A Love Letter, of Sorts
On Appreciating Chronic Pain
I’ve grown weary of nights spent sleeping with you by my side. You torment me as I toss and turn, folding pillow after pillow under neck, knee, elbow, in hopes of quieting your nightly pestering. I have lost my will to explain to friends why I must stay at home, yet again, forced to choose your cursed company over theirs. You’ve filled my mouth with “I can’t” and “I shouldn’t” and “I wish I could.”
For the last two years, I have spent my days longing for you to leave me. Your absence has become my favorite daydream — the sweet, calm solitude it would bring.
You showed up first as tensing muscles, stiffened joints, shooting pain. Quickly you grew into burning, tingling, screaming nerves. At some point you decided that I needed to cut down on my pastimes, on work, on movement, and so you filled me with me fatigue to keep me still.
Meeting you has turned me into a person who longs for a past overflowing with friends, art, protests, yoga, swimming, hiking. You have forced me to forge a new identity, placing you at the center. Before you, I knew myself well: an activist, a photographer, a dependable friend. Now, your inescapable presence can make standing at rallies or holding my camera impossible. You have left me too tired to build community in a new home. I cancel plans at the last minute; I can’t always be counted on to show up when I am needed.
You have become my part time job, my obsession, my constant companion. And in the moments I have managed to ignore you, you never hesitate to remind me that you’re still here. Never wanting to be forgotten, you slip into my hands, down my back, through my feet. In those moments I give you everything — I hand you back my camera, my cookbooks, my hiking maps, my career goals, my weekend plans, and crawl back into bed to curl up next to you.
Even though I know you so well, every intimate detail of your every curve, I don’t know what to call you. All the privileges of health insurance, of wealth, haven’t bought me a name for you. I have danced between doctors’ offices, wrestling my way through every possible diagnosis. They have pricked and prodded me to rule out every option — they tried to call you lupus, MS, arthritis, but none of their names have suited you well. And when doctors run out of tests and theories and guesses, they hand me medications to see if they can silence you. I have tried to attack you with pills but have come close to destroying myself in the process. Pills have made me exhausted, they have turned food into a foreign substance, they have pushed me into the darkest corners of depression.
In spite of all this, I find myself grateful for you. Because even though I wish you weren’t here, I have learned invaluable lessons in your company. Because even though I will delight in your absence, I realize that I am a better person for having known you. And, I suppose, it’s time that I thank you for that.
So, thank you. Thank you for reminding me that it’s okay to fall apart. And for showing me that when I do, despite my deepest fears, the people who love me will be there. To carry boxes when I’m too weak. To cook me dinner when the pain makes even chopping vegetables an unreasonable endeavor. To lie in bed with me when your presence makes doing anything else seem impossible.
Thank you, also, for teaching me to pay attention. I have learned that ignoring you will not, sadly, make you cease to exist. Pretending you are not here will only make you mad; it makes you louder, meaner, more debilitating. Lately, I’ve been trying to listen to you the first time you ask for attention. Most days you still need to ask twice, sometimes a dozen times, but I am, slowly, learning to listen. And I’m learning that you reminding me you’re here does not mean that I am doomed to find myself writhing in agony. All it means, sometimes, is just that I need to pause. To breath. To stretch. To ask for help. To take a hot bath. To eat a good meal. To show you that we’re in this together, for better or worse.
The hardest lesson for me, the one I have fought against with teeth clenched in pain, has been that I am not defined by my productivity. I am not only of value when I hold a desk job, produce reports, manage volunteers, earn a salary, take photographs, create art, stand at rallies. I am of value when I cook a friend a meal. When I call my grandparents on Sunday afternoons to tell them that I love them. When I create space for the people in my life to take care of me. When I read, discuss, debate, and struggle to better understand racism, poverty, inequity. I am of value even on the days when it feels like you define my very existence. I am learning on those days that opening my eyes, appreciating the sunlight through my bedroom window, and relishing the love, privilege, and joy that I have in my life can be enough. It can be a victory.
And I need these small victories because you may be with me forever. You have no end date; there is no clear path that leads to your destruction. But while we’re together, for however long that may be, I know you will continue to teach me, to challenge me, to force me to grow. There is no ounce of me that will miss you when you are gone. I have no fear of nostalgia or regret — I will bask in the peace of your lack. But I know I am stronger for having met you. And I want to thank you for that.
