So here’s what happened: I went to see a Fibromyalgia specialist a week before Christmas. He confirmed the diagnosis of Fibromyalgia and added Chronic Fatigue and severe iron deficiency. He put me on some new meds to help with pain, fatigue, etc. And one of the meds was bad. Very, very bad. One might even use the word ‘evil’. I not only lost the ability to detect and use sarcasm (gasp!) but I was unable to control my emotions. At all. Ever.
Yes, Mommy was a tad bit unstable. As in, Mommy could not be alone with Zoey. As in, when a song wouldn’t play on the computer fast enough Mommy began to scream, S-C-R-E-A-M, “FUCK! FUCK! WHY WON’T ANYTHING FUCKING WORK! I FUCKING HATE EVERYTHING!” And then Mommy sobbed. And Zoey cried. . . . and was afraid of me for the next 3 days.
It took me a good 6 days to decide to go off the Evil Medicine. I thought maybe I was falling apart from getting a confirmed diagnosis of a chronic illness. I know, I know. You don’t get it. But it makes sense to me. When I went to see the doctor my fear was that he would tell me, “Well, golly, No. No, you don’t have Fibromyalgia. You’re just a big wimp. Now go out and live a normal life!” And when he didn’t tell me that I realized it was a fear . . . and a hope. A hope that maybe I was OK, normal, fine. And I’m not not those things. But I’m not fully those things either. I’m the in-between. I thought maybe I was falling apart from being banished to the in-between. I thought I was angry at being sent there forever. I thought maybe I was bitter at everyone telling me I should be happy for the diagnosis, that it’s a gift. I am bitter and angry and falling apart. But only a little. The Evil Medication magnified it. Made it awful and huge.