Sorry for the double posts, but I’ve just signed up for Bloglovin and I would love to see you there. If you haven’t yet used it, Bloglovin is a great place to read all of your favorite blogs and find new ones in one window. It’s easy, free, and beautiful.
Check it out and follow my blog to stay up to date.
When I first began writing this article I titled it “4 Lessons Learned and 4 Things I Struggle With After 4 Years of Chronic Pain.” Only after I finished the first paragraph did I realize that it has only been three years since I have been in chronic pain. Time becomes a fluid, sticky substance when you are sick. Night and day blur into one long, sleepy and sleepless period of temples pounding and stomach churning. The light is abrasive to my eyes so it’s dark all of the time anyway. I sleep when I can, almost eliminating night and day.
At least, that is how it was – for longer than I would like to consider. Things are slowly, very slowly, becoming more normal. I’m becoming more diurnal, going to sleep early and rising
early. My brain benefits from the routine and the normalcy even if my social life does not .
Managing migraines is a bitch, as I am a learning. A bitch that requires commitment to lifestyle changes that are not for the faint of heart. Willpower has never been my strong point (I’ve been a nail biter as long as I’ve had teeth), but I’m exercising that muscle as much as I can these days. I feel strong and powerful and healthy, if not boring and monotonous. I have also recently adopted a sickly, high-maintenance kitten and continue to care for my elderly cat named Kitten, thereby cementing my transition to full on cat lady.
At least, it is all paying off. My quality of life is improving, my sensitivity to light and sound is decreasing, and my average daily pain level is slowly getting smaller. These gains do not come without lessons and struggles, however.
3 Lessons Learned from Chronic Pain
Deadlines are bullshit. For example, my three year pain-aversary was on July 3rd, and I intended on publishing this article then. Life got in the way of my plans, though, in the form of a birthday, an engagement party, a kitten adoption, an unexpected visit, and many vet trips. Oh yeah, and too many days given over to the migraine monster. I’ve learned to be easy on myself and to flexible with my schedule. My body is going to dictate my days anyway, it doesn’t help to needlessly fret over it.
You have got to speak up. Owning your story is a way to make peace with it. Even more so, when your story involves illness and pain finding your voice becomes a crucial part of getting the medical care and having the types of relationships you desire. Viewing your relationship with your doctor as an equal partnership will help you stay engaged and confident in your wellness plan.
I’m stronger than I thought, and strength looks different than I thought it would. To some extent, this lesson may be a normal part of growing up. In a life punctuated by pain and migraines, it is a lesson that is glaringly obvious. At my sickest, most vulnerable, and most physically weak is where I found my greatest strength. It became a matter of survival, and I came out the other side a stronger, softer, and (I would like to think) kinder person.
(I’m an overachiever). Time can be your best friend or your worst enemy. Learning and practicing mindfulness has been a huge help to me. Learning to be okay in the moment, even if it is an uncomfortable moment, is crucial. Time, of course, also heals all, and problems seem to shrink rather than grow when seen through the lens of a few days.
Like Audrey Hepburn unfurling her wings in an intellectual jazz bar in Funny Face , I have been reuniting with my body and mind by making them dance. Quite literally in the case of my body, at my boyfriend’s band practice or to Beyoncé in my car. As for my mind, pirouettes twirl in the form of words and symbols. Reading, writing, creating, listening to music, and observing art all set my soul dancing.
I quit ballet rather suddenly the winter I was 12 years old. I had just graduated to full pointe classes and was at the studio for instruction or rehearsal three days a week. I received new leotards and permission to shave my legs as early Christmas gifts. The whiteblonde leg hair grew through the holes in my black tights and contrasted starkly. Thanks to puberty, my period, braces, circular Harry Potter glasses, and a new resurgence of migraines, my 12th year was crappy enough without the embarrassment of a leg-hair-ballet-tights situation. Luckily my mom was merciful, and I am not as easily embarrassed these days, so you get to hopefully find delight or commiseration in my awkward middle school self.
Dancing these days is much more relaxed – the dancing of a few beers, old friends, and a clear night sky. Or to an afternoon breeze through an open window, no witnesses to my lack of rhythm except the noisy hummingbirds outside. I watch monarch and mourning cloak butterflies in my garden dance, twirling around each other like in water. I twirl myself sometimes, around my nephew, his young friend, and a full shopping cart, trying to wrangle the three irrational beings. The music and din of market conversation is always so loud, the lights so bright, the experience such a dizzying rush that it feels like a dance performance. But we are rewarded at the finish with fruit instead of flowers.