So goes that Eric Carle (Bill Martin?) line from Head to Toe. Anna loves it, shrugs. Problem is lately I can't really un-shrug my shoulders. I've been thinking about this loop I wind up in, chronic denial of my chronic illness. Is it politically correct? Barf. Anyhow. Last night a close friend said, "I didn't know you had a disk thing in your back, I knew it was something but..." and it made me think about how sometimes I don't talk. I reference shit like people should already know it (as I do with my writing) and overtime forget that they don't. It's a degenerative disease, in my back that is, hopefully my brain is fine for now.
So I started making a list of "what Fibro means for me" and am kind of appauled at my life. I have a serious attachment to diners and basically can't eat at them or sit at them anymore. I detest that chronic illness and pain change my identity and personality out of necessity. I have a hard time deciphering what's about growing up and what is about these limitations, and a harder time identifying it to other people. I don't want to be the woman who leaves the birthday party because someone is using cleaner on the table. I don't want to tremble defenses at people who are trying to tell me their natural oils will help calm me, when actually I'm going to be out of commission from the allergies they'll cause me for days. I like "that woman" best in comedy skits and complaints. It's an identity politic I don't want.
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