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How much can I move?

It’s been a long time since I’ve written about fibromyalgia… in fact, it’s been a long time since I’ve written about anything.

As most of you will know, I recently moved house. For the first time ever, the boy and I purchased our very own flat in south London. Due to the ridiculousness of property prices, it’s a shoebox, but it’s OUR shoebox and I love it.

Image via Blue Beanie Belle
Image via Blue Beanie Belle

Moving house is a really tough experience for someone like me. I am a complete control freak and hate the idea of anyone else packing or unpacking my belongings. (My heart starts to race and I start to twitch at the very thought of it.) People offered to help and I tried very hard to be polite whilst wanting to scream, “don’t you dare touch a thing!” I bought new cardboard boxes, parcel tape, fragile tape, marker pens… you name it, I had it. And over time, I slowly packed up the house. I loved every organised minute of it.

The problem, which many fibro sufferers will know, is that packing can be a really painful business. The repetitive movements, the arching over boxes, and the lifting of heavy items really takes it out of you. I haven’t had a flare up in three months (eeek!) and I was petrified that with every box I packed, I was taking steps closer and closer to a flare.

Needless to say, as moving day arrived I was dragging my legs around the house. I drove over to the new flat, struggling to push my foot down on the accelerator (it never feels too safe to be driving in that much pain… must consider an automatic next) and then I took a seat on the empty living room floor. As the new boxes arrived and got stacked around me, there was no way I could sit there and do nothing.

See, as well as being a control freak, I’m also completely impatient. I know, I know, it’s a delightful combination. I instructed everyone to position the boxes around me so that I could unpack next to bookcases and chests of drawers with very little movement where possible.

We’ve now been in the house for two weeks. I’m furious with myself that everything isn’t quite perfect… the pictures haven’t been hung because I can’t carry them, the kitchen hasn’t been painted because I can only do it in short bursts, and I don’t have a wardrobe because I can’t face limping around Ikea for a third time in ten days.

I know that it doesn’t need to be done all at once. I know that I can ask people for help. I know these things, and yet it makes no difference. I want it done yesterday and I want to do it all on my own.

Over the coming weeks I’ll blog about the changes to the kitchen, the space-saving ideas for the bedroom, and the many delicious recipes we’ll be cooking now that we have a brand new oven. But I guess I wanted to come back to blogging with this post to remind everyone that living with fibromyalgia might be painful, might be tiring, but above all it’s really bloody frustrating.

Right, I’m off to finish the kitchen…


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