I don't think you get it, when I tell you I'm in pain. I'm not saving this to be whiney or get out of doing something other than lay in the bed. I'm saying it because just moving kills me. My from my head down to my feet, I feel like I've been run over with a truck several times. I feel like a statue that came alive and is learning how to walk. You asked me when the last time I bathed is, truthfully? I don't know. Yesterday I got in the bath and sat down and couldn't pull my arms up to wash myself. I couldn't reach down and soap my legs. I don't know if you know, but I'm trying. I'm trying hard to put on a face that doesent scream that I'm miserable. Every day you ask me what's wrong, and I say nothing because my answer is always the same. 

"It hurts."

What hurts? 

"Everything"

I don't know what I did to deserve the shitty hand I've been dealt but I'm doing my best. 

I'm unrecognizable to myself. I don't do anything other than lay here. I don't go out on the weekend to get some froyo, I don't ask to go for an adventure.  I don't tell you I have this elaborate down to the minute trip planned, because I know that I won't be able to do it. 

Going to the store is a task, walking around for longer than 10 minutes my feet start to swell and my bones remind me it's time to go back in the bed. One simple workout will set me off for at least a week.  And In that week I could have had a good day. I LIVE for good days. Because I don't have many. I can go to the store and try on some new jeans, or I could maybe go to he craft store and find something to keep my mind occupied. 

I wouldn't ever wish this on anyone, because the saying is that if you're good, in the end you get to go to heaven, but what if you're already in hell?