Fibromyalgia and Its Weird Little Games

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 A Body That Collapses,A Spirit That Refuse To

Well… let the games begin.



Do you ever feel like a Lego tower?

Perfectly built. Carefully stacked. Standing tall.

And then—out of nowhere—every single piece falls apart.



That’s fibromyalgia for me.



That’s how I explain it to my specialist. She’s brilliant—full of ideas, curious, and thankfully not a fan of unnecessary surgeries. I’m deeply grateful for that, because anesthesia and I? We are not friends.



Let me explain.



During a biopsy with a previous specialist, I was awake.

Not “kind of awake.”

Wide awake.



An hour and thirty minutes awake.



I felt everything. I heard everything.

“Give her more anesthesia.”

“She needs oxygen.”

“We need to stabilize her vitals.”



I lay there, stitched, listening, feeling, thinking: Well… this is happening.



That experience changed everything. After that, I chose my own medical team—doctors who listen, who believe me, who understand that my body doesn’t follow the rules in the textbook.



Now back to the Lego tower.



I tell my specialist: I start out tall and strong, like a perfectly built structure. But then I use too many spoons. Or the LDN gives me too much energy. I do more than my body can afford.



And then—click, click, click—pieces start falling apart.



My spine.

My ribs.

My hips.

My joints.



It starts as a flare… and suddenly I’m flat on my back for a month.



That’s life with fibromyalgia. You don’t fall—you collapse beautifully, dramatically, and without warning.



But here’s the thing about me:

I survive with humor.



I name my body parts.

My knee is Gerald.

Sometimes Gerald doesn’t work.

Sometimes his head swells up like a balloon and decides today is not the day.



And I laugh—because if I don’t, I’ll cry, and crying hurts my ribs.



Which brings me to one of my favorite moments.



At a recent rheumatology appointment, I walked in wearing tall, maroon, rhinestone boots. Very Taylor Swift. Very “I still exist.”



My rheumatologist stopped mid-sentence.



“WOW,” she said. “I love your boots. How on earth are you walking in those? I wouldn’t even be able to stand in them.”



I laughed.



I told her, “I did modeling from a young age. They taught us to walk in heels with books on our heads for balance.”



Truthfully?

I’m more clumsy in flat shoes than heels.



Comfort always comes first—but sometimes, just sometimes, I dress up anyway. Not because my body feels good, but because my spirit wants to.



Fibromyalgia takes so much.

But it doesn’t get my humor.

It doesn’t get my sparkle.

And it definitely doesn’t get to tell me I can’t wear rhinestone boots to a doctor’s appointment.



I may fall apart like Lego pieces.

But I rebuild—differently, gently, imperfectly.


And that, too, is beautiful.


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