It’s been a week since the specialist gave a name to the mystery ailment eating away at my life. Fibromyalgia is a strange word that has far too many syllables for its good. “Algia” the Latin word for pain, “fibro” refers to fibrous tissues, and “my” muscles. Fibromyalgia doesn’t affect joints or bones and is undetectable by any diagnostic imaging or blood test. Diagnosing Fibromyalgia is no easy task. Firstly every other possibility must be explored. Every direction carefully travelled with a beacon of dimmed hope that this time the reward for the journey will yield answers. In most cases after years of blindly following the winding paths through various referrals, tests, and dead ends all that is left is Fibromyalgia.
Scientists aren’t certain exactly what causes Fibromyalgia. The majority of humans diagnosed with fibromyalgia also have experienced some form of trauma which is why it’s considered a contributing factor. I don’t have to guess what invited my Fibromyalgia in, it’s there in the word itself “my pain.” Like many survivors of childhood trauma, I struggle to believe my memories. Grasping desperately for tangible evidence that can’t be refuted or denied. I was taught my memories were not enough, that I must have remembered everything wrong. I ask my support team again and again why they believe me when no one else did. How can they possibly know that what I am saying is the truth? The answer is that emotional abuse does leave marks if you know where to look.
I try so hard to believe myself, and not second guess my memories, but it’s always fleeting. Not long after every therapy session, I would begin questioning my life experiences again. I lacked the tangible proof that I thought I needed. It’s curious that like the abuse I suffered, fibromyalgia leaves no physical evidence and no tangible proof. It is a diagnosis of exclusion. When there’s absolutely no other reason to explain why you have to fight so hard to just live your life, it’s Fibromyalgia.
There’s no cure for fibromyalgia, the same as there is no cure for the years stolen from me by the parents who couldn’t love me. You can’t make either of these afflictions go away, you have to find a way to live around them. I am not sure how things will turn out and whether or not my physical health will improve, but hopefully being able to give my suffering a label will help me move forward.
I experienced emotional and psychological trauma due to my parents’ abuse and my body remembers.
When my “well-meaning” first-grade teacher helped lay the foundations for my eating disorder
First grade is a pretty big deal when you are a kid. For me, it meant going to school every day, instead of every other day, but it also meant a new teacher. It also was the first time I came to understand that I had a weight problem. I am not quite sure at what point in the year my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Robertson took it upon herself to start a program for managing my weight. I remember very clearly the first time she led me to the nurse’s room where there was a scale, a bench and no actual nurse. She informed me that I was going to begin weighing in every Monday with her to keep track of my weight. No one else in the class was selected for this weekly weigh-in, so I concluded I must be the fattest and ugliest person in my entire class.
During lunch period Mrs. Robertson would monitor what I was eating. She shot me the dirtiest of looks over the thick frames of her glasses whenever I ate something she didn’t approve of. I would be so excited to dive into my lunch box at the noon-hour break. I never knew what I was going to find and it could be anything from a peanut butter sandwich to leftover pizza. If it wasn’t fruits and vegetables though, Mrs. Robertson’s shaming eyes were there to tell me I was doing something wrong.
In my elementary school, you could buy juice, potato chips, or milk at lunch if your parents sent money. I didn’t get treats like this every day but my mom would send money for chips now and then in a little change purse. I felt like a proper adult when that little change purse came with me to school. Mrs. Robertson would take the whole class’ orders. This was the sum entirety of the input I was able to have over what I was eating for my lunch, picking the flavour of potato chips I would eat, always dill pickle in case you were wondering. She would go through making her list and when it was my turn if I said chips she would give me the look of disappointment. I felt so ashamed of myself and my body in those moments.
Slowly the shame stare wore me down. I was confused why other kids could have potato chips but not me. That’s the thing about being six years old, isn’t it? Adults are right, and so I must be the problem. After adjusting my self-esteem and self-worth accordingly I came to understand the real lesson Mrs. Robertson taught me. My value and worth are measured in pounds.
It has been eight months since I had decided to take a step back from my parents and go no-contact. I don’t think anyone makes this decision lightly, nor is it done without feeling those prickly tendrils of guilt.
Today my mother called. After last month’s Nightmare Before Christmas I had decided that her phone number had earned itself a place on my blocked callers list. It’s true that this particular boundary isn’t constructed from impenetrable materials and it’s more of a wire fence than concrete barrier. I actually felt immensely guilty that I had taken such a drastic measure.
Today she called to tell me that her friend died. Now “friend” may not be the correct term, but I am not sure what else to call my mothers 3rd cousin’s elderly aunt. I know a good many people would have me called out for being callous for not being more supportive, but those people didn’t grow up with my mother.
