I’d never heard the term fibromyalgia when I was first introduced to it.
A perceptive physical therapist commented how tender I was everywhere—that slight pressure was painful— and that the exercise was making me worse, not better. She asked about my sleep, my mental health, and if I’d been through any trauma. “Have you ever heard of fibromyalgia?”
That day, I researched. About two months later, I was diagnosed by a rheumatologist. I had this unfamiliar sense of self realizing I had this new definitive label for my life experience.
Each doctor I met told me who I was and who I could be. I was given limits, restrictions, and told to “let go” of my future plans. The sense of self, the me I thought I knew was eaten and digested. I’d grow again in some new form.
I had to relearn what it meant to be in this body and acknowledge my physical self. I had to start listening. I had to learn how to take adversity and use it to be productive. I had to start again. I started by looking at mushrooms.