the flood

Maybe it was pregnancy or maybe sobriety... suddenly my mind was packed full of things I wished I could forget. Things I had never thought about since they had happened. Life wasn't getting easier for me, especially not at work.  I was in so much pain and still feeling angry and suicidal, I worried that anything less than unwavering  support would send me right over the edge. I felt as though I couldn't talk about myself at all. Everything I had to say was negative and made everyone feel uncomfortable. Coming to terms with the fact I was going to be a mother with chronic pain was literally crushing me. At night when he left for work I would sit and cry and think about the childhood I had wished I had. I would think about the life inside me and how badly I wanted my child to grow up with the exact opposite.  I didn't want this baby to deal with any anger in our home, but that was all I felt most days. I tried to work through the overwhelming flood of memories that seemed to erupt nightly.  Memory by memory I cried for the little girl that couldn't get away. Then I would hear that knock... That knock that meant despite the miserable company I had become, I was still loved. The knock that sent me on walks in the night to go find treats. The knocks that brought an ear that wanted to hear me. The knocks that brought me laughter, joy and relief. I wasn't in less pain and I wasn't over my trama but I wasn't alone.

how my prescription changed my life.

I was told they would relieve my chronic pain, these tiny pills. "They're such a low dosage, but it will help you sleep at least" she said as she brushed off the concern i wore on my face. The last thing I wanted was to be taking some pills for the rest of my life. "Once you're sleeping at least 6 hours a night, your stress will ease up and with that your pain will dull.  Everyone with fibromyalgia takes this or something similar. There is no danger involved, just avoid drinking. You might feel tired for the first few weeks, but that will pass."  "No danger?" I thought to myself. How could that possibly be true? "She's the doctor, just try the pills and if you hate them you can always stop." I quickly pushed my worries to the side to avoid being rude. "If after three months you decide they aren't for you, we will ween you off them just to be sure your body doesn't respond badly. Then we can try something else." Before I could ask anything more, she was gone, on to the next patient. I gathered my things and slowly walked off to fill my prescription. I stood in line, trying to muster up the courage to really question the pharmacist about these tiny little pills. As I stepped to the counter my phone rings, it's important so I take my pills and continue my call.

Three weeks after beginning my magic sleeping pills and I have yet to see any magic... I wasn't sleeping better but I was always tired. Sad. Frustrated. For weeks I continued to fight, waiting for the effects to stabilise. I cried. When I wasn't crying I was angry. I would scream so violently over toast burning in the morning that I found it hard to speak at work. He stayed anyways. I don't know why. His choice in supermarkets was sometimes enough to send me into a suicidal rage and at no point did it cross my mind that some thing wasn't right. Something wasn't right. On my drives home from work I would think about how uncomfortable my skin was and plan ways to get out of it. Even if I only lived to be 50 I couldn't handle the pain for 27 more years. I knew the solution and I wasn't afraid. When I got home he was always there. I just wanted to badly to be left alone to solve my problem but he wouldn't leave.
Since he slept over every night we figured he didn't need his place anymore so we got a place together. I started to get sick. Each day was worse than the last and I began going into the hospital weekly. I couldn't stand up from sitting position or stop uncontrollably crying. I didn't eat. Finally I decided to stop taking these miracle pills.

  As I weened myself off, I thought terrible things. Things like "What if I am never normal again? What if this drug has caused me to always have these mood swings, depression, suicidal thoughts and fits of rage?" Other days I thought "What if he's had enough? What if what we have can't be fixed." Then came the realisation that even if the effects of these drugs lift, I will still have chronic pain. I will still be struggling to get out of bed and struggling to eat.

I cried. I cried so hard that I ran out of tears.  I finally realised that for the rest of my life, I have fibromyalgia.

That week I found out what the last side effect of this drug was. It made birth control not work.

the thick of it.

I sat there, holding a pee stick and shaking my head like an etch a sketch. 'How am I going to get through this one?' The phrase replayed in my head over and over. Just like most young women, I have been through a lot of moments when my life was surely coming to an end. I can't tell you how many times I have said to myself "you really can't fix this Tarah". The difference now was that I actually wanted to. I was done messing up. I was tired of chasing hurt and finding excuses to be alone. This wasn't something that I wanted to run away from or erase. This was something I wanted to run into, if only I could figure out how.

 As I sat there, fighting the overwhelming side affects of the anti depression medication, I tried to plan. I planned to pull myself together before my love came home from work so I could  tell him we were going to be parents. Then, I planned motherhood as a single self employed woman with chronic pain. I mourned the loss of the all the doors I finally opened in my career. Lastly, I googled "fibromyalgia+motherhood". I read, tears streaming down my face as woman opened up about their struggles. They spoke about their guilt for staying in bed or not being able to play. They spoke about trying medication after medication and being so tired they couldn't even read their children bedtime stories. They described a life where you can have everything you have ever wanted, but rarely could enjoy it. 

That's when I heard the key in the door, it was 4 am. I was laying in our bed surrounded by tissues trying to hide the tears. I couldn't find any words when he asked me why I was so upset. I didn't really know where to start. Looking back now I wish I had written him a list. Instead he just held me while I tried my best to fall asleep.