The Fibromyalgia Translation Dictionary
I say a lot of small, polite things during the day. Most of them are translations. The real sentence is longer and weirder, and it would clear a room, so I hand people the short version instead. Here is the dictionary I wish came in the box. Same coast, same cottage, same me, just with the subtitles turned on.
"I'm tired"
My nervous system ran a fire drill at 4 a.m. and never told me why. Everyone got out of the building. Nobody let me back in.
This is not the tired a nap fixes. This is the tired where my arms feel borrowed and my eyes have opinions about the light. When I say "I'm tired," I am being generous. The full version involves the word "battery" and a small grief.
"I'm fine"
I can text you back. I cannot stand through this whole conversation.
"Fine" is the most flexible word I own. It stretches to cover a decent morning and a bad afternoon and everything in the fog between. If you want the real reading, watch whether I am sitting down. Sitting "fine" and standing "fine" are two different countries.
"Maybe next week"
I am saving us both from a cancellation I can already see coming.
I am not being vague to be difficult. I am looking at the week the way I look at the water, reading the small signs, and I can tell the plan and the day are not going to agree. "Maybe next week" is me being kind early, before the guilt gets expensive.
"I just need a minute"
I need to sit in the car in the parking lot until the gray lifts enough to walk in.
The minute is rarely a minute. The minute is however long it takes the fog to thin from "cannot find my keys" to "found my keys, mostly know where I am." Please do not start a timer.
"Sorry, what were you saying?"
Brain fog walked off with the end of your sentence and I have been nodding at a blank space for several seconds.
I heard you. I did. The words came in, got soft around the edges, and dissolved before I could file them. Say it again and I will catch it this time. Probably.
"It's a good day"
The weather inside me cleared for a few hours and I am spending the whole window on purpose.
A good day is real, and I will not waste it explaining itself. If you catch me out at the tide pools looking like a regular person, this is what happened. Do not ask if I am cured. Just hand me a coffee and let me have the sun.
A short coast glossary
For the days I run out of regular words and reach for the water instead.
- Brain fog: the marine layer. Low, gray, here whether I packed for it or not.
- A flare: a sneaker wave. No warning, soaked to the knees, standing there wondering what I did to deserve it.
- A good window: low tide. The good plans go here, fast, before the water comes back.
The whole dictionary really has one entry, repeated. I am translating a body that does not speak in polite sentences into something you can hear over coffee. When the short version slips out, you now know there is a longer one underneath, and that I trusted you enough to spare you most of it.