If Fibromyalgia Was a Movie
Version of My Life
If fibromyalgia were a movie, it wouldn’t politely introduce itself.
It would kick the door open, steal the spotlight, and say,
“Hi. I live here now.”
The genre would be impossible to pin down.
Part comedy, part drama, part psychological thriller, with moments that feel like a low-budget horror film filmed entirely inside my nervous system.
Every day starts the same way.
Not with motivation.
Not with affirmations.
With a body scan.
I lie there thinking:
“Okay… what hurts today?”
Neck?
Back?
Legs that feel like they ran a marathon while I slept?
There’s suspense. There’s tension.
There is absolutely no plot consistency.
Fibromyalgia would be the villain you never see clearly.
One day she’s quiet enough to make me believe I’m fine.
The next day she flips the script and reminds me she’s still in charge.
She cancels plans.
She steals energy.
She turns small tasks into full production numbers.
And just when I think I’ve figured her out, she changes the rules again.
This is the part they don’t explain well.
Fibromyalgia doesn’t just hurt—it sensitizes everything.
Lights are too bright.
Sounds are too loud.
Clothing feels like a personal attack.
And emotions?
They don’t knock.
They barge in.
I cry over songs.
I cry over memories.
I cry because someone asked, “Are you okay?” with genuine concern.
People call it being “too sensitive.”
I call it a nervous system that’s constantly on high alert—doing its best to protect me, even when it doesn’t know how to stop.
From the outside, the movie looks calm.
I don’t look sick.
I don’t always talk about the pain.
Some days I even laugh.
But inside, there’s a full montage happening:
Pain flaring without warning
Fatigue stealing entire scenes
Brain fog deleting dialogue mid-sentence
It’s exhausting performing “normal” while your body runs a different script.
The humor isn’t accidental.
It’s a coping mechanism.
Because when you need a nap after showering,
when doing laundry feels like a workout,
when rest becomes the main event of the day—
You either laugh… or you break.
So I laugh.
I joke about my body.
I find humor in the absurdity of it all.
Not because it’s easy—but because laughter gives me something fibromyalgia doesn’t get to control.
Here’s the part that doesn’t make the trailer.
Fibromyalgia made me slower.
Softer.
More aware.
It taught me how deeply a human can feel.
How strength can look like rest.
How listening to your body is an act of rebellion.
I am sensitive.
Not fragile.
Not weak.
Sensitive like exposed nerves.
Sensitive like a heart that notices everything.
Sensitive like someone who keeps going, even when it hurts.
If fibromyalgia is the movie version of my life, then I’m still the lead.
Some days I stumble.
Some days I rest.
Some days I cry during the soundtrack.
But I’m still here—
learning how to live, flare by flare,
and finding ways to flourish in between.
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