As I write this post I’m making pizza. Is this relevant at all? Well, no. And yes. I’m making it as a celebration of sorts, because right now I feel like a real person.
When I was young, my mum used to make pizza as a treat. I don’t know how she made it, but I’ve never had anything like her dough since. When I was sick I would always ask her to make her pizza for dinner, because somehow it always made me better again. In a way, that’s what I’m going for. But also, I just really love pizza.
In a way this is a spiritual, unplanned part 2 of this post. Today I went to a chiropractor who also specializes in neurology (or something to that effect). It was another attempt at doing something, anything, to lessen the burden of my fatigue. I wasn’t expecting any miracles. We all kind of stop expecting miracles.
My chiropractor was lovely. She asked me a lot of questions and made me do some bizarre exercises to test things that I have no understanding of. Body parts were cracked, muscles were tested, and I giggled uncontrollably because I am hellishly ticklish.
When I walked out of that place, my head was clear. It’s hard to put down into words just how heavy the brain fog I have because of my fatigue is. It’s a constant pressure that, until now, stopped me experiencing the world in a way I assume healthy people take for granted.
As I stood in the baking aisle, deciding whether or not I should buy baking powder, I felt tired. But it wasn’t the usual, heavy exhaustion of fatigue. It was a real tiredness. It was a kind of clear tiredness I haven’t felt in years.
As I stood in the baking aisle, staring at baking powder, I started to cry.
The poor man next to me looked startled, even moreso when I grinned widely at him and the child picking out sprinkles on my other side. Walking home, I nearly threw off my clothes and jumped into the ocean. It just looked so green. I could feel the wind against my shoulders, I could see the golden light of the sun filtering through the trees, I could smell the sea salt — and I could experience all of this at once. Maybe that reads as normal to you, but it’s definitely not normal to me.
I stood staring at a patch of grass for ten minutes straight, tears in my eyes. It was so green.
The fatigue gives me tunnel vision, of sorts. I’ve never realised it before, but I am used to being amazingly numb to how the world actually feels. I’ve no clue if this is how others with CFS experience life — I can only speak for myself and my own feelings. I know full well that this feeling may not last — that my usual fatigue may come rushing back when I wake up tomorrow, but for now I have hope that I can feel alive again.
For now, I will eat pizza.