Fog is a poignant metaphor for me, one that adds an element of beauty to a symptom that plagued me for years.
I was diagnosed with ME at sixteen. And with that diagnosis came certain resignations. I knew I would be fatigued, and I had quickly come to terms with the pain. What no one prepared me for was the impact these things would have on my mental self, as well as my physical self.
It's often referred to as 'brain fog'. A pretty effective picture, right? Thoughts will be clear as day one second and then melt into the near distance the next. As if cloaked in fog. Gone. Just like that.
Terrifying, really, when you start forget the names for things. Every day things, too.
When you're looking at a pen and you know that you know what it's called. It's a pen, god damn it. But you can't, not for the life of you, pull the word out of the misty darkness that has become your mind.
Life becomes about wading through that opaque nothingness. Or otherwise standing stranded in it. Your thoughts are the one thing that are supposed to remain yours. Absolutely. But there's no part of you that ME can't warp out your control.
That was my first fight. Owning my own thoughts. I used to lie in bed, too sick to move my arms and legs, and try to remember the surnames of everyone I went to school with. Times tables. Anything. I thought and imagined my way to a clear mind.
Now, every time I get stressed and my mind is racing with too many thoughts; I remind myself of the work is took to earn that. And I breathe. I am grateful.
Fog is a cloak that conceals almost anything, but it lifts ... eventually.