My fingers annoyingly tapped the keys on my laptop.
I’d been sitting there for a while but the words didn’t come.
Think of a water balloon filled to capacity, hanging heavy just waiting, waiting, waiting to explode.
Well that is me.
I am filled with so, so many stories. I am eager to tell them, but I am often stymied by something.
Call me a pessimist, but fibromyalgia and creativity do not go together.
How could they?
Fibromyalgia = Dead Creativity?
Fibromyalgia is brain fog. It is pain. It is cognitive challenges, mind-numbing migraines and debilitating exhaustion among other equally less fine things.
How can one imagine, express freely, invent and craft with everything that is fibromyalgia?
One can, but is it truly being creative?
Could I tell a story with my mouth gagged? Or paint a picture with my hands tied?
I don’t like counting creativity if it’s restricted.
I hate giving less than my best in anything and fibromyalgia arguably makes it impossible to give one’s best.
If you can’t tell, I’m very annoyed. Give me some days and I’ll get angry. I’ll probably want to strangle my laptop, then I’ll cry. Then… I’ll go back to the start and try again.
In the final analysis
Fibromyalgia makes it so difficult to write a story with the right words, and paint a picture with the right colours.
But despite my pessimistic nature, I am always inclined to believe that there is always a way.
If there is anything positive that comes out of this situation, it’s that when the words do come, after the tireless slaving over the laptop, wracking of the brain and wringing myself dry, I appreciate every word that I manage to write. Every full stop. Every comma. Every dot over the i.
Because I know in the final analysis, thanks (grudgingly) to fibromyalgia, I have laboured in love.