This morning mom asked me “did you deal with the people that upset you?”
Behind it was support, not judgement.
She didn’t ask if I’d straightened out the mess I’d made. She didn’t give an exhausted sigh or imply her disappointment in me.
She marked my feelings that day. Mom was upset by my hurt. Wow.
In that small question, I was given permission to feel my pain and my anger. She’s never done that before.
So, I called, to deal with the people that upset me. Statues crumbled for me, because I had the courage to face them.
It was a good day.
Humans need love to survive. I am without.
If not for a promise to stay, I would go.
He knew that when he made me promise.
He still cannot be leaned upon. He cannot hold himself up, even.
It’s been six years since he walked away, and still his focus in a crisis is the effect that crisis has upon him.
Say it without judgment and without anger. Whether it is a matter of can’t or won’t, whether he means well or not, he is simply not going to put his needs behind another’s.
He says, I know that you are in danger. Just listen to how my stomach hurts and I am anxious. Clearly I am worried. But the subject matter is still him. His stomach. His worry.
But in his head, where the changes have to be made, it is all the same cycle of impotent pain.
Insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results? Then I guess it wouldn’t be too far off to say that my love didn’t leave me. He simply went insane. And thus he did not die, but changed to become a being who lives in his own perpetual pain, and hasn’t got the capacity to fix the problems of another.
We have fallen into What Dreams May Come, but without having physically experienced the losses.
Except that, like cancer, even that damn story came to an end.
I’m on day two of a migraine or headache of whatever type. Hurts between the eyes, in my right temple, and in my neck. Wonky R eye and sleepy L arm.
Today I bumped my head on my pantry trying to retrieve sauce that was at elbow height and required no bending to reach. And, at last count I have no less than seven white bumps on my tongue where I’ve bitten it over the past few days. That’s painful.
Hips/SI/ low back pain, with pain with walking.
Well, my attempts at being less anxious is a phenomenal fail. I tried to break my frozen silence, but the truth is exactly what I feared. my doc was only seeing the anxiety.
So I switched to a new provider. One who listened and asked questions. One who seemed interested in actually helping me get better. But then the previous doc scolded her for giving me hope, and a possibility. I went in anxious, and that was all that came out of the appointment.
They aren’t going to treat me for anything but anxiety. None of my concerns are taken seriously. I really am spinning my wheels, and only working myself up enough to prove them right.
They want me to make peace with the idea that nobody will ever know what’s going on with me, and that there is no treatment or cure. Which has nothing to do with their lack of investigation or give-a-damn.
It’s not necessary to keep track of symptoms, and reporting over MyChart is treated the same as pestering, not as my utilizing a resource to bypass my anxiety to communicate effectively.
I give up. That’s my treatment plan. Suck it up. They don’t want to hear about it. If I rattle off symptoms, I’m anxious. If I learn for myself, I’m self-diagnosing. There is literally nothing I can do.
Worried you’re not being listened to? Anxiety. Feel hopeless because nobody’s helping? Depression. Even to throw away all emotion and reach apathy would be treated like a mental illness.
It’s the establishment equivalent of, “You’re not bleeding, you’re fine.”
So there it is. I’m fine.
If pain could be seen I might look like a burning cross. I can literally feel warm pain down my spine and coming out from my neck to my shoulders. Throbbing headache on top and a bright spot in my right sacroiliac might make me more like a lowercase j. The shape is irrelevant. My back is on fire. It hurts to sit, it hurts to stand, it hurts to walk and it hurts to lay down.
Would knowing the name of this monster help? If there’s no treatment would the name help? Not in this moment. It’s just pain.
The pain gets worse. I grab my ankle, pull it toward my body, and pop my hip back into place. The roar quiets back to the burning, dull hum.
As surely as if someone drug a razor from the bottom of my head to the end of my tailbone, that burn is there without a mark to prove it.