I feel like a car… An aging, rusting, whining automobile. My body is beginning to behave like my husband’s car (he’s a sweetie who feels strongly that I must always drive the most reliable vehicle). I can coast alright, even increase speed, but when I brake I struggle to get back up to speed. Instead I sputter and misfire and get overwhelmed. Forget my husband’s car… I feel like my first car.

It was a 1965 Ford Mustang and I adored it. It had been in the family since 1972 and it was (still is) one of the best tangible gifts I’d ever received. But it taught me patience. The way a whiny, attention-seeking toddler teaches you patience. It fussed in the cold, even going so far as shutting down in the middle of multiple intersections just to get attention. It threw tantrums in public and often left me embarrassed and forced to deal with a situation I’d much rather avoid. But the car taught me to buck up, turn the engine over, and drive through that intersection… no matter who had seen my unfortunate incident.

Like my life with fibromyalgia, my life with “LA car,” my beloved Mustang, taught me to cope with whatever came my way. And, eventually it taught me to practice preventative maintenance. My parents helped me set up a schedule for routine maintenance, taught me how to drive in a manner that would minimize the likelihood of the engine giving up, and provided me with the tools I would need to remain safe even if the car did call it quits.  So, here I am… in my own preventative maintenance program.

First step: Rehab my home life, not just my professional life.

I will keep you posted.