Tag Archives: strength

I make no sense: Exhibit A

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I guess I didn’t do too good of a job at expressing my thoughts last night. I definitely did not mean that none of my family, friends, or Mike care about my pain, nor did I mean that none of your family, friends, and significant others don’t care about your pain. I get the feeling that I inadvertently hurt a few people’s feelings, so let me clarify.

It’s not like you can tell everyone you come into contact with that you are hurting. So, you wrap it up and walk around with it.

This is probably the only part of the post that is clear. I go through every day encountering many different people: coworkers, complete strangers, family, friends, and my Mike. (I’d throw him into the “family” or “friends” category, but saying he’s family just sounds gross when I think about it, and saying he’s one of my friends doesn’t even begin to cover it. Mike gets his own category.) There’s also my cat, who seems to be the most in tune to how I’m feeling — which is only because she has that sometimes creepy seventh sense. (I say “seventh sense” because we all know cats and dogs see ghosts.)

Now… where the hell was I? (See what happens when you try to clarify a post before eating dinner? My pizza needs to hurry…)

One of two things prevent me from telling anyone I don’t feel good (unless they ask):

  1. I don’t want to whine, or
  2. it would be inappropriate

I recently had a conversation with a friend whom I had just told about my mystery autoimmune disease. I’ve known him for years — going on nine years, to be exact — but in the past four years since my body started going haywire, I had never even mentioned that I was sick. Yet, we share things that most friends share with each other, like family problems, relationship problems, job problems, and so on. I felt really bad that I had never told him, and apologized. He asked why I had never mentioned it, and I said that I didn’t want to be a whiner.

He said something along the lines of, “You’re not a whiner. I think you’re really cool.”

I had to backtrack. “No, no. I didn’t think you would think I was a whiner. I just didn’t want to whine. I make no sense.”

And that’s exactly it — I make no sense. I don’t want to tell the people I’m close to that I’m in pain because I have some kind of macho “you can’t be weak” mentality toward myself. It’s not that I think anyone would think any less of me. It’s me, coming down on myself. Even stranger, no one has done anything to me to inspire this mentality. I can only speculate: denial? stubbornness? wanting to appear strong, even though I feel weak?

The second reason why I don’t say anything about my — I so hate to use this term, but here we are — illness is that it’s not always appropriate. Before I started working full-time, I would have bad pain days that would send me straight into tears. Now, those bad pain days — or even moments of excruciating pain — still make me tear up, but I hold it in because less than ten feet away from me are my coworkers. And then I would have to explain why I was whimpering. And then I would have to explain why I have this pain. And then I would have to explain why my doctors can’t figure out what’s wrong with me. And so on.

Having to explain all of that is exhausting. Plus, it again comes down to me wanting to appear normal.

So, no one truly knows what it’s like to live with my pain, except for me.

Every day is kind of a crazy circus of emotions regarding my autoimmune disease and chronic pain. For example, yesterday:

  • 6:30am: My alarm went off and I got up out of bed without stiffness or pain. I got ready for work without limping around.
  • 7:50am: I left for work still feeling pretty damn good. As I drove, I started to think that maybe I had overreacted, that it all hadn’t been that bad.
  • By 10am, my left wrist was stiffening up and aching.
  • Around 11am, or maybe even noon, my right hip started getting slammed with jolts of excruciating pain. I kept biting down on my fingers so that I didn’t scream.
  • By the time I got home around 6pm (I had to work late to make up time for tomorrow’s doctor appointment), my feet were stiff and too swollen for my Nike sandals.
  • By the time I went to bed, my lower back was aching like a female bunny after too much Woohoo*, and I was ready to punch someone.

Today was actually a relatively good day; I am a little stiff and swollen in some places, but not in any real pain. (I’d say about a 2 out of 10.)

Because I also have depression — which is now worse because of my autoimmune disease — I can honestly say that it’s the same when your pain is in your heart rather than your joints.

Anyway. I hope I’ve made my last post a little more clear.

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*Clearly I am having Sims withdrawals; woohoo is the Sims word for sex.

No one cares about your pain, except for you

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I don’t mean that no one cares about you. I don’t even mean that no one cares that you are hurting. When you experience any kind of pain — emotional or physical — on a daily basis, you carry it around with you. It’s not like you can tell everyone you come into contact with that you are hurting. So, you wrap it up and walk around with it.

