Getting completely well is harder than I thought. I am so close to the end yet farther away than ever. This is where I should get some kind of power surge, both mental and physical. I am sputtering. No surges here. Instead, my head and body seem united in a small rebellion. Anyone who knows me well has seen how hard I work at getting better. Clean eating (and by clean, I mean no gluten, dairy, sugar, processed food or caffeine. Go on, try it. I dare you), early bedtimes, naps, gentle exercise, mindfulness, and strict adherence to taking my medications. I’d give myself an A+ in this, until now. Now I find myself skipping my medications. I ate dairy the other day. It did not go well. I had half a drink on a date, and it was delicious (it was also a great date. I want to see him again, see if the chemistry holds, but Trump fucked that all up). The alcohol didn’t affect me as much as I thought it would, but I had maybe half a shot of a Rusty Nail. God, I love a good Rusty Nail on a cold winter’s night. I eat too much or too little. I eat chips for lunch sometimes.
Maybe this is to be expected, a more realistic path than the monastic life I have led for the past two years. Maybe I am frustrated, and tell myself “what the fuck, it doesn’t matter. After all I’ve done, I’m still sick.” This is a dangerous time for me. I have to be able to see the light at the end, and it’s not there. Why is healing so hard? Why does Lyme have to be so goddamned hard? 90% is no better than 50% for living a life. In some ways it’s worse, because you get a glimpse of a normal life again, but can’t quite do it. In a sick way (sorry, bad pun alert!), nodding off on the sofa was preferable, because I had no choice in the matter.
How did I handle this in the past? If I look back, I always hit this stage at some point post-surgery. After my ACL replacement, I hit rock bottom around three weeks after. My ex, an old hand at taking care of me after surgery, knew my pattern well. He brought me a dozen oysters and a bottle of Pouilly Fuisse (or fussy pussy, as it was known in our house). It helped tremendously. Lyme is different. I get a string of days where I think this is really it, this is the end. I’m going to feel great. Then I don’t, and I don’t know why. This turned into a bit of a whiny rant, hasn’t it? I don’t care. And that is at the heart of my rebellion. I think I am mentally tired of being positive. I also think the political turmoil that is Trump has been soul-sucking and spiritually exhausting. I’m going to have to find a way to tap into some good juju.
Update: I had an acupuncture treatment this morning. There are reasons I don’t feel well, and they are spelled h-o-r-m-o-n-e-s. Ha! Held hostage by my body once again. By the way, acupuncture rocks. It’s hard to find the words to describe the way it feels. For me, after the initial shock of some of the needles, (if your liver is flaring up, the needle zings as it goes in, and not in a nice way) it’s like a warm electric current flowing through my body. She cradles my head and does acupressure up and down my spine, neck and hips. It is heaven. Oh yeah, she said relax, give yourself a break, you’re only human. I think I’m gonna be alright.
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