Holidays with tricky parents can be rather difficult. For this year I had made the very hard decision of staying no-contact for Christmas. Being no contact for the holidays can look very different for everyone. I had planned on sending a simple text message Christmas morning to each of my parents to wish them a Merry Christmas and leave it at that. Tricky parents rarely respect your plans, however.
I received a call from a friend on Christmas Eve, let’s call her Mable (not her real name). I used to live down the hall from Mable and we had become close over the years. Mable has met my parents and is aware of my situation with them. I expected Mable to call and wish me a Merry Christmas, but what I didn’t expect was for her to call me on Christmas Eve to tell me all about the fantastic time she had with my parents the day before. It turns out my mom and dad had made the one-hour trip to the city where Mable and I live to take her out for a Christmas dinner.
Thus far this is not unexpected, my mother has an unusual fascination for the aged and her going out of her way to treat one to dinner wasn’t that out of character for her. Especially one with who I have regular contact. It is a frustrating and painful reminder of the difference between being my mother’s daughter and being a person my mother is trying to engage with. I could barely convince my mother to visit me when we were in contact. There were an infinite number of barriers that stood in her way, the grass needed to be cut, she was in a cleaning mood, she wasn’t feeling well, she just had stuff to do.
This is all fine, it has to be, doesn’t it? I can’t simply go around telling others who they can and can’t associate with that’s childish. It’s just a dinner, after all, and I know how my mother is. Had this been the end of it I likely would have been fine, annoyed yes, felt the twinge of old hurts absolutely, but that’s the price I have come to associate with being born to a tricky mother. It didn’t end here though.
Mable went on to regale me with an itemized gift list of everything that my parents gave her, and then of course what she had given them, and her insecurities about not being able to give as much as she had been given. I bet this sounds lovely, how generous my parents are, giving gifts is surely a good thing and I shouldn’t take issue with it. I can’t speak to what these gifts from my parents to Mable were intended as I only know how gifts were used as a means to control me in the past.
It’s difficult to describe how it feels to be triggered back into painful points in your life. In the moment I didn’t understand what was happening. I felt immensely guilty like I was the worst daughter in the world for not buying my mother gifts, sending her cards, or visiting her. I believed all the things they told me about myself in the past, that I was self-centred and don’t think of others’ feelings. I felt a cold dark cloud of hopelessness settle into my chest.
I was able to politely end my call with Mable fighting back waves of sadness and anger. I spent the next while trying to figure out what was happening, what did I feel, what I should feel, and why had Mable called just to tell me how great my parents were. I spent the rest of the day numb, then laid awake stewing about it all night. This seemed like a covert attack, but surely my mother and father would not carry out such a thing I was just paranoid. I wondered why Mable would have done this, right before Christmas, when my therapist would be on holiday, and my friends busy with their own families.
The only thing I could think to do was call Mable and ask her directly. I didn’t want to spend my entire holiday anxiously debating the situation. I waited impatiently for it to be a decent time to call Mable Christmas morning. We wished each other a Merry Christmas and then I simply asked why she told me about her getting together with my parents. Her response was, “Well you said I could spend time with them.” Not only was this response not an answer to the question I had asked, it actually raised more questions. Now I felt that it was my fault for this entire situation since I had indeed said that it was fine for her to spend time with them. Putting aside my feelings of being responsible for this whole mess I repeated my question and stated I had been up all night and was really worked up about things. This time Mable admitted that she didn’t think and she was sorry. Okay progress, at last, I will be able to resolve some of this situation. Before I could speak another word, however, Mable had informed me that what was done was done and there was no way to change it just move on from it. My mind was once again paralyzed with a flood of emotions and thoughts, not terribly unlike the previous day. Again I politely ended the call the hopelessness growing along with a feeling of intense invalidation.
And just like that the calm relaxing Christmas, I planned with my partner slipped away. Even without contact, my mother managed to seep into my life and stir up those same fearful and hopeless feelings that I went no contact with her to avoid.
The name Alice is a French derivative of an Old High German name meaning noble. Not the born into a family with a notable status and rank kind of noble, but the good person with courage that values things like honesty and integrity. More importantly, Alice is the name of my most favorite heroine who found herself very much out of her depth trying to reason with the unreasonable.
I am not Alice, not yet anyway, but I will be soon.
While the legal name change process is a bit of a tedious exercise it’s not especially challenging provided you can collect all the required items and come up with the fees, but that’s not what’s going to change my life. That’s my part to do I suppose, healing and finding a way to move forward. It’s okay though because at least I know there is a way forward now, well I believe there is anyway.
