Last night I went to bed at eight pm. I did this because I was starting to feel really cranky and achey and I was hoping that a few extra hours of sleep would level things out for me, and I could go back to pretending that I was so totally kicking Fibromyalgia’s butt with my positive thinking and mad physical therapy skills.

As reality would have it, I had been having some very good days. The pain was minimal and localized. The crankiness, while apparent, wasn’t the kind that made me want to go pull my covers over my head and die. I could push through the level of exhaustion I was at, because it wasn’t all that bad. I’m not saying I felt great, but I was feeling average to decent symptoms, and I can live with those. In other words, I wasn’t kicking anybody’s butt, as I liked to think, I was merely enjoying a small respite while Fibromyalgia was off getting her nails done and her coochie waxed.

I can only assume that the waxing didn’t go well, because when I woke up this morning she was back, clearly skeeved, and going to take it out on me. It hurt to open my eyes. It hurt to lay very still. It hurt to put my socks on. It hurt to change Maggie’s diaper. It took me three tries to clean the kitchen, because I NEEDED A FREAKING BREAK between the crumbs and the dishes because it HURT to wipe up bits of yesterday’s dinner that I left on the counter because I went to bed early hoping to avoid this exact scenario. I didn’t even shower because showering requires effort and the thought of the streams of water hitting my back made me cringe.

So today: Over before it began.