When My GP Said ‘There’s Nothing More We Can Do’

When You’re Told There’s Nothing More They Can Do. A personal journey through fibromyalgia and finding a way forward

Hi everyone,

This post has taken me a while to write—not because I didn’t want to share, but because it’s hard to revisit some of these moments. Still, I know there are others out there who may be feeling exactly how I once did: lost, scared, and unsure where to turn next.

If you’re navigating fibromyalgia or chronic illness, or supporting someone who is, I hope sharing my experience helps you feel a little less alone.

I still remember the day my GP told me there was nothing more they could do for me.

It was shortly after I’d been diagnosed with fibromyalgia. At first, hearing the diagnosis was almost a relief—I finally had a name for the constant pain, fatigue, and brain fog that had been draining the life out of me. I thought, “Okay, now we know what this is… now we can treat it.”

But then came the reality. My GP sat across from me and said they’d reached the end of what they could offer. They referred me on—again. I walked out of that appointment not with answers or a plan, but with a deep sense of being left behind.

Then the same thing happened with the physiotherapist. And then again, and again. It felt like I was being passed around, each time with fewer options, each time feeling more hopeless. No one seemed to know what to do with me.

That’s when things started to spiral. I felt completely alone. Hopeless. Scared. I couldn’t see a future anymore—just endless days of pain, exhaustion, and being misunderstood. The fear and anxiety were constant companions, and they only made my fibromyalgia worse.

The pain took over. I could hardly do anything without it flaring up. I couldn’t sleep. I’d force myself to go to bed around 1:30 in the morning, exhausted but still wide awake. I’d toss and turn, waking up before 7am feeling like I hadn’t slept at all.

Each morning felt worse than the last. I’d open my eyes and immediately think, Why did I have to wake up? What’s the point of another day like this?

I genuinely couldn’t see a way out.

But somehow, with time—and with the help of a specialist pain physiotherapist, I started to understand what was happening to me. My Wife and Sister, with their unwavering support, were there too. That support, even in the smallest ways, began to create a little space in the fog.

I began to learn that what I was feeling wasn’t weakness. It was human. I was grieving the life I thought I’d have. I was reacting to a body that felt like it had turned against me. And slowly, very slowly, I started to accept it—not to give in to it, but to accept that this was where I was, and from here, I could start to move forward.

We came up with a plan. A way to survive those rock bottom moments. To notice the warning signs before I hit the wall again. Whether that meant calling someone, cancelling a plan, or just giving myself permission to rest without guilt—those small steps mattered.

I still have bad days. Some are worse than others. But I’ve learned to talk about it, to ask for help, and to take care of myself in a way that I didn’t before. I’ve learned that it’s okay to be scared and overwhelmed—and that it doesn’t mean I’m weak or failing.

If you’re reading this and you’re in that dark place, I want you to know: I see you. You are not alone. I’ve been there. And I promise, even if it doesn’t feel like it now, there is a way forward.

That journey to managing FMS, may not be fast. It might not look the way you imagined. But it’s there.

And you deserve to find it.

Thank you for taking the time to read this. It means more than you know.

If you’ve had similar experiences—or are in the thick of it now—I’d love to hear from you. Feel free to share your story in the comments or just say hello. Sometimes even a few words from someone who gets it can make all the difference.

Be kind to yourself, and Let’s keep looking after ourselves, and each other.

Pete