My back pain feels like the night sky made of nerves. Sharp pangs come out of the blue, with no rythm, no pattern. It’s traumatic, and I’m not being dramatic when I say im afraid of my own body after so many years of this .” Shark week” makes it so much worse, and today I’m shaking in my legs because of it. I compulsively tug my hair, because somewhere along the way I developed that fucked up coping mechanism. It’s better than tugging out my eyelashes, like I used to. Pain eats into you, wraps you up in ribbons of anxiety that’ll trap you in your head. I do not enjoy hiding behind my anxiety or using it as an excuse. It’s an unwelcomed aspect of myself that I’ll do almost anything to hide. I’ve got what a former boss referred to as “resting nervous face”. My best friend lives 45 minutes away from me. I drive down to see him about once a week, where he will make me a large glass of a disgusting tea that in about 30 minutes neutralizes any pain I have for about 2 hours. We don’t talk about what it feels like because we both know, and no one has to pretend they’re fine when they’re really not.
At its worst, I’ll sit almost immobilized, thinking jagged thoughts, staring into the middle distance. The anxiety I have with this pain tells me lies about my friendships, triggers my natural tendency to not share anything beyond the epidermis of my being and uncontrolled, it’ll spiral into self-loathing, remembrances of mistakes I’ve made, things I may have messed up, and I’ll take fault for things that aren’t mine to take Fault for.
I used to delete all my socials, stop returning texts. In person, I’d become sharp, turse, abrasive. That still happens, but I have to have it pointed out to me which I both hate and need.
I married a man who is incredibly brilliant, very logical,and very kind. He’ll do almost anything to help me find what I need to help myself not be in this kind of pain, but he doesn’t understand that so many of the negative things he dislikes about me stem from just years of coping without pain management or actual relief. I am filled with regret that he received a twisted version of me and lately, I’m struggling to feel good enough. I’m struggling to feel like I’m good enough to make up for my past mistakes. I am struggling to get through this post because I hate talking about this. I’ve developed some unusual coping mechanisms for dealing with my pain. I can visualize it at my own body. I can compress it, and try to move it to a place deeper inside myself that’s harder to reach.
I haven’t been comfortable in 12 years. It’s impossible to be prescribed medication at my age because everyone is afraid of the addictive properties of medications that actually work effectively. I don’t fucking care if the medication is a Band-Aid. Sometimes you need a fucking Band-Aid.
Do you understand what happens when you don’t treat people with chronic pain? You end up with dead people.
Do you understand how hard it is to be listened to as a woman with pain? It took me 10 years before someone actually did an MRI of my back. I have to permanently atrophied spots on my back from an idiot Doctor who decided to treat me for fibromyalgia instead of fucking listening to me. Everyday that this is beyond my control, I become furious and then I hide it, because no one wants to see an angry woman. Not everyday is like this. I love my life and I love the people in it. But underneath everything that you see is an explosion in a collection of tattooed and fragile bones.