I fight for one good hour. One pain-free meal. One laugh that doesn't hurt my ribs. If you are reading this and you recognize these walls, I see you. I see you dragging your heating pad like a security blanket. I see you tracking your rashes and your fevers like a lawyer tracking evidence.
I have learned the power of "Spoon Theory" to explain my daily energy ration. I have learned that "no" is a complete sentence when the warden demands too much. I have learned to find a strange, defiant peace in the quiet days. lupus detention house
Then there is Prednisone. Prednisone is the violent guard. It breaks up the fight, yes, but it also trashes the cell. It makes my face moon-shaped. It makes my bones brittle. It gives me the energy of a cornered animal at 3:00 AM, followed by the crash of a hostage negotiator who failed. I fight for one good hour
Plaquenil (Hydroxychloroquine) is the silent guard. It stands in the corner, doing its job quietly, trying to calm the riot. I don't see it working, but I know the horror stories of what happens when it leaves. If you are reading this and you recognize