re lucky, it’s a hand or a foot. Something easy to ignore, or something small. If it’s an average day, you know you won’t be so lucky. You know it’ll move to the entire leg, or perhaps the lower portion of your back. Ignoring a region of your back is impossible, and it makes a remedial task a demanding chore.

That tingling sensation? Yeah, it’s no longer that tingly. It’s more like electricity pulsing through your nerves now. While it isn’t quite painful, it’s making you hyper aware of every move you make. It’s definitely uncomfortable, and it makes you feel odd. You don’t want to move, as the pulses respond to your movements. You know it’s about to get bad, and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it. You have shit to do today, and lying in bed isn’t an option. Even if you were in bed, it isn’t like you could sleep through it. These sensations demand your attention.

Oh goodie, we have moved past the electric boogie phase and onto something more demanding. Now we are in my personal favorite phase, which I label the following: SUDDEN DEATH. I know, I know. Drama freaking queen. But let me explain sudden death to you and see if I can make you more sympathetic. What was once electric pulses in a limb or two, has now turned to fire throughout your entire body. I’m not talking a little campfire that you toast your little smores’ over. No, I’m talking about the California wildfires that are destroying homes as we speak. I can say that because I’m from California. I’m talking about the flames of hell that some demon summoned out of sheer spite and sent them directly to your address for God knows what reason. Perhaps if I went to church more often, your boy Jesus would cut me a break or two.

The flames lick and flicker over every inch of your skin. Touching is a big no no, and even the fabric of your clothing is increasing your agony by volumes. Sitting in and against a chair is pushing against you, only increasing the intensity of the heat. You pop an Advil and laugh quietly to yourself, knowing that if you’re lucky it’ll reduce the pain level by a one. Once you’re labeled an addict, good luck getting anything stronger than that from a doctor. That’s what I get for drinking like a fish for so long. From now on, you and your pain are on a never ending bro bonding trip that unfortunately does not result in either of you getting engraved friendship bracelets made at a sketchy shack in a town that you would rather forget you stopped in.

My world is colored with flashes of red and white, and the pain is making me seethe. One breath at a time, but each one is labored and intense. Through this I remain silent though, as to not attract attention to myself. I don’t want to embarrass myself, and I don’t want to have to explain what’s happening. Suffering in silence is what I’m accustomed to, hence my writing.

Truth be told, this is another average flare up, on yet another average day, and as an average person with fibro? You’re its bitch, and you better get used to it.


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