Tea & Whiskers: Not My Strength, But His

When I was first diagnosed with fibro my Mum took me along to a fibromyalgia meetup at Arthritis SA. I was all of nineteen, fresh off being unable to remain at university doing Creative Writing, despite trying so very hard to remain, and enjoying myself there.  

The moment I stepped into the room I felt a sense of dread. I remember sort of just halting my step a little and taking in all the other women around me, realising I was the youngest one there. All I could focus on were the mobility aids, and I felt terror.

Was this it? Was I going to end up needing a walker, or a wheelchair, or a scooter like these women?

The fascinating thing was, that meetup was actually about physical therapy and exercise and it’s benefits for people with fibromyalgia. An exercise psychologist came in to give a talk, however the women in the group spoke only about how much pain they experienced, how it was impossible to walk, let alone even consider exercise.

I left that group frightened and terrified of my future. I got back into the car, told my Mum was I never coming to another meeting, and I made a solemn vow to myself that day: I would keep walking.

I do not doubt the personal experiences of those women in that group. One hundred percent, they all must have endured great pain. I know this, because pain is also my own daily battle. I consider myself a rather active person; I go to the gym five times a week. I really love it. In another life, I like to think I’d have gotten into proper female elite weight lifting.

But here’s the thing, sometimes – I falter. Sometimes, my legs sort of, stop working. I don’t know if it’s inflammation, if its just nerves all misfiring, if it’s pain overwhelming the system – no idea – but it’s scary, and it throws me back to that room, at Arthritis SA.

I hate the pain. I hate waking up in pain. I hate going to sleep in pain. I hate that right now, as I’m writing this, all I’m feeling is a burning pressure all through my legs. It never, ever goes away. It’s exhausting. It got overwhelming recently, and I wasn’t sure what to do with myself. I get frightened of the future, a future I am unsure of, that I can’t grasp, or see, or even now hope for. I get frightened of ending up alone, and I have no idea how to handle that fear when it becomes unbearably overwhelming. So, it consumed me.

I went to bed Saturday night rather a bit of a mess, dreading the week ahead. But the oddest thing happened. I woke up Sunday morning with a single thought looping in my mind; ‘Not by your strength, but by My strength.’

I sat on the edge of my bed with that single thought echoing over and over.

Oh—

I’d been doing it again. I’d been trying to hold myself up, trying to get through life by my own strength, and now I had none. How silly, how foolish was I.

I laughed. I actually laughed.

And then I stood to my feet and got dressed and promptly told myself that no matter what the week brought, I was not the one holding this body together, it was Christ holding it together. Every nerve, every muscle, every atom—whatever—is held together by Christ, therefore, it matters not how much pain I am in.

I will walk.

Because it is his strength by which I do so.

It has nothing to do with me.

I promptly went and leg-pressed 200kg that day, despite some horrendous knees.