Fibromyalgia is a bitch

Bedtime

It’s 11:23, YouTube is blaring on The Xbox, the lamp to my right is a fucking beacon way too bright to allow me to fully open my eyes, and my oldest dog won’t stop pacing. He smells the neighbor’s pit mix, undoubtedly pissing on the grill, again. Every click of his nails on the hardwood floor as his little paws carry him to and from, grates on my last nerve.

Every click more painful than the last. I’m only angry at myself, as I’ve had all weekend to wrangle him and do a simple nail trim. Who am I kidding? I’ve had weeks to complete the task. My baby, my male Pug/Frenchie mix, is curled up in my husband’s lap. Sweet, snoring, and absolute peace on his face. I want to feel that peace.

Fibromyalgia is a bitch.

I look over, as I’ve noticed that the clicking has finally stopped, and realize both boys are now curled in his lap. All three so handsome, so happy, and there’s me, silently screaming.

It’s time for bed, time to lay in the comfy foam mattress and wrap the overly large down comforter around me. Time to shut out the lights, the tv, the world. Time to melt into dreamland. Only thing is, I didn’t take my meds. I’m positive that I’ll lay in bed and stare at the ceiling for an hour, waiting for the snoring to be too loud to be able to handle. I know I’ll sneak out in the living room for just “one more” cigarette. I’ll lay on the couch and mindlessly scroll through social media, news feeds, and possibly window shop. That one last cigarette will lead to five more, and hopefully by three am or so, I’ll stiffly waddle back to bed.

Fibromyalgia is a bitch.

As my neck and shoulder throb, as my skin burns, as the twitching in my eyes takes on a pattern of left, right, left left, right, left, right right, I’ll sigh just a little too loud. My husband will ask me if I’m ready for bed, and I’ll smile, I’ll say yes, and scream inside once more. The spot between my shoulder blades feels like something is stabbing me, and my knees crack in protest as I try to stand.

Brush your teeth, drink water, and try to sleep, that’s what I keep repeating to myself as I make it to the bathroom door. Sigh.

Maybe I’ll have a better day tomorrow…

Fibromyalgia is a bitch.