When I was younger, I thought I could do anything. I was always in the top classes at school; a model student; an excellent athlete; a wonderful writer, and a gifted singer. Being perfect and keeping everyone happy was the center of my life. Through all this, my head remained on my shoulders, and I was actually quite shy. Things just seemed to come naturally to me. I ran like a cheetah, swam like a fish, and sang like a nightingale. My high grades came easily, and I rarely studied hard.

Yet suddenly, this all changed. My perfect world was crushed when I was around 13, as I became very ill during the last month of 8th grade. Every single bone in my body screamed out in pain, I was irritable, and very tired. That's when the endless stream of doctors began. I saw rheumatologists, psychologists, and specialists galore. Much to my dismay, no one knew what was wrong. The worst part was that many of the doctors didn't seem to care; they just wanted my money! My usually calm, peaceful personality turned dark and skeptical--not only of doctors, but of people in general. After getting such a bad response to my illness, I decided I was on my own and built a wall around myself.

The next few years were very turbulent, because I was subjected to more terrible doctors who said the pain was all in my head; that I had created it! Being constantly battered between these different ideas was really beginning to have an affect on me. I withdrew even more, alone with my pain and nothing else.

However, my spirits lifted somewhat when my podiatrist suggested light physical therapy. I was desperate, and willing to try anything. My treatment began as an hour of simple exercises 3 times a week, and grew to five days a week, 2 hours a day. This was because a new rheumatologist seemed convinced that I was just terribly out of shape. I did greuling exercises even in the worst pain, and this continued throughout the summer of my freshman year.

Around the end of July, my spirits fell to the floor again, as I realized that all of my exercise was doing nothing. I guess I had known for awhile, but I refused to admit it. Nevertheless, I was now ready to give up. Why should I kill myself with physical therapy everyday when it did nothing? Why should I have to live with this constant, unbearable pain?

A lot of my fears and resistance came from a lack of knowlege. No one knew what was wrong, so no one knew how to treat me. Most importantly, I felt alone, as if no one understood just how much I hurt. I have to say honestly, there were times I actually thought about giving up. I mean, how much more could I take? Why was this happening? I had never had to fight and work this hard before; things just came to me. So why wasn't this going away? I was Tracy Janicek, Queen of Perfection--what had happened?

The summer passed way to quickly as usual. Instead of feeling a sense of satisfaction from everything I'd accomplished, I was angry. Some of my friends had had summer jobs, but I was just in too much pain. Either that, or I was at physical therapy. I was terrified at the thought of starting another school year in pain, but I steeled myself for the tenth grade swearing no one would know.

The beginning of the year was extremely difficult, both academically and emotionally. Sometime during mid-October, I saw a new rheumatologist named Dr. Knee. It was he who diagnosed my symptoms as a chronic illness called Fibromyalgia. Like the name, its symptoms are confusing and vary quite frequently. Dr. Knee did not mince words; he was up front and truthful about my future. I would be experimenting with different medications, and possibly trying a sort of relazation therapy to help me deal with the pain. He admitted that life would be tough for awhile; I would have to understand that there would be things I just couldn't do anymore. He told me to accept the pain, because it would be a part of me for the rest of my life. Although remissions were possible, they were unlikely.

I do not think words can truthfully describe how I felt at that point. The slightest bit of hope I'd had for a cure vanished. Yet I would not let anyone know my feelings. In fact, the only time I cried was in front of some friends when I told them what had happened. Even then, it wasn't much, and I never told them everything. I was in denial.

The next few months after that were incredibly difficult. I was withdrawn, tired, angry, depressed. My grades suffered terribly even though I tried. Dr. Knee had put me on several powerful medications with awful side effects. My friends stuck by me, though I don't think I was much fun to be around. No, I was alone, afraid, and knew I would not survive. The only thing (besides my friends) that kept me going was falling into my world of music.

Later, new symptoms appeared, such as shortness of breath and horrible chest pain, which prevented me from singing. By that time, I was very close to ending it all. From where I stood, there was nothing left--so who cared? For months, I begged god to give me my life back, claiming he had no right to take it from me. I was nothing. I had not been swimming, running, or getting good grades for over 2 years. Now my voice was gone, replaced by a terrible ache in my chest. If was as if all I had lived for had flown away, and in their place was this horrible pain.

Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, they did. I was subjected to yet another MRI, because the previous one showed suspicious spots on my brain. By that time, I decided I was going to die; that I would not have to do it because nature was taking care of it. Although my teachers had been somewhat informed of my condition, I did not mention this new information.

For the longest time, I wanted to tell someone; to have their support. I did not want to be alone anymore. Yet I could not bring myself to do it, and spent much time alone. I was convinced that I would either die or become horribly crippled by FM. I could not stand the thought of not being independent. I was scared that the world would go on without me, and I would die without doing something meaningful.

Finally, I hit rock bottom. While in school, I realized I didn't care about anything anymore. I hadn't done any work, but I didn't care. I was going to die. After awhile, I became afraid of this lack of feeling and was very lucky to find someone to talk to. She was understanding, and for the first time, I had hope. I knew then that I had real support from everyone. She had given me the strength to face the MRI, and whatever consequences it brought.

The different medications had dreary side effects which altered my mood and train of thought. I refused to accept my diagnosis and tried to pretend I was fine. However I could not keep up the charade for long; I needed help. I had shattered a window out of frustration; cried, denied, even contemplated suicide. Now it was time to stop.

Those words are easy to say, and easy to write, but not easy to carry out. I gave way to frequent panic attacks from my problems and would burst into tears each time, begging god to cure me or take me away. No matter what anyone said, positive thinking was not going to help me; I refused. I sank into a deeper depression, thinking of all I used to do and how useless I'd become. I tried desperately to make deals with god, praying for my life.

There were so many times I just wanted to break down and tell someone how I felt. I was too stubborn to ask for help; I felt I had to do this on my own. Furthermore, how could I explain to my friends (or anyone) how empty I had become, and how it felt to lose everything? How could they understand?

Once again I was saved by another godsend. She reassured me that I did have everyone's support. To this day I can still remember her words of wisdom and advice. They are now followed every day. From this special woman came the strength I required to admit I needed help. I began seeing Dr. Mitnick, a psychiatrist. While I had seen one previously, I didn't respond because I didn't care. This time, though, I slowly began to talk.

Dr. Mitnick placed me on another medication and finally, the combination began to take effect. It had taken months for the medicines to kick in. There was slightly less pain, although it was far from gone. My attitude warmed slightly. Yet as I began to feel some relief, I became upset again because I knew I would never be able to do all the things I could before. This caused great frustration. All I wanted was to be able to rewind to two years ago, when I was healthy, so I could start over. I had lost over 2 precious years of my life to this strange illness, and I wanted them back.

Unfortunately this was not possible which caused another wave of hopelessness. How could I ever go back to being number one when I was still so sick? It just wasn't fair! To make thigs worse, the pain came back soon after that small reprieve. However, now that I was in Dr. Mitnick's care, it was easier for me to deal with what had happened.

Now, nearly four years later, at age 17, things seem to be getting better. It is a slow process which will take an unknown amount of time. Yes, I am still in pain, and do become tired easily. No, my grades are not quite as high as before, and sports are nowhere near my league yet. But I can and will get the most out of my life. There is so much I want to do, I cannot stop now!

I will be forever grateful to those who supported me, and helped me even when I was as stubborn as a mule. I've learned a lot from my experiences, and I'm sure there's more to come. I've realized that just because you ask for help does not mean you are weak; it's actually a sign of strength. And no matter what, you cannot stop fighting. I know I will still have bad days, and I still wonder if I will ever be totally cured. Although I will never stop wishing I could be well, I cannot dwell on it any longer; it is time to move on. Fibromyalgia, or any chronic illness, is not a death sentence. Even if I do go into remission, I will never be quite the same as before. Fibromyalgia has made me stronger, and taught me not to take things for granted.

As I think about it, I realize I was never fully challenged when I was younger; things just came to me. I consider Fibromyalgia to be my challenge, and I have to work very hard to win. And I believe I can. After all, I may not be able to do everything I could before, but I am still Tracy Janicek.

