i never read much fiction as a child. There was too much non fiction i was busy gulping down constantly. One fiction book stayed with me. It was called, “Izzy, willy-nilly” and documented a girl’s acceptance through losing her leg. She had what she calls a “little izzy” in her head, that reacted to her life, while she remained externally calm. The idea stayed with me, the little jade in my head kicking things about or doing cartwheels as i learned to accept my own differences.
The little jade wants to cancel a follow-up doctor’s appointment. Badly.
It’s not rational, not reasonable, not adult of me. i just don’t want to deal with it. i keep thinking that in an extra week i could be ready to deal. But, of course, that isn’t true. i’ve already had a week to wait and i’m still here, in this volatile place.
i keep trying to visualize walking out of the doctor’s office saying, “that wasn’t so bad. Not a big deal at all.” i try to visualize being calm, being open, accepting.
Last night, when we were cozy in bed, holding hands, i asked Sir Raven if i could just cancel the appointment. Then my brain picked up on what i had just said and added, “um, reschedule it. Yes, that sounds better.” She laughed. Not a happy laugh, actually. In a totally even tone, as if she was stating an absolute fact, she says, “that is not going to happen. Your appointment is Thursday.” i sourly accused her of being smug. How does she know with such certainty that i wouldn’t reschedule?!?
Yesterday, i woke up with a less heavy heart but felt a bit depressed. Overwhelmed. Not focused. i had to talk myself through everything, which makes me feel rediculous. i always wonder what kind of person has to beg themselves to get something done. i was hurting and irritable. Stressed about half finished assignments and going back to the doctor. It’s like my body flunked another test. Intellectually, i know that this happens, it could be nothing significant. Emotionally, it feels like i flunked something important. Emotionally, i’m not reasonable, not able to feel happy for the pregnant women chatting and laughing in the waiting room. Which is just beyond reasonable. There is no reason to not feel happy for them, if i saw them on the street, i’d smile. But not there, in the waiting room, because i’m not waiting for joyful news. It makes me not like myself much.
i am feeling a bit demoralized.
i figure, the absolute least i could do is not be a difficult child. Not add to the pressure Sir Raven must feel dealing with my different medical issues. When i think that, i feel even smaller than the little jade in my head, and she is only a teeny girl.
What i want the most is be well. To be able to function better again, to not have the pain take over and me powerless to stop it. i am just over it. i’m trying to consider what the lesson is that i can learn from the last few months. One is that i need to be accepting of medical help, to not fight it, to not feel like i’m whining or complaining. Even here, when i write about fibromyalgia, i think i sound like i big whiner. i don’t like people who whine and complain constantly. i positively detest it in myself. What do i need to do? Accept. Accept that i have to advocate for myself, that i’m not alone in this mess anymore, and i have to get things done to get better.
i have to accept that Sir Raven walked into the medical junk with her eyes wide open and its not some random thing i’m forcing her to deal with. She is far more accepting of me when it comes to the fibro than i am of myself. To me, it feels sometimes like something inside of me has more control than she has.
i hate that.
i want to be able to get back to yoga and pilates. The only way i can do that is to find another doctor and move forward with acceptance.
What i do accept is that i need her.
i feel a strange desperation to have her hands in my hair, her welts on my skin. i need her around me, and inside of me, and all through me. i want to be the satisfied smile on her face and the sweat on her skin. i need the noise inside of my head to stop.
It’s been a long while, what feels like years, since we have gone there together. So long that i don’t feel sure of myself, not that this matters. So long that i am afraid because i know when it does happen, its gonna be a long, hard fall. Inside, i’m gonna go down kicking and screaming, not that this will matter either.
For all i know, it’s better for her when i feel anxious and unsure. Needing but not wanting. Frightened.
Sir Raven is coming up on a break from work and i’m more focused on her getting the rest she needs than what i need from her. And then i remind myself that she needs to let go too. Fighting against myself is not acceptance.
Little jade inside is screaming and my inner wolf is growling low. i keep shoving it down, have been for awhile.
i feel like i’m holding onto the monkey bars dangling, with aching arms and calloused hands. Yet, every time i think i will slip and fall, i find a way to hold on tighter, to hang on, to accept.
And the little jade is holding on to the bar too with sweaty hands, ready to fall, ready not to fall.