It's not until someone else says it...

Last night, I watched a documentary film called "Preemie" about a baby born 15 weeks early who lived, a 12-week early preemie who died while her twin thrived, and a 10-week early preemie who almost died. I was born at 26 weeks in 1979 and nobody thought I would live either. They've come a long way since 1979. I was that tiny, full of IV needles until I had more needles than skin, a tube in my chest to inflate my lungs. I really looked like that? Just under two pounds, all red and alien and dying to live? My battle scars are awesome.

Part of me wishes desperately that I had known, completely, what would happen to me as I grew up with even mild spastic ataxic hemilpegic cerebral palsy. I wasn't told much as a child, not that I would have understood. Mom didn't reveal some of my childhood diagnoses until I was in my twenties: OCD, ADD, Raynaud's Disease, dyscalculia,sensory integration disorder, epilepsy. It seemed ridiculous. All these things? Really? It seemed laughable. Who would believe that? Actually, not many of my friends did. Especially once the fibromyalgia diagnosis happened. I must be making it all up! I wanted attention? Fuck no, I hated people paying attention to me. Even today, I am still running against brick walls trying to explain how fibromyalgia affects me separately from cerebral palsy. In my unique case, fibromyalgia had been triggered by the trauma associated with cerebral palsy. However, I've become tired and weary of people insisting, "Just tell people you don't have fibro, you just have CP! I mean, they're practically the same, anyway." Oh. Oh, my. Ha ha ha. No.

Poor little Jo, she throws too many whiny pity-parties. Hah. Let me raise my middle finger. Yes, I do, I admit it. But not as often as they think. But I've been in a depressive episode for the past two weeks. Seeing my therapist today confirmed it, as I had denied it. I will throw myself a very small whiny pity party will some Trader Joe's cookies and dark chocolate. And then I will take some deep breaths, do some meditation, get to writing even if it's just one paragraph, and do my best to pull myself out of this episode, even if it takes another week.

It's not until someone else says it...

Last night, I watched a documentary film called "Preemie" about a baby born 15 weeks early who lived, a 12-week early preemie who died while her twin thrived, and a 10-week early preemie who almost died. I was born at 26 weeks in 1979 and nobody thought I would live either. They've come a long way since 1979. I was that tiny, full of IV needles until I had more needles than skin, a tube in my chest to inflate my lungs. I really looked like that? Just under two pounds, all red and alien and dying to live? My battle scars are awesome.

Part of me wishes desperately that I had known, completely, what would happen to me as I grew up with even mild spastic ataxic hemilpegic cerebral palsy. I wasn't told much as a child, not that I would have understood. Mom didn't reveal some of my childhood diagnoses until I was in my twenties: OCD, ADD, Raynaud's Disease, dyscalculia,sensory integration disorder, epilepsy. It seemed ridiculous. All these things? Really? It seemed laughable. Who would believe that? Actually, not many of my friends did. Especially once the fibromyalgia diagnosis happened. I must be making it all up! I wanted attention? Fuck no, I hated people paying attention to me. Even today, I am still running against brick walls trying to explain how fibromyalgia affects me separately from cerebral palsy. In my unique case, fibromyalgia had been triggered by the trauma associated with cerebral palsy. However, I've become tired and weary of people insisting, "Just tell people you don't have fibro, you just have CP! I mean, they're practically the same, anyway." Oh. Oh, my. Ha ha ha. No.

Poor little Jo, she throws too many whiny pity-parties. Hah. Let me raise my middle finger. Yes, I do, I admit it. But not as often as they think. But I've been in a depressive episode for the past two weeks. Seeing my therapist today confirmed it, as I had denied it. I will throw myself a very small whiny pity party will some Trader Joe's cookies and dark chocolate. And then I will take some deep breaths, do some meditation, get to writing even if it's just one paragraph, and do my best to pull myself out of this episode, even if it takes another week.

It's not until someone else says it...

Last night, I watched a documentary film called "Preemie" about a baby born 15 weeks early who lived, a 12-week early preemie who died while her twin thrived, and a 10-week early preemie who almost died. I was born at 26 weeks in 1979 and nobody thought I would live either. They've come a long way since 1979. I was that tiny, full of IV needles until I had more needles than skin, a tube in my chest to inflate my lungs. I really looked like that? Just under two pounds, all red and alien and dying to live? My battle scars are awesome.

Part of me wishes desperately that I had known, completely, what would happen to me as I grew up with even mild spastic ataxic hemilpegic cerebral palsy. I wasn't told much as a child, not that I would have understood. Mom didn't reveal some of my childhood diagnoses until I was in my twenties: OCD, ADD, Raynaud's Disease, dyscalculia,sensory integration disorder, epilepsy. It seemed ridiculous. All these things? Really? It seemed laughable. Who would believe that? Actually, not many of my friends did. Especially once the fibromyalgia diagnosis happened. I must be making it all up! I wanted attention? Fuck no, I hated people paying attention to me. Even today, I am still running against brick walls trying to explain how fibromyalgia affects me separately from cerebral palsy. In my unique case, fibromyalgia had been triggered by the trauma associated with cerebral palsy. However, I've become tired and weary of people insisting, "Just tell people you don't have fibro, you just have CP! I mean, they're practically the same, anyway." Oh. Oh, my. Ha ha ha. No.

Poor little Jo, she throws too many whiny pity-parties. Hah. Let me raise my middle finger. Yes, I do, I admit it. But not as often as they think. But I've been in a depressive episode for the past two weeks. Seeing my therapist today confirmed it, as I had denied it. I will throw myself a very small whiny pity party will some Trader Joe's cookies and dark chocolate. And then I will take some deep breaths, do some meditation, get to writing even if it's just one paragraph, and do my best to pull myself out of this episode, even if it takes another week.

It's not until someone else says it...

Last night, I watched a documentary film called "Preemie" about a baby born 15 weeks early who lived, a 12-week early preemie who died while her twin thrived, and a 10-week early preemie who almost died. I was born at 26 weeks in 1979 and nobody thought I would live either. They've come a long way since 1979. I was that tiny, full of IV needles until I had more needles than skin, a tube in my chest to inflate my lungs. I really looked like that? Just under two pounds, all red and alien and dying to live? My battle scars are awesome.

Part of me wishes desperately that I had known, completely, what would happen to me as I grew up with even mild spastic ataxic hemilpegic cerebral palsy. I wasn't told much as a child, not that I would have understood. Mom didn't reveal some of my childhood diagnoses until I was in my twenties: OCD, ADD, Raynaud's Disease, dyscalculia,sensory integration disorder, epilepsy. It seemed ridiculous. All these things? Really? It seemed laughable. Who would believe that? Actually, not many of my friends did. Especially once the fibromyalgia diagnosis happened. I must be making it all up! I wanted attention? Fuck no, I hated people paying attention to me. Even today, I am still running against brick walls trying to explain how fibromyalgia affects me separately from cerebral palsy. In my unique case, fibromyalgia had been triggered by the trauma associated with cerebral palsy. However, I've become tired and weary of people insisting, "Just tell people you don't have fibro, you just have CP! I mean, they're practically the same, anyway." Oh. Oh, my. Ha ha ha. No.

Poor little Jo, she throws too many whiny pity-parties. Hah. Let me raise my middle finger. Yes, I do, I admit it. But not as often as they think. But I've been in a depressive episode for the past two weeks. Seeing my therapist today confirmed it, as I had denied it. I will throw myself a very small whiny pity party will some Trader Joe's cookies and dark chocolate. And then I will take some deep breaths, do some meditation, get to writing even if it's just one paragraph, and do my best to pull myself out of this episode, even if it takes another week.