Over the last five months, I’ve spent about half my waking hours in physical pain, and I’ve come to a clear conclusion: chronic pain is not for me.
It’s interesting, really, because I would argue that Major Depressive Disorder, another affliction of mine, is also chronic pain, and I think I handle that with significantly more grace and patience.
But physical pain? I want to constantly complain, groan, and argue with doctors, friends, therapists. Generally my attitude has been worse than the Grinch’s on Christmas Eve. I have lost motivation to work on personal growth, I’ve been eating horribly (last night I had Thin Mints and tortilla chips for dinner), and I have little hope for healing. That is not to say that I don’t believe I’ll ever get better, just that it feels like things will never change.
There’s something about the failure of my body that has the power to demotivate, unsettle, and frustrate me even beyond the depression I already experience. It tells me that no matter how hard I try, I’m stuck and ineffective and broken, so why bother with anything? Why go to the gym if I can’t do the workout? Why eat healthy if I’m still going to hurt? Why try to be happy when life keeps being incredibly difficult?
These are the classic questions of situational depression; when you can see the enemy and know you cannot win, the motivation to fight becomes impossible to maintain. Whereas my typical depression comes from nothing in particular, and is therefore unfocused and difficult to pin down, this depression comes from a specific problem: my body doesn’t work well. I cannot win against that – I may, over time, heal, but today, I cannot beat it. So why bother trying?
Several years ago, I read a book about a New York City firefighter who was struck by a bus while biking to work, and had to undergo intense therapy just to be able to walk again. His life wasn’t ever going to be the same, and daily tasks would always be incredibly difficult. The book was fascinating, but also felt lacking. I remember telling a friend that the man had written the book two or three years too soon, before he was able to gain perspective on what had happened. He was still in a place of doubt and questioning and frustration, and didn’t have a, “This is what I learned,” thesis for the book.
But now, looking back on that, I see it differently. His thesis was that healing and recovery is difficult. It’s difficult to move forward, to keep going, to have hope for change. That is a new perspective, and worth sharing with others. Although the end goal of this process is healing, I need to accept that the process itself is incredibly difficult, and that every day may include a battle to believe things will ever change. In the grand scheme of things, my pain is relatively minimal compared to that of others. And yet, I see those around me finding the will and strength to move toward healing and change. I need those reminders in order to keep going; seeing others continue the battle gives me hope to keep fighting.
I’m not at the end of this journey, I’m not even at a stop on the train line. I’m still on the train, between stations. My perspective may not be incredibly helpful. But I wanted to acknowledge, to each of you, in case you need to hear it, that this is difficult. And to share with you that pain, no matter the source, is something we can carry together.
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