Surviving the DMV with Fibromyalgia

Surviving the DMV with Fibromyalgia

dmv fibromyalgia

Dan and I went to the DMV today to get my address updated on my driver’s license. We’ve lived in this home for more than a year, but I dread visits to the Illinois Secretary of State Driver Services branch more than just about anything in the world.

And I have fibromyalgia and IBS. So yeah.

While I sat waiting for an hour in a very plastic, very uncomfortable chair, I started feeling a little lightheaded. This happens to me frequently, but it’s more panic inducing to feel like you might lose it in public.

Oh my god, oh my god, ohmygod. What if I fall out of this chair and end up kissing those baby blue asbestos tiles? What if the mean lady who is yelling at everyone to sit down kicks me out because I’m not following her instructions? Why the heck aren’t there any Pokémon here?

“Number 63!”

If I was a homebody before I got sick, I’m downright reclusive now. But I was wearing my big girl panties this morning, and I endured. I took a few deep breaths and tried to sit tall to get more air. Eventually I had my temporary license in hand and a promise that a real license would be mailed to me in about two weeks.

The temporary ID should be good enough for my medical marijuana card application, but I’m preparing myself for the very real possibility that IDPH will tell me some part of my application isn’t valid. Because that’s how they do.

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