My pastor, although trained in psychology, was reluctant to use clinically-given diagnostic names to illnesses because he did not like the use of labels. However, the LCSW, had a different opinion. “People want to know,” she said, “it gives them the feeling that they are in control.”

Many people resonate with her opinion, including myself, precisely because knowing gives one a chance to know how to move forward. I understand deeply what it means to have no where to turn when needing professional assistance, whether it is for PTSD, bipolar, or fibromyalgia.

As Christians, we often say “God bless you” and are on our way. When someone continues to suffer without a place to turn to is like telling a person to take a heavenly trip. If Jesus came into our earthly existence to give us hope, how can we do any less? Let the Easter message be the haven where physical needs are met — then the spiritual ones are accepted more easily.

I have been saying “Hey” lately too,

to God.

Formalities just weren’t

working.

Whether or not you agree with my concept of God, you may find the irreverence of a three-letter word works well proffered as prayer. I do, especially now when an acute viral infection earthquakes my chronic pain. In this season of well-wishing, giving, and never-ending scurrying for one day of hopeful celebration, it is my prayer that you, too, will offer your own prayer to the eternal Creator Who loves you.

Lately I’ve been focusing intently on a mixed-media polymer clay art project that is building up the ol’ muscles ravaged by RSD and fibromyalgia. Every day I wake up, excited to work with Art, which competes with my husband for being the love of my life (to be fair, I know that I am in competition with my husband’s love of hunting and being a woodsman).  Art, or should I say movement in general, is so painful that it prompts my brain to say, “Why are you deciding to get out of bed today?” It is more necessary that I move now than if I were completely healthy because I have little to no reserve healthiness to fall back on. So, I kick my feet out from under my bed covers each day and mentally prepare for the fight.

However, it has not been as much of a struggle as dealing with the pain when a friend is broken somewhere in his or her life.

Right now I have a good friend whose heart is heavy. She is what I might refer to as an “art friend” because I met her through a shared artistic endeavor. She is incredibly talented, but right now her love for art is on hold. Her spirit and heart are heavy. To me, the worst part about it is that I am in another state and cannot be with her now. My humanness in dealing with illness reminds me that others are human, too, and need compassionate care. My heart cries, “How I wish I could help!” This hurts more than any physical pain I currently experience. Although art and friendships are not crucial to survival, it’s apparent they are fighting for that coveted top spot, otherwise I may not feel them at all.

This lack of energy (which helps aid said crankiness) is a classic fibromyalgia symptom. It reminds me of having the flu in that the first five minutes of every time I awaken I have a small amount of energy. I’m usually trying to cram everything and the kitchen sink into that five minutes before I crash mentally and physically and dive into the nearest cushiony landing. Once upon a time, however, I was a feisty whirling dervish of accomplished overkill like I had a fire lit on my backside and an even hotter fire to my breath. Now I am doing well to exhale fumes, sort of like today.

Today I maneuvered past the oncoming crash by putting on my all-purpose trail shoes, grabbing a spray can of Rustoleum and making a beeline for the outdoors to plant a coat of hammered copper on a metal bench — quite the uncomfortable spot for a crash landing. However, since I was already in the red zone, I didn’t even bother hosing off the dust before I began spraying away. By the time I had pulled the hose to the bench or a sponge with a water-filled bucket I would have stopped right there and not gotten back to it. I’m not “normally” like this, much preferring the most perfect form I can handle in any activity, but these days all I am doing is breathing fumes rather than fire, so I’ll take what I can get.

Wishing all the best to Jenny Ryan, whom I still think is the same witty person, only in a different, uncooperative body. May she breathe fire instead of fumes.