I am not chronic pain.
I am not fibromyalgia or arthritis or degenerating discs.
I am not my damn spinal stenosis.

I suffer from all these conditions. But they do not define me.

Yes, I take meds. A lot. I stretch and try to strengthen. But frankly, everything hurts. I don’t know how to describe the reality of chronic pain to those who don’t experience it. Unrelenting. Like a migraine that never ends or a toothache that can’t be relieved. Every movement calculated by the aching, stabbing blow it will deliver. The sweet 60 minutes of massage relief.

But I will not be the hurt. The pain will not own me.

I WILL OWN THE PAIN.

I am a bit more than middle-aged. I’ve had a successful career, been married half my life, and raised 2 terrific children to young adulthood. I have cared for an aging parent. I am too young to feel this old. I have more to contribute to the world. I want to enjoy watching my children grow in their adulthood, develop their own careers and families. I want to be integral to their lives, while fully living my own.

I know the basis of my initial pain issues, an accident I did not cause. The chronic pain that cascaded years later was unexpected. Sometimes I rail against the unfairness of it. Why me? Yet the question remains unanswered, the feeling, unproductive. Because honestly, why not me? My choice is to carve some meaning out of what is too far past to change. A healer and friend posed these questions and waited patiently for answers:

What negative comes from the pain?

  • Limits to activity, like traveling. I can’t carry heavy loads or walk for long periods. I can’t really sit for long periods, either. I miss out on opportunities I had hoped for at this stage of life.
  • I’m a lifelong reader but holding and looking down at a book strains my arms and neck.
  • I’m a writer, but keyboard motions trigger neck pain. Writing by hand is even less an option.
  • I have gained weight, because most exercise triggers pain. Some of my meds contribute. I lack willpower to deprive myself of foods that give me pleasure.
  • I worry about future limits to mobility and the long-term effects of my meds.
  • I worry about becoming a hindrance or burden to my children. I don’t want my pain to alter their choices or cause them fear, yet I need for them to understand.
  • If blessed with grandchildren, I fear I will be unable to hold them, for lack of strength.
  • My world has shrunk.

What have I gained from the pain?

  • My husband is more helpful around the house than he used to be.
  • I’ve given myself an excuse for weight gain, to eat ice cream.
  • I enjoy a weekly massage, with its physical and mental benefits.
  • I am more empathetic to others, not just those with physical limits. I am a better friend.
  • I no longer work full time, but that loss has reduced stress and opened new doors. I have learned, made new friends, felt more valued. I have more time for writing, reading, meeting up with friends.
  • I’ve met new friends and been involved in organizations I might not otherwise have joined, for which I am eternally grateful.
  • My world expanded in unexpected ways.

I will not accept this pain as something I deserve, as punishment, or as God’s will. It simply is.
I choose happiness over self-pity, hope over fear. I will own the pain.