It was 1 of those “good news, bad news’ sessions.

The good news?

After reviewing 30 years of my medical history, he discovered that there was “nothing wrong with me physically”.

YES, you heard that correctly!

YES, I have been diagnosed with Fibromyalgia Syndrome and Chronic Fatigue (CFIDS). So, how is possible that with so much muscle pain, so much exhaustion, there could be nothing wrong with my body?

It’s simple really.

Very recent research into the mechanism by which Fibromyalgia operates suggest that it is due to a dysfunction of the Central Nervous System (CNS). That means the problem is in the brain, not the body.

Therefore, as I understand it, the myriad of symptoms experienced by Fibromites are the result of CNS problems.

Here’s how that news has freed me up.

If there’s nothing wrong with my muscles — well, other than the fact that 14 months in bed have atrophied them to some degree — then there’s really nothing preventing me from doing stuff. Stuff like walking, hiking, running (except I don’t DO jogging), making love (except I don’t have a lover).

So, for the past 2 weeks, I’ve hiked my butt out of bed first thing in the morning. And, gone for a walk.

When I first started I could walk  for 1/2 an hour and travel 6 blocks. Now, I walk for an hour and travel 30 or more blocks. YIPPEE!

I’m pumped!

Morning walks have been an integral part of my Spiritual / Creative Practice. For it’s on these walks that I have the alone time I need to ponder, mull, and compost ideas. And, to dialogue with God Within Me.

Starting my day this way is critical because it gets me calm, centered, and focused on what’s important. And, because it connects me to Spirit.

I’ve noticed important improvements in my life. For example, on the weekend I drove to the foothills west of Calgary and hiked in the wind.  Why is that a big deal? Because normally — whatever normal is — wind provokes massive pain. And, it didn’t! YIPPEE!

What’s the bad news?

Tune in to the next post to see why the bad news is really good news.

One of the biggest is the sheer unpredictability of it. For example, 2 days ago I was able to hop in the car and drive to and from the Town of Canmore, to have lunch with my daughter. Being able to drive 2 1/2 hours round-trip doesn’t sound like much. But, for me it’s a major accomplishment. Normally, when I travel to the mountains I have to space my driving out over 2 days: driving to my destination 1 day and returning a day or 2 later.

What was even more astonishing was that fact that it was incredibly windy. Normally wind gusts provoke pain but not that day.

Yesterday was a whole different story.

The winds started blowing around noon and my ‘friend’ pain paid a visit. Pain is a ‘friend’ in the same way that a woman’s monthlies are a friend.

Over the course of the afternoon the pain ramped up until I could barely walk. The problem was that I was on the other side of the city, about 40 kilometers and a 1/2 hour drive from home base. Gritting my teeth, literally and figuratively, I drove home and collapsed into bed.

Why  bed? Well, quite simply when the pain becomes off the scale the only ‘treatment’ is sleep. Luckily I can sleep even when in excruciating pain. Many Fibromites can’t.

I slept for some 11 hours and crawled out of bed at 6:30 today. Emphasis on crawled.

Because I am in the high phase of my SAD I can operate in spite of the pain. It’s called COPING.

When severe pain strikes I am forced to go to Plan B … or even Plan Z.

I had planned to do some copywriting today. But, that requires too much creativity, too much inspiration. And, my inspiration gets blocked by the pain.

So, I have to find other things with which to distract myself.

Why distract?

Because 1 of the ways to deal with pain is to distract oneself. 1 way I do that is by writing … but not creative writing. Somehow, I am able to blog but I can’t seem to do creative writing. But, then when I am depressed I can teach workshops but I can’t market them. I guess creation just requires too damn much energy.

Other ways I distract myself include Facebooking, Twittering, reading blogs, watching videos, IMing, and  talking on the phone.

Another strategy I’m going to implement is 1 I used 28 years ago when I was clinically depressed. You can probably imagine how little get up and go 1 has when depressed. So, what I came up with was a check list of things I could do when depressed. Naturally, I created the list when I wasn’t depressed. I kept it in the top drawer of my desk at work. And, whenever I was really, really depressed I haul it out. I’d look at the list and see what ‘task’ on the list I thought I could manage to do.

So, I’m adopting the same idea now. I’m going to create a List of things I can do when I’m in pain.

Then on days like today I don’t have to THINK about what I can do, I just look at the list and pick something.

