What I carry

     Earlier this summer I was on Criagslist looking for research studies so that I could get a little pocket money and came across a post entitled, "Do You Suffer From Chronic Pain?" Thinking of my achy knees and warped back, I clicked on the post. The study turned out to concern patients suffering from fibromyalgia. Now, I've heard of the disease however I had no idea what it was.

      Having the sometimes wonderful tool of the internet at my hands, I decided to run a quick Google search and found that fibromyalgia is essentially depression and arthritis, with the addition of excessive tiredness and sleep problems.

     While reading an extensive list of symptoms and common areas of pain I found myself murmuring, "Yup. Yup. Mhhmm, got that. That too."

     Once I began to listen to myself, "Shit," was the word I muttered.

     And I began to think of how things were making far too much sense. For starters, fibromyalgia tends to affect women more commonly than men. And my depression has existed since I could remember, about as long as my knees have throbbed at night. To top it all off, it is impossible for me to crack my back.

      My depression is physical, just as much as it is psychological and emotional.

I am fighting three battles within myself.

In French Class

I hold up a picture of my mother- ma mère.

The students point and struggle to décrites la physiologie.

Elle a les cheveux bruns courts.

Elle est jeune.

My fingertips grip table edges- hot steam rolls through my brain

Clouding up judgment.

The question is repeated

And repeated

And I know the goddamn answer, just stop asking-

Quel, quel

Quel âge a-t-elle?

I remind myself that this is no longer high school and

Rage fits are no longer okay

It’s no good having any outburst because help is never attainable these days.

And so… I can’t be broken. It just isn’t allowed.

Rubbing my forehead I conjure numbers into foreign tongues.

Elle a quarante-neuf ans…

Fighting to keep it all in tact- I learn to breathe again.