When I was diagnosed with fibro, a lot of things didn’t make sense, but some things did. Some things made less sense than before, since I thought I’d had them figured out. And some of them made more sense, with the understanding of my disease.
One of the things that made more sense was my thoughts.
Now, I’ve never had thoughts of killing myself, and even at my worst, on medication we learned exacerbated my depression, I never have. But my brain does ask some of the strangest questions unexpectedly, like:
What would happen if my car drove off a cliff?
What would happen if this saw jumped back at snagged me?
How bad can it really hurt to break an arm?
All of these are questions I don’t actually need to know the answers to. I’m old enough to divine the answers based off past experiences, and I have no desire or need to hurt myself. But the thoughts, inexplicably, were there. They came as quick as they would go, often in moments where there was no contextual reason for them to be popping up.
Chronic pain numbs you to other types of injury, in a way. Your new normal becomes constantly hurting, and there’s no way to mend it. Having a name for fibro didn’t make it easier to deal with, but it made it easier to understand; naming your demons makes them controllable, so to speak. I began to understand that my body was reminding me that it hurts, in loud, cohesive thoughts. A worse injury couldn’t possibly hurt more, could it?
But more than that, I knew it wasn’t something to ignore. I would acknowledge the thoughts and follow them to their conclusion mentally. If my car went over a cliff, depending on how far down and what obstacles it met on the way, X could happen, or Y. Talking to my subconscious was a useful tool before, and it became so whenever my mind would be assaulted by intrusive thoughts.
Well, I say intrusive thoughts, but they actually have another name. Stray thoughts. Only we call them differently, because stray thoughts are usually not detrimental to life or limb if you act on them. They don’t cause anxiety.
I’m anxious enough without extra thoughts adding to it. But I’m also a writer. I can’t shy away from it, but I can use it.
And why not? I’ve been using anxiety my whole life for one thing or another. If you’ve ever written a paper under the stress caused by last minute panic then so have you.
So I talk to myself, whenever these thoughts press in. I puzzle out information and tease together ideas. None of them are good. But in writing, sometimes you have to break a few characters before you can write a good story.
Fibro doesn’t make sense of why invasive thoughts bombard me. It doesn’t help me understand them. But even if I’m wrong about what is causing them, that’s what I’m going to continue to believe until I find a better working theory:
I’m in pain, and my body is trying to talk to me.
–Natasha
Author Natasha York 