Untitled
A man of about twenty-three awakes to shrill cries.
The sheer terror that haunts his dreams is ever present
During his hellish waking hours.
His only comfort
Is the cold sweat he endures each morning.
He smells danger
In the air,
But cannot cease
To breathe in the poison he has helped spread.
War:
Confusion;
Strife;
Open-armed conflict between nations or states.
The profession,
Science,
Art,
Of military operations.
Webster's did not do its definition of war justice.
Justice,
He thinks bitterly, failed to include:
Rage;
Insomnia;
Insanity;
Casualties.
Hundreds wounded,
Thousands dead,
Blindly following
A jaded nation,
Executing commands
Sent by a zealous man
Who cries
"For the good of the country!"

Blind

This poem is dedicated to my mother, from her daughter who has learned not to take anyone or anything for granted ~ Tracy

Remember the days
When Big Bird had all the answers?
When Grover was your friend and
When Oscar the Grouch was the only garbage man you knew?
When She was your hero, and She protected you like the frame that surrounds your nursery school diploma.

She says, "My dear, I shall always be here."
Your young mind does not grasp Her full meaning.
All you know is Big Bird, Grover, and Oscar are waiting~
So you skip to the couch, tune Her out, and tune in your friends
As She looks on with the world in Her eyes that you cannot see.

Now all your old friends have moved away.
But it's okay, new friends are near,
Like ponies and kittens
And the baby that stares blankly with his lifeless blue eyes.
Not to mention Melissa and Billy who share your love of swinging oh so high.
But She's still your hero, and she protects you like the box that holds your tiny lost tooth for that long-awaited fairy.

"I've so much to tell you," She whispers.
But you can't understand, so with a kiss you return to your land of fantasies,
As She watches you fade into the sunlight with a wistful smile.

Suddenly you straighten your dress and stand anxiously in line.
They call your name, you hold your breath, and make your entrance.
Melissa and Billy encourage you along with Karen, Laura, and so many more.
In your hands you clutch the reward of your efforts,
But She is still your hero, and She protects you like the frame that surrounds your new diploma.

"Congratulations," She chokes on Her words, and Her pain is clear.
"I need you to know," She begins, but Temptation pulls you towards the celebration.
Confused, you return only to give Her a brief hug which She attempts to return.

Soon Melissa's changed, and you strive to grow as well~
But at the same time hold Her hand.
You can't seem to let go, nor can She.
Though full of doubt, She must still be your hero~
But Her protection is failing.

"Understand dear, you are most precious to me." But you do not believe, and drop Her hand, running to the safety of your own world.
And the tears you shed this time are mopped up only by the forbidding night
As She watches helplessly.

New friends come and go, daring you,
But old friends invade your mind: Big Bird, Grover...who was the other?
You struggle to remember what they said, and slowly you do remember~
But what scares you is the blank that comes to mind when remembering what She said.
She's no longer your hero.
She cannot protect you, and you're fair game.

"Please say you understand," She pleads, trying one final time,
And still you don't hear.
So you go on your own, your only friends Confusion, Hurt, Frustration~
Where did everyone go?
You search and search to eventually find Them,
And in your search, you stumble across Her.
She beckons to you but you ignore the troubled world that lurks deep in Her eyes as She looks on.

Finally you return to Her, hold Her hand once again,
Full of regret and trying to forget the past.
You realize She is your hero, and She was always there ~
But you had been blind to your protection.

"Please listen," She murmurs, gasping for air.
You grasp Her hand firmly and nod your head yes.
As you lean forward, Her hand grows limp,
And you realize you're too late~
There's nothing more to listen to.

Untitled
My last connection to the ethereal plane
Remains tangible only by thought.
Understand where I am coming from,
Locked inside an eternity of solitude!

You mortals have been mislead
With lyres, harps, angels
To assauge your fears--
Fears which propel you to a "holy" temple on continual Sundays
(Or random Sundays for the guilty).

But I can tell you--
Or I would, if my connection was that other than in my imagination--
The truth we seek above
We come no closer to obtaining down here.

And this is not "hell", as celibate men preach to instill a fear that chills the soul--
In fact, such sermons do not prepare for the terror i wish to relate:
Fear not the wrath of a man who exists in your mind.
He will not comfort you when in the end, you are confronted with your greatest fear:
Utter loneliness.

Go back

"here baby, let me pet your hair." hell yes. and any time anything went wrong I would run to a woman. when I was robbed. when I was sick. when I was violated. when I was broken. a bosom. now the challenge would be to run to a man when the who-do-i-turn-to shit hits the fan. ~ Alanis Morissette

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