There are two me dealing with chronic pain in completely different ways.
I accept my condition. I surrender to the fact that I may have to live like this forever. I look for ways to soothe my body through conscienscious reflexion, movement, breathing, eating. I live in my head, constantly reminding myself that my pain is not me; it’s just a roomate. I smile, I dress up, I make plans, I stretch in front of others, I bring my cane to dates, I shop for bikes hoping I can eventually use one. I am deeply thankful to those who offer help, inclusion, company. I fortify this precarious serenity despite the unavoidable uncertainty of what is to come. I hold on dearly to my dreams and aspirations. I look for purpose. I cry when I need to.
My soul is working 24 hour shifts on this practice.
I refuse to accept the idea that anyone should carry on living in constant pain. I curse my condition from the deepest, darkest places within me. I am angry at events passing me by for which I had made a committment; a friend’s birthday, an engagement party, a family reunion, an interesting conference, a work project I considered dearly, the beginings of a meaningful relationship. All these gatherings I must miss and will soon be excluded from. In my house I remain shifting from bed, to couch, to floor, to bath. Waiting, waiting, hoping for it all to pass so that I can be myself and live again. I don’t know where to devote the precious instants in which I am functionnal; should I squeeze in a quick email, a salad, a 3 minute walk, should I be getting myself on a bus, just to get out? When do I get a break?? When will they figure it out and give me my body back? I’m sick to the stomach thinking of another hospital visit, another unaware professional who will offer nothing but pills, pills, shots. I’m exhausted. I’m tired of telling my story. I hate my parts, I dream of them getting chopped off.
My ego is at war with my biology.