Compression
Today has been a day of compression. In a literal sense, I have new compression gear to compensate for myalgia (muscle pain) and support my weak spots and places where I have pain. In a figurative sense, I'm having one of those rare days where the reality of my disability is getting to me.
So I did something kind of stupid - a special kind of Shareeta stupid. I decided that I was going to put myself out there to do the most physically challenging service project available to me. I made a point to help my mom do all the shopping for her semester of culinary classes. We went to the restaurant supply and bought some 200 lbs of flour, 75 lbs of sugar, detergent for dishes and clothes, oil, syrup, molassses, canned products, frozen foods, 30 lbs of cheese, institutional sized cans of everything you can think of, cases of pasta, gloves, and well, you can probably imagine the rest. Let it suffice to say, we were worried about our $1,000 daily purchase limit on the school credit card. I also offered to take it to the school tonight and unload and organize all of it in the pantry.
My mom was really glad of the help and really wouldn't have been able to do it herself, so I really don't regret doing it. Just so that's clear.
But still... it was like I was overcome with this need to prove that I can do things and that I'm useful still.
Perhaps I should mention that as more and more potential illnesses are ruled out in my diagnosis process, the potential diagnoses are more serious, more rare, less treatable and certainly more disabling. So the next set of tests focuses on a longer history I've gathered as I've gotten frustrated of being treated symptomatically rather than being diagnosed. It took me some time and energy to gather up but, even to my eyes, an apparent pattern appeared in the history. Muscular involvement and freeze ups, as well as ongoing fatigue with minimal muscle use and symptoms of over-stressed and under-rested tendons and ligaments around inactive muscle groups. Which is indicative of diseases that fall under the category of muscular dystrophy.
Even though I'm really eager to know what's going on with me and willing to accept anything... my breath catches a little when I write those words. And that's hard for me to admit because I pride myself on handling hard things with grace, and I am genuinely eager to know that and have it confirmed because I want to get better and I can't get better until I know why I'm not well in the first place. And I likely have a treatable condition. At least it seems that way.
But to quote one of my favorite (neurotic) characters in the world... frick frick frick FRICK!! (Thank you, Elliot Reid). And my brand of actually having that freak out is... to lift heavy things for an extended period of time (apparently?). I don't know if that's really a particularly healthy way of handling these things, especially considering the nature of, y'know, muscular dystrophy.
I don't know. It's a way of handling things, I guess. I'm coping okay. But I'm on a bit of rollercoaster, and I was before, and I still will be. I have PTSD. I'm pretty good at accepting that things will not always be as absolutely traumatically terrifying as they are in any given moment. This pales in comparison to the momentary pain of flashbacks, really. But this kind of stress is a different kind of taxing. It's a wearing kind of worry, not in the least lessened by the constant and chronic pain and mobility issues.
In the grand scheme of things, getting treatment for anorexia was the best wrong treatment I've ever gotten (and boy, have I had a lot of wrong treatment). If I hadn't elected to make strength training a part of my recovery, I would have degraded so much to this point that I'd be having much worse troubles now.
But it sure is hell sometimes.
I'm stressed out.
I'm elated.
My life is really good and I love it. I'm genuinely happy, and genuinely building so much out of my circumstances. I'm building things that only I can, and touching lives significantly.
But today was just not my best day.
Love and Admiration,
Shareeta
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| The t-shirt is kind of ironic... I used to do backyard lifting between rugby seasons. |
My mom was really glad of the help and really wouldn't have been able to do it herself, so I really don't regret doing it. Just so that's clear.
But still... it was like I was overcome with this need to prove that I can do things and that I'm useful still.
Perhaps I should mention that as more and more potential illnesses are ruled out in my diagnosis process, the potential diagnoses are more serious, more rare, less treatable and certainly more disabling. So the next set of tests focuses on a longer history I've gathered as I've gotten frustrated of being treated symptomatically rather than being diagnosed. It took me some time and energy to gather up but, even to my eyes, an apparent pattern appeared in the history. Muscular involvement and freeze ups, as well as ongoing fatigue with minimal muscle use and symptoms of over-stressed and under-rested tendons and ligaments around inactive muscle groups. Which is indicative of diseases that fall under the category of muscular dystrophy.
Even though I'm really eager to know what's going on with me and willing to accept anything... my breath catches a little when I write those words. And that's hard for me to admit because I pride myself on handling hard things with grace, and I am genuinely eager to know that and have it confirmed because I want to get better and I can't get better until I know why I'm not well in the first place. And I likely have a treatable condition. At least it seems that way.
But to quote one of my favorite (neurotic) characters in the world... frick frick frick FRICK!! (Thank you, Elliot Reid). And my brand of actually having that freak out is... to lift heavy things for an extended period of time (apparently?). I don't know if that's really a particularly healthy way of handling these things, especially considering the nature of, y'know, muscular dystrophy.
I don't know. It's a way of handling things, I guess. I'm coping okay. But I'm on a bit of rollercoaster, and I was before, and I still will be. I have PTSD. I'm pretty good at accepting that things will not always be as absolutely traumatically terrifying as they are in any given moment. This pales in comparison to the momentary pain of flashbacks, really. But this kind of stress is a different kind of taxing. It's a wearing kind of worry, not in the least lessened by the constant and chronic pain and mobility issues.
In the grand scheme of things, getting treatment for anorexia was the best wrong treatment I've ever gotten (and boy, have I had a lot of wrong treatment). If I hadn't elected to make strength training a part of my recovery, I would have degraded so much to this point that I'd be having much worse troubles now.
But it sure is hell sometimes.
I'm stressed out.
I'm elated.
My life is really good and I love it. I'm genuinely happy, and genuinely building so much out of my circumstances. I'm building things that only I can, and touching lives significantly.
But today was just not my best day.
Love and Admiration,
Shareeta
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