Fighting fibro is one of the hardest things I've ever done. I'm a type 2 diabetic, and for whatever reason, controlling my blood sugar seems almost easier than this. Ironically, I'm sure how I feel physically--all of my fibro symptoms--cause kinks and problems with my blood sugar.
When I first found out I was diabetic I froze. In that moment, what I had believed to be true had been confirmed, and I was convinced I was going to die with the next mouthful of food that I ate. If I ate bread or drank juice or God forbid, tasted ice cream, I was doomed to a life of amputation and early demise. That was nearly twenty years ago, and through the wonders of modern medicine (and the occasional push from myself) I'm still here.
Fibro, though, is so much harder, because managing my stress level isn't just an option anymore. It's a need. And in facing that need, I'm having to face some open wounds that I've left alone for too long.
We all know that infection can set into a wound that isn't treated appropriately. And thus I find myself contemplating a variety of old injuries that are still laying heavily on my soul. Most importantly, the one injury I can't seem to walk away from--my last job before we moved. The anger, the injustice, and even the sadness overwhelm me when I think of that job. I can't let it go and I can't hold my head up because of the way things were left. I chose to accept somebody else's reality when I was there to make an easy exit instead of standing up for what was right, and I've had to live with the guilt and disgust ever since.