"When you are ill you are no longer interesting" - Alfred Douglas in a letter to Oscar Wilde

When I turned 27, I discovered I was Woman. Not female - I knew that already, but Woman in all her aspects, powerful and dangerous, beautiful and terrible. Seattle has that effect on a person. The Land of the Lotus Eaters, where beauty is everywhere in dark excess, and you can live in wild abandon until it consumes you. I'd never lived that life before, not even in Vegas. I had been incredibly naive before then, believing every word out of a man's mouth because women always want to believe such things. I had the demure and the violent, Virgin Mary and Kali-Ma, but it wasn't until I was in Seattle that I learned to merge the two.

Socialising is not an easy task for me. I do not hide my warts, but throw them out boldly and say "Here I am - take me or leave me." It is indiscreet to be honest, apparently. But here I was, the social butterfly in public, then flitting off to be ill in the loo because I was a nervous wreck. Creating my own style which, in a sea of dark vampire-esque loveliness that is Seattle, stuck out like someone wearing white at a goth venue - which I often did. Mad, Bad, and Dangerous to know, flirting and teaming up with men just as adept as I in finding, fucking and forgetting. It was, all in all, a very enjoyable few years.

And then I started forgetting things. Nothing vital, at first, but it was unnerving for someone with total recall. Names, at first. I chalked it up to the flurry of social activity; how could I possibly keep everyone straight? Then, instructions at work. I'd get them from the attorneys I'd worked for, head back to my desk, and realise I'd forgotten everything I'd been told, and attorneys see secretaries as machines that must always do their jobs efficiently with little apparent effort. I took to carrying a notepad, but would invariably forget that I was holding it.

The fatigue started after that - I don't mean the usual morning "I don't want to get out of bed" thing. Crushing, suffocating, destroying fatigue that lasted throughout the day and got worse, no matter how much coffee I consumed. Days when I would have to call in because I didn't think I could get out of bed. No clubbing, no coffee houses, no socialising. I couldn't have remembered their names anyway.

I found the pain started afterwards - ending my weight training and bodybuilding rather quickly. Back came the weight, and there goes the employment. I met my husband at the same time I got a diagnosis - fibromyalgia.

It's a stupid word that means nothing. Fibromyalgia means "a woman's disease we have no answer for." It means "failure". It means "possibly fake." It definitely means "You will now become half the person you used to be. If you're 30 in years, you'll feel 80. You will got to bed at night by 9pm and still feel exhausted by 7. Every joint in your body will hurt for no reason. Your strength will diminish, your writing will suffer as you will not be able to concentrate. You will be able to do nothing you used to do. And, of course, no-one will believe you've got a problem."

What fun.

I came to the UK and did recover somewhat, though I discovered the truth of the statement by that little brat, Alfred. I was ill, and no longer interesting. No clubbing for me anymore - it's painful to dance but for a song or two, and the smoke makes things worse. The weight is coming off but it's precious slow, and will never be off entirely - though I have no desire to be anything below a size 14, I'd look ridiculous. And so, I am not very active in the circle of party-all-night, drink-till-I'm-sick-then-off-for-a-curry, run-of-the-mill-pony-fall-wearing jet set of Slimelight. My ideal is the cliche candle-lit dinner and fine wine, and preferably plenty of sitting down before I start to ache.

This doesn't trouble me overmuch as I had that time, those debauched days in Seattle, those sensual evenings in the Vogue upon a velvet couch drinking beauty from the lips of whomever was lovely and willing to share something lovely in return. It would be lovely to have that again, that sprawl upon a languishing couch with a glass - not a plastic cup - of Something Red, and whisper secrets of the Crystal Cave into the ear of someone as dark, as wicked, as sensual as myself.

As long as I didn't have to get up from the couch.

LuCyFurr