Fibromyalgia is a tiger in the wild, and I’m a spotted deer. I’m hanging out in some tall grass near a water source, minding my own business, maybe humming some show tunes, and feeling grateful that I’m well enough to take a stroll.
I’m a deer so, yes, I glance around for a predator every so often. I am prey, after all. But I see no tigers.
And then, right when I’m in the middle of humming “Do-Re-Mi” from The Sound of Music, tiger teeth clamp down on my throat.
My last thought is, “Why didn’t I see it coming?”
You see, spotted deer can’t see the color orange. To them, tigers have green stripes. So, they just blend into the foliage. The deer can’t see them! That’s so unfair!
That’s fibromyalgia. Sometimes it stalks me, camouflaged. Sometimes its teeth are around my throat before I even realize it’s near.
I try to be thankful. When I’m in a fibro flare, I remind myself that at least my sleep apnea is under control. At least I’m not simultaneously coping with another round of Infective Endocarditis (IE) or major depressive disorder (MDD).
But, sometimes, there’s a double flare! Two conditions get worse at the same time. (Even three!)
And what’s worse than fibromyalgia? Fibromyalgia with a side order of depression.
But unlike fibromyalgia, depression isn’t a solitary hunter. It’s a wolf, leading a pack of more wolves. I usually have only a couple of fibromyalgia symptoms at a time – but depression can come with a dozen.
Imagine me as a deer again. I’m hanging out in some tall grass near a water source, minding my own business, maybe humming some show tunes, and feeling grateful that I’m well enough to take a stroll.
I glance around for a predator every so often. I’m prey, after all. But I see no wolves.
And then the wind shifts. I catch a scent. There’s a wolf nearby. It’s called Sadness.
I run.
I get away. At least, I think I get away. But just when I escape Sadness, I’m face to face with Despair and Guilt.
Growling, howling, grunting, they chase me back toward Sadness, and now I’m running from all three.
I’m terrified, but I know some shortcuts. I have some tools. I know where to hide. I’m quick and I’m clever.
There’s a rock formation nearby with a crack through it that’s too narrow for wolves, but just the right size for deer!
I look back over my shoulder and see that I’m going to get to the crack before the wolves catch up with me. I’m safe! I won! Confident, I throw a smirk at the wolves. I top it off with a wink, like the cherry on a sundae.
And then the wind shifts. I catch a scent. There’s another wolf nearby. Two others. Three.
There, blocking my escape, waiting patiently for the others to shepherd me right up to my own grave, are four more wolves.
Hopelessness.
Helplessness.
Worthlessness.
And the head of the pack: Depression.
My last thought is, “Why didn’t I see it coming?”
When there’s a double flare, when the camouflaged tiger teams up with the hunting wolves, that’s me at my worst.
How am I supposed to participate in life when I’m neither physically nor mentally healthy? How are those of us living with fibromyalgia supposed to navigate the dreaded double flare?
This is the part of the blog post where I’m supposed to answer my own question.
I don’t have an answer this time.
I thought if I wrote 600 words about it, those words would lead me to a solution. It’s happened before.
They didn’t.
That’s OK.
It’s OK. Not everything can be neatly tied up with a bow.
I’ll leave you with this:
One time, at the end of a difficult session, when I had both wolf and tiger teeth around my throat, my counselor – with all her education, experience, wisdom, and a buffet of medications – prescribed a song.
“I want you to listen to The Beatles,” she said. “Listen to ‘Let It Be.’”