FIRST thing on my list will be, of course, TAKE A NAP!

Copyright 2010 Lyle T. Lachmuth  All Rights Reserved

I’ve tried to remember what life was like before my Manic Depressive Illness kicked in. I remember times, or at least I think I remember times, when I felt joy. For instance when my daughter was born. I remember the sheer terror of her breech birth and the flush of happiness when she was actually born, whole and sound, with a very bruised bottom.

But, today, some 28 years after my mood disorder was triggered I wonder what it would be like to be normal. To not experience the ebb and flow of moods. In particular, to not experience the painful embrace of depression. To not shuffle through the morning feeling gray and dull. To not have a part of me that wants to drown itself in the searing pain of sadness.

I have a friend who claims to have never been depressed. And, I believe that to be so. She seems possessed of an eternal perkiness, as if equipped with some special force field that repels badness, sadness, and meaness.

I wonder what it would be like to be her. To not be downed by the challenges of life. To not be sadened by the shitty, evil things we humans do to each other. To not feel dispair at the cruelness we perpetrate on each other.

I know she cares about others. It is clear from what she says and does. Yet somehow that caring never seems to drag her down; as it does me.

Part of me seems to live off the side somehow, an interested observer. “He” listens to the melancholy stories of my sad self and seems bemused; if not downright disgusted by the seemingly constant whining and complaining.

And, yet that sad part of me seems to take control on these cloudy days. She, for it seems that part is a she, feels such exquiste pain. Such deep acrid sadness that permeats every cell and molecule of my being.

The observer raises a bemused eyebrow and thinks, “Fuck. Here we go again! How long must I put up with this shit?”

And, yet somehow this sad pain seems so much a part of who I am, of who I have become.

The observer wonders, why do poets, songwriters, and artists wallow so much in pain?

And, yet somehow I welcome the sadness and pain. Not so much that it proves that I can feel. Nor so much that it proves that I am alive. Yet it is a welcome friend.

I want to drown in melancholy. I want the sadness to permeate every crevice and crack of my being. I want to take a razor and cut open my skin, slice my veins and bleed out the dark crimson sadness.

What will that accomplish? I don’t know. All I know is that somehow if I absorb all my sadness; somehow if I suck it deeply, wholely into my being; somehow if it become all of me, it will transform me.

Into what I know not.

Copyright 2010 Lyle T. Lachmuth All Rights Reserved

The warning to Julius Caesar, “Beware the Ides of March”, often comes to my mind, especially as March 15^th nears.

March seems to be a time pregnant with significance. I’m not sure if it is or not. Maybe it’s just that the events that happened in March are so much more memorable. Then, of course, there is the fact that March always used to herald, not only Spring, but the return of my hypomania.

I yearn for those easy days when I had Winter SAD and my down cycle only lasted 3 months. Oh, and when those down cycles only meant lethargy, carbo cravings, anhedonia, suicidal ideation, and crashingly deep depressions. Oh, to have those time back, when March meant the return of Robins chirping their mating calls, elevated moods, a literal Spring in my step, and the flooding, rushing tide of ideas and ambition.

Now, March is simply March. Well, maybe not.

This last week has been so fucking exhausting, confusing, an emotional roller coaster.

Then I remembered: the first half of March is, in fact, pregnant with significant dates.

March 8, 1985: My ‘failed’ attempt to kill myself by hanging.

March 6, 1986: Divorce court.

March 10, 1989: JT moves in with me, and our relationship goes to complete shit.

I’m sure there are other March events of significance, but these are all I remember today. And, certainly more than enough to evoke March Madness.

I look out the window as the sun strikes the windows of the downtown office towers and I am both grateful that I am alive and wishing that I were dead.

I forget who said that being able to hold 2 contrary thoughts in one’s brain was some kind of good thing, but I have long had this ‘wonderful’ ability to feel simultaneous optimistic-aliveness and death-wish pessimism.

It is like different parts of me want totally divergent outcomes. And, depending on which part is stronger: I am hopeful, touched with joy, and welcome the future. If, on the other hand, the dark one takes control: I am sad, defeated, crushed, and dread the next minute, hour, and day.

Such is March Madness: the ever eternal dance of Mood. Sometimes a languid Waltz, other times a fierce Tango. But never still, never silent, never calm.

And, now much worse. For a new companion has intruded on the Dance: Pain.