Your pain becomes yours and only yours. You begin to feel wretchedly lonely. Every day, you spiral further and further down into your pain. You get to know it, learn its intimate secrets. After a while, your pain almost becomes a friend — you know, if it didn’t hurt so damn much. Your pain knows you better than you knew yourself, and because of your pain, you get to know yourself better. You become stronger. You learn that what you thought were your boundaries are silly little lines that you can just step over. Every day, you conquer your pain a little more in some way — whether it’s figuring out a new medication routine or something that soothes your aching mind.

And then your pain unleashes a surprise attack, one that overpowers your new medication routine or your new relaxation technique. You begin to descend again.

When you come out on the other side, you learn something new about yourself — that the boundary you learned to overcome previously is just a silly little line that you can step over.

And so it goes.

The first step

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I’ve always had a hard time admitting when something is too hard or when I need help. I’m stubborn and fiercely independent. I also tend to get hit with big ideas and goals, and then I jump into them without thinking them through.

During the last couple of months, I’ve constantly felt as if I could barely keep my head above the water. It wasn’t just school. It was also work, my health problems, my relationship with Mike, and a deep inner yearning to toss everything away and get back to writing. Every aspect of my life suffered, and I with it. I kept trying to ignore the problem, kept trying to look at the bright side. “I can do this,” I’d tell myself, and with renewed strength I’d plow on through. But several days later I would be back in the same position, tired from all of the swimming and barely avoiding the waves of my To Do list from pulling me completely under.

Tuesday night I did not sleep. My legs were wrecked with a pain so intense that I could not do anything other than toss and turn. I wanted to scream, but the people in my house slept soundly around me. I lay there for hours, trapped in a prison that is supposed to be my body, until I finally threw the covers back and got up. I did a lot of bitching on Facebook, which I sort of regret (but only because I don’t like showing any kind of weakness).

I popped in the last DVD of Dollhouse Season 1 and watched “Epitaph One” and the original unaired pilot. I watched a whole bunch of special features. And still the pain wore on. I could barely concentrate, and although I felt so tired, I could not fall asleep. Pain like that is maddening, and I didn’t think I could stand another minute of it.

I logged into Facebook again, wandering around aimlessly, when Mike messaged me. He couldn’t sleep either. We had each been awake for hours, fighting our demons alone, but a simple website had allowed us to come together. We talked on the phone for a long time, sharing our thoughts and soothing each other. I asked him the question that I have been longing to ask but too proud to put into words: “Why is this happening to me?”

“I don’t know. I wish I had an answer,” he said, and I could hear in his voice the frustration and pain he felt for me.

We talked some more, and suddenly the conversation turned to school. Suddenly, I could no longer hide the sensation of drowning that I had been feeling for the last couple of months. “I don’t even know where I’m going to be in five years,” I said, possibly unnecessarily morbidly. I confessed how stressed out I’m feeling, and how I just can’t seem to stay ahead or even on track of everything.

“Well,” he said. “I’m not saying this is what you should do, but maybe you should think about dropping out. Take the time to concentrate on finding out what’s wrong. You can always go back.”

There. He’d said the words that I’d been too stubborn to even think about, but had known deep in my heart for several weeks.

“But, I don’t know if it will affect my GPA,” I said, still stubbornly clinging.

“Screw the GPA,” he said. “It’s just a GPA.”

(Twenty-four hours later, my mom and I would have the same conversation, and she would say the exact thing he had: “It’s just a GPA.”)

“Just think about it,” he said. “School will always be there.”

For the next several hours, while I lay in bed not sleeping, and then when I barely slept tossing and turning, I thought about it. I admitted to myself that the stress of all the things I had stubbornly taken on might be making things worse. I admitted that I’m doing horribly in school and that at this point it is probably too late. I admitted that I needed to really concentrate on me, and that only then would I be able to do well in school.

After talking to my mom and then thinking about it a little more, I decided to do what my heart has wanted to do for several weeks now. I began the withdrawal process yesterday, and already I feel as if a huge weight has been lifted from me.

I have promised myself that I am not going to do this to myself again. I’m not going to jump into an idea that sounds awesome without thinking it through first. I’m going to learn to concentrate on one or two things at a time, without overloading myself. I’m going to take care of myself and find a way to find out what it wrong with me. I’m going to stop taking on so much that I end up burning myself out.

And, more importantly, I’m going to do what I love: I’m going to spend the entire month of November writing a novel without worrying about exams and portfolios and lesson plans and math.

I have taken the first step: I’ve admitted that, while I do really love kids, I’ve had doubts about becoming a teacher and going through this program. While I like school, it’s been incredibly stressful for me and I just honestly can’t handle it right now.

And that is okay. Just hearing it from Mike and Mom, that it’s okay, makes it easier for me to believe.

It’s okay, and I’m going to be okay.