the fiction of the fix we like to believe in answers in absolutes we like to believe that life makes sense and that everything has a cure doctors are no more than medicine men dressed in white coats suit and tie or scrubs we expect answers as they whirl around us sterile amulets draped about them my body felt torn and old simply walking and breathing hurt sleep was agony and i went to find answers my body demanded something my mind crumpled under the pressure I begged for a fix a cure but there was nothing that they could do no proven answers no proven name just a vague diagnosis, a syndrome (fibromyalgia) i saw multiple doctors different names, different credentials i tried different drugs but the cure i sought (the cure i seek) is fictional the salve to cure my screaming joints my aching muscles the exercise to quiet my body and mind so that sleep is heavy and deep the fix is only fiction is only a dream i walk with fire in my body i will smile in defiance of my ailments at least in my mind i will stand strong until fiction becomes reality
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Fibromyalgia is no joke, yo. It sucks tacks. Not mentioned in the poem is that consistent yoga helps me. As well as hot baths, hot tub, and hot showers. 1-2 weeks of a flexeril three times a day might be helping me go into something like remission, but the jury is still out on the cause of my recent remissions. It's also really hard to accept some of the limitations that come with chronic pain. For instance, I don't typically have time to shower before I go downstairs to get the kidlet ready for school; I finally got a cane to help me not involuntarily wince for every one of the 17 steps. It helps, but I surely don't want to think of myself as needing a cane... Gah. The fix becoming reality would be really, really nice.
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