So today I got to work on time by bus. I thought that it was going to be an ok day. I got through lunch and took my lunch time pill (I’m bad at remembering that one) and went back to work.
Then my back started hurting. It felt eerily similar to kidney stones. I told myself it was probably just the ol’ fibromyalgia and since I’d taken my pill I would be fine in a minute.
For you lucky persons that have no idea what kind of pain I’m talking about: imagine someone trying to stab through your skin and into you mushy parts with something dull, blunt, and round and just digging and digging. Meanwhile, some other sadistic bastard is trying to scrape your muscles off of your bones with some sort of super heated fork. It’s bad. And I’m trying to press something I’m sewing. And it won’t work. And im getting really hot and fuck I just need a break. So feeling vaguely like I might vomit anyway I head to the bathroom. Where someone already is. Its a 2 stall bathroom and one is out of order.
I lean agaist the wall. I breathe. I need to sit down. I go to the break room to sit down. People start asking questions. And no I’m not ok…but I’ll be fine in a minute. I just need a minute.
But they all insist. If you feel bad you should go home. I’m crying.
Or panicking. Its hard to tell when a well meaning people are telling you to go home…and you’d like to but…what about the money? What about my job?
They keep telling me that they can’t fire me for being sick. Can’t they? This is an “at will” state. They can fire me for literally any reason.
I am now panicking. I can tell because I’m biting my hand.
This is what I’ve been fearing. They can now see that I am a basket case. I’m biting my hand and they know because they want me to stop.
But this is how I’ve dealt with stressful situations since 8th grade. Algebra. Shitty teacher. That’s 12 years. Its a reflex.
I need to leave.
Fuck…everythings unraveling like I’ve dropped a bobbin…down an elevator shaft.
A friend agrees to come get me. I sit inside to wait…until I can’t. I’m told no one is talking about firing me. Not reassuring. That its a pretty good day to be sick. Not reassuring.
Outside I take pictures of random things to keep my mind still.
I don’t know why that truck was there.
The fibro-beast is trying to loosen my shoulers from their sockets with forks. Always with the forks.
I get a ride.
Im grateful and ashamed.
Now I’m home and I don’t know what to do.
There’s nothing I can take. No amount of breathing I can do. No warm or cold compress will dull the rage of the fork beast. Stretching makes my arms cramp into bizarre positions rendering them temporarily useless.
I can’t think. All I can think is that I’m to young for this. Somehow this is my fault. I did something wrong. If I could figure out what…but there’s nothing. No rhyme. No reason. Just angry fork beasts and a disgusting thought that it’s not real. I’m just weak. Or worse that it is but there’s nothing to be done.
Maybe if I could see a rheumatologist or a good psychiatrist or a therapist. But I don’t have health insurance…right.
So I guess I’ll try to take a nap knowing full well that this shit isn’t going to be any better when I wake up.