Learning to Breath

My breath hisses in a short gasp, and my dog jumps back in shock and maybe a little fear. She had attempted to start our normal routine of the evening by licking my leg and beginning to curl up on the couch. Her small paw had bumped my leg when she began to settle in and searing pain had shot through my body. My muscles spasms, trying to soothe a pain that should not be there. The throbbing moves throughout my body, and the pain is not as bad when it is spread to each pain point across my joints and spine. The pain and confusion can be debilitating some days. I get lost in anger and self-pity more often than I want to admit to myself or my friends.

My body betrayed me and aged me far past my 25 years. I’m not like the people on tv who serve as inspiration porn to simpering audiences. They never stop smiling and encourage everyone around them to be the best version of themselves. Naturally, their dreams and desires are minimal; they are content and their suffering is easy for others to encounter. Their disability is a side part of their life, a plot point to help encourage the abled to improve themselves or motivate the hero to succeed. I’m just trying not to drown. When my fibromyalgia acts up, my entire body reacts as if I had been hit by a car. I have points of pain that feel like the deepest bruise from a non-existent trigger.

I lay back on the couch and try to ignore the jabs and aches. Then I open my book. The words act quickly and the faint smell of almonds and vanilla soothes my overactive nerves. The pain is there, but it does not belong to me. It belongs to the heroine who screams as she watches the love of her life fall to his death and begins dragging her own body from the wreckage. It belongs to the Lady of Lake as her lungs cry for air, and she sacrifices herself for the good of Albion. It’s the pain of the young lesbian, whose heart was torn in two for the first but not the last time. The pain is there, but now it’s ours. I’m not alone anymore. My breath loosens and the book transports me. I’m not stuck on my couch, but I get to be part of adventures beyond my shire, fly on the backs of dragons that were once thought lost, and am exploring the untouched tundra of Antarctica. I have mysteries to solve, a kingdom to save, and moral dilemmas to contemplate.

I shift in my seat and am slammed back into reality. The pain was more of a sudden ache that time. I stroke the spine of the book and hear it crack a bit (a mortal sin, I know) as my body clenched. I feel the smooth book jacket and begin to relax again, and with a few breaths, I’m not sitting in pain anymore. The characters still invite me to join them. Here I am an asset, a team member, a heroine. I don’t hold people back, I don’t get confused or overwhelmed. People want me around. I want to be around. I feel confident. Here I am not a burden, but a treasured member of the team.

With my books, I have lived a thousand lives. It is a thousand reasons to live and push past the pain. I see orphans persevere and outcasts become queen. I am not alone. I am unique. I have a perspective on the world that few can match or understand. In these fantastic worlds, my brain shifts and everything that made me hate myself and this body that attacks me is soothed. There are so many pages that have yet to be added to my journey, and I will have obstacles that need to be confronted. However, with my books this feels like the beginning, not the ending of my story.

I feel my spine relax, and my dog has finally settled down. The pain is still there, but I am in a world of someone else’s creation. The anger is riotous and not self-pitying. Here I do not need to be strong or preserverent or brave. I can just breath.