My sister posted a blog about the certainty of change. She included the certainty of pain accompanying depression and PTSD.
This is something I struggle to remember. It’s really important that I do. I’ve lived with pain most of my life. I tore all the ligaments in my ankle when I was 18 years old. I was not taken to a doctor. Needless-to-say, the ankle healed but badly. I took myself to the doctor two months later, two months too late to do anything helpful. My doctor sadly assured me I would have problems the rest of my life because of the severity of the damage and the lack of proper timely care. He even predicted that eventually it would cause me back trouble.
In 2005, I herniated a disc in my low back. An MRI, pain medication, and an epidural injection lead to physical therapy. My physical therapist confirmed the problem started with my ankle. He helped me strengthen my core muscles to hold my back in place and taught me how to straighten my foot so it wouldn’t throw me out of alignment anymore. God bless him.
We discovered pain medication makes me sick. I don’t respond to anesthesia the way you’re supposed to, as in I remembered the EI which I shouldn’t have and the dulling of sensation at the injected site is never as complete as it should be. Yippee.
I deal with pain every day. For the most part, I don’t think about it. It’s white noise, until it escalates. A nasty headache pops up. I’ve been sitting too long or not quite right and my knees or my ankle or my back or my arms complain more than usual. I have to lie down, taking the stress off my back. There are so many things I do every day to accommodate myself to ease the pain.
Hashing this out isn’t to seek pity. Doesn’t do any good. It’s to remind myself that I deal with pain every day, not only my back but other types of pain. It’s wearing. It could also be worse. I know too many people who are in far more pain than I am, every day. Because of this, however, I tend to dismiss my own pain.
I’m working to treat myself more kindly. I’m frustrated by the fact that I often “punish” myself by overeating, pushing too hard, not sleeping. I honestly know better. The old habits are so ingrained it feels like I’m asking the moon to change its orbit. My habits are not the moon. They’re right here, within my reach to influence and change. I have improved, but the snail’s pace is driving me crazy.
Important note: I’ve been sitting with the “I’m a storyteller” knowledge for several days. The more I sit with it, the more certain I am. If I take everything away, I’m still a storyteller, which is not something I could say about being a wife and mother. Take away being a wife and mother, I’m still a storyteller. Take away storytelling and I cease to be. If I never write another book, I will still tell myself stories. Sometimes only one line. Sometimes a short dialogue. My novellas and novels allow me to share what’s going on in my head, constantly… Consistent. 🙂