Since my 12 year bout with CFS (Chronic Fatigue Syndrome) began to subside some 15 years ago, I have had long stretches without relapses, but relapses do occur from time to time, and always bring about a great anxiety that the beast is back and back for good. I can’t quite convey how terrifying this notion is. This disease stole the prime of my life – literally, like a thief. From the age of 27 to nearly 40 I endured each day more like a zombie than as a living creature. With no financial means and no medical care, I had to drag myself though each waking moment like an ox pulling a plow. No strength, no energy, no clarity of mind or heart, just sheer dogged persistence. I would somehow make it through and then drop as soon as I got home. Weekends were mostly on the couch or sometimes lying in the sun on the front steps if it was warm enough outside. Aching all over, feeling only the urge to sleep but knowing that sleep would not relieve that urge. Cringing at every loud noise, at light, at the presence of other people talking.
Well, these relapses do continue to occur (I’m in day three of one right now) and finding an absolute isolation in it (my family did not know me during the heyday and attribute my relapses to ‘being in a bad mood’)
I found a decent website for those who are afflicted, but each CFS patient lives with his or her own version of the thing. I seem to be among the 5% who ‘recover’ to some extent, though it took so many years and I am still not finally free of the thing and doubt I ever will be.
It pulls a shade over your window to the world, a curtain within and without, blocking all light and all the world’s beauty with it.