So, to the ebb and flow of Mood is now added the shifting sensation of Pain.

Sometimes crushing me in her embrace.

Sometimes burning with icy needles.

Sometimes both.

And, only occasionally quiet, still, silent: gone!

Beware the Ides of March!

Copyright 2010 Lyle T. Lachmuth, All Rights Reserved

I have had this urge to write but I have been avoiding it for some reason.

So, I am sitting my ass down in the chair and having a go at it.

My little old brain keeps getting distracted, wandering off to other things. And, I am distracted by the pain in my legs. And, by the feeling of sexual need in my genitals.

BUT, what needs to be written?

What wants to be said, to be written down.

I am afraid. I am afraid that I will continue to piss away endless amounts of money: trying to ‘buy’ friendship and love; trying to make a name for myself; looking for answers in books (bought at great expense); and then BLAM I will be sick in bed and AGAIN will not have accomplished a fucking thing.

What am I so fucking afraid of?

Why do I avoid working on my work?

Why do I piss endless time away on useless people like JT, LR, and GS?

Why do I avoid sitting my ass down and writing?

Why do I avoid creating and promoting a bloody workshop or something like that?

It’s not the hard work required to do those things: though it’s tempting to blame it on that.

What the fuck is it?

Why don’t I just write my memoirs, or my novel? Why don’t I just get the fuck on with MY WORK?

I am afraid.

Who is afraid?

Ah! One of the little guys inside.

The abused one. The hurt one. The sad one. The one who risked it all … and, was tortured for that.

I, TWO, am afraid.

I need to be loved. I need to be protected. I need to be nourished. I need to be nurtured. I need warmth. I need caring. I need reassurance. I need help. I need protection.

I need to know that you will not hurt me, wound me, bugger me.

I need love. I need comfort.

Tell me you love me … and mean it, SHOW it!

How?

Rub my arms slowly and softly.

Take deep breaths.

Go slow.

Ask me what I need … BEFORE you go running off, or running off at the mouth.

Remember me … and act like you do.

When you do these thiings, then I can stop being afraid.

I WILL DO these things for you … and, that IS my commitment.

Copyright 2010 Lyle T. Lachmuth, All Rights Reserved

“Mr. Lachmuth.  Mr. Lachmuth!”

“Can you hear me?”

I didn’t want to open my eyes. This dream was freaking weird but at least I  was asleep.

The voice continue, “Mr. Lachmuth. I need you to talk to me. Do you know where you are?”

Fuck , I thought.

My pain has become so bad that my family doc prescribed Morphine!

Unfortunately, due to a miscommuication betwixt us, I thought I was on ‘regular’ Morphine. Not true! I was given “Sustained Relief” morphine. So, I took it like regular Morphine. BIG MISTAKE!

I accidentaly overdosed (more on that experience later).

Thanks to a quick acting wife; a 911 call; and a very responsive EMS team I AM ALIVE! THANKS ERIN,  (EM Tech)!!

I’m still ‘coming down’ from the SR Morphine, so I am running hot and  itching like crazy (turns out I am ’sensitive’ to Morphine) till the Reactine(R) kicks in.

Sheesh! What am I NOT sensitive to?

This is a hell of a way to start the weekend.

I am going to be doing a series of posts on this subject. I will explain how this happened, in the hopes others will learn from my ‘mistakes’.

Happy Belated Thanksgiving! I am thankful for my LIFE! And, for dedicated EM Techs like Erin who loves her job! We had a great chat as the Narcan shut down my Opiate receptors — image little Pac Men (R) cruising your veins, running around shutting down the Opiate Receptors. I could literally FEEL a burning in my veins as the receptors were disconnected.

As more and more receptors disconnected, I became more alert. That’s how the EMT’s “KNEW” I’d overdosed — Narcan is THE Antidote for Morphine.

I am grateful to God that I am here to ‘tell the tale!”

I’m done for now.

Stay tuned for more insights, information, ideas, and encouragement.

I was wrong … again!

The challenge is that I’m really not sure just what’s causing the pain. No question the exceedling damp, cold morning air triggers the pain. And, once the pain has been triggered there seems little I can do make it go away.

By noon the pain had become to much and I could no longer force myself to work. So, I went to bed and napped for 2 1/2 hours hoping that sleep would ease the pain. Often it does. It didn’t!

