pain as my constant keeper
One of the first lessons we’re taught around personal safety is that pain is a signifier. A message.
To stop doing something. That something is bringing you harm. That you need to pause and re-evaluate.
When we first bring our hand to a too-hot stove, the threat of a burn the clearest teacher. ”Don’t touch that!” it says, and we either listen, or the pain we get from touching it anyways tells us not to do it again.
We are taught that while some pain is unavoidable, pain as a whole is something that says “Stop what you’re doing! You need to do something else!” Whether that is use another tool, take a medicine, have a procedure done and there - the source of the pain is fixed.
What I severely underestimated was how a journey with chronic pain would change, warp, and make hollow these teachings that are so ingrained in us since birth for me.
Frankly, if I listened to my pain in that way all the time, I would never do anything.
I would never take a walk on a brisk fall morning, the leaves dancing about with chaos and whimsy around me.
I would never sit in a theater and watch a performance of a show that brings me to tears and laughter in equal measure.
I would never take a long road trip to see friends and family I haven’t seen in an age, to hold their babies and hug them close and feel that tenderness of love in person.
It’s also one of the hardest things to explain to people who don’t suffer from chronic pain or illness, difficult to put into words how you must re-evaluate your relationship to pain in order to move forward from diagnosis.
Particularly with a chronic pain diagnosis like mine, pain warps into a new and all-encompassing thing.
I have good days and bad days, that’s true, but most days I wake with some sort of pain greeting me first thing. On bad days, that pain can be too overwhelming to even climb out of bed. Those are the days I try to listen to the pain, try to find kinship with her, try to say “okay, I get it, rest is what we need today.”
What I find more difficult are the ”good days” sometimes.
On a day where I wake with less pain (but almost never none) my choices feel so wide! So open!
But then pain comes in, whispering so quietly, reminding me of how quickly things can turn quite sour.
“If you do that, you’ll hurt worse tomorrow. If you eat that, you’ll feel bad later. If you take that walk, you’ll be exhausted.”
It would be so easy to listen to the pain always – again this is natural and how the relationship with pain as a signifier should be. But if I lived my life that way now, I’m afraid I wouldn’t have much of a life at all.
I recognize I’m also privileged in this journey where I am now. I have good support, I can still walk – with mobility aids some days. I am surrounded by loved ones ready to help make my days easier as needed. I’m also not advocating that “pushing through the pain” makes sense in every circumstance or for every person.
For me though, I’ve had to readjust to thinking of pain as more of a partner, my constant companion, my keeper at times.
I’ve learned more about how to pace myself, how to know when to listen to the pain and let her take center stage. But more importantly, I am finding the balance of knowing when to listen and when to say “I hear you, I think you’re overreacting a bit, and we’re going to do this thing anyways.”
Don’t let me fool you into thinking I’m overly zen about this –– many days I am filled with rage at this constant companion that I didn’t sign up for or want to have. However, I am working on recognizing the lessons to be had, and the mental strength and resilience I am building to be stronger and more in control of my body, mind and spirit.
That is the hardest battle to me –– finding a way to honor the pain that is ever begging at your doorstep, but to not always let her in to take full control.
For me, some days the pain has to win. Some days the need for rest cries out in a violent fashion, and I heed that call. But some days…some days my desire to live has to win out too. Greeting pain less as an adversary and more like a companion – an often annoying one to be sure – has been critical to me rethinking this relationship with pain and I am better for it now.