Now is that because a thunder clap awakened me too soon? Damned if I know.

Sometimes a soak in hot water, saturated with Epsom salts (Magnesium Sulfate) helps. Didn’t today.

Sometimes sex helps. Didn’t today.

Sometimes a good brisk walk helps. Didn’t today.

Sometime a glass of wine helps. Didn’t today.

Sometimes acupuncture helps. Ain’t helping so far.

No drugs I’ve taken have helped permanently.

It helps to distract myself from the pain. That’s one of the appeals of Facebook and Twitter and other Social Media sites where I can socialize and forget myself.

But, god would I love a Silver Bullet!

Except there ain’t one.

This pain will be

The death

Of me:

Yet.

Its vibrato

Thrumming

Through my bones,

Muscles, and sinews;

Crushing bones

And

Sprit, Soul.

Till no longer

Have I

The Courage,

The Faith,

The Hope,

The Will,

To persist.

Yet,

I must.

For she calls

To me,

Her siren song

So clear.

She Calls,

Summons,

Promises,

Teases,

Tantalizes,

Provokes,

My need.

She Calls

And

I must follow.

She Calls

And

I must obey.

She Calls:

For in me

Is She

And

If I quit,

Die;

Then

So shall She.

For She

Is me

And I am

Her;

And She

Is but

The best in me,

Hidden,

Calling,

Needing me

To Champion

Her.

For She

Is my Muse;

My Erato.

And

She must speak,

And Write,

And Sing,

And

All Her glory

Claim.

So,

I persist

Despite the fears,

The pain

That sickens me,

And

Wait eagerly

To hear

Her siren voice,

Her Call;

For therein lies

Mine own

True Destiny.

- – -

Erato is the Muse of Lyric poetry.

Copyright 2009 Lyle T. Lachmuth, All Rights Reserved

For some reason he had latched onto Ralph.

Ralph was my morning coffee buddy on the cruise. Ralph, who looked 60, but was 79 was a gregarious, affable, “Eyetalian”. Now retired and living in SoCal, Ralph and I had struck up a friendship of sorts. 2 ‘old farts’ who woke with the dawn and didn’t want to disturb their roommates. So, Ralph would wander up to the Lido deck, where he had found me on the 2nd day of the cruise, and plop down across from me and share tales of his life.

OY! Such stories. But, this is Justin’s story not Ralph’s.

Some gentleness is Ralph attracted strays like Justin … “wounded boys” … like me.

Ralph had invited Justin to sit with us. So, Justin sat and began to share the sorry story of his life. 23: a meth addict, pierced, tattooed, drunk, and a cutter. He showed us the tattoo, some of which he had placed to cover the self-inflicted cut scars.

Justin was a sensitive guy who like so many sensitive souls couldn’t cope with the pain inside. So, at age 11 he started drinking. At age 13, or so, he graduated to precription drugs, and ‘blow’. By, 17 it was cocaine and ecstacy. Then came meth!

Now, at 23, the graduate of several stays in rehab, he was dreaming the delusion that after this cruise he would join the US Marine Corp. Naively believing that the Marines provide the structure that he needed. The men of Semper Fi would “smarten up his sorry ass!”

Ralph knew better but didn’t tell Justin. Ralph was a Marine and served in the Korean War. Ralph knew, all too well, that the last person the Marines would want was Justin.

I think about Justin from time to time. And, wonder what became of him.

Is he dead? Or, still drunk?

The following poem is for Justin and those sensitive souls who like him cut themselves to free the pain.

Sadness has seeped

Into every pore.

Soaking the fibres

Of my body.

Permeating every

Cranny and nook

Of my

Body, Mind, Soul.

Driving my Spirit

To the Stygian

Depths

Of Despair.

Immersed in

The honey sweet

Slime of Melancholy,

The searing ache

Of emptiness

Fills my mouth

With

Almond bitterness.

The tantalizing aroma

Of

Death beckons.

And,

The razor calls

To me.

Its siren song

Promising surcease:

The razor’s touch

Is a gentle whispering

Burn,

As the crimson

Streams of blood

Drain away

The pain;

The goddamn fucking Pain,

That is ever

So much with me.

How can I resist?

How can I ignore

Her song?

And. Yet somehow

Simply Bathing,

Wallowing,

In the chocolate sweetness

Of her

Painful embrace,

Seems enough.

For now.