It's no secret to y'all by now. I've been pretty open about living with a series of chronic pain ailments for the past six years. Sure, I haven't disclosed all the details of my health journey (the doctor's visits, meds, my worst days, the gross stuff, etc.), but I've tried to make it known that my day-to-day is anything but simple and regular.
Part of my treatment has involved seeing specialists (this particular instance was 3 years ago) who address the psychology of dealing with chronic pain on a daily basis. I was sat down by specialists and was told to accept that this was my life now—pain, routine visits, and constant maintenance—and that doing so would help me live beyond the pain.
Well, needless to say, I wasn't having it.
Accept that excruciating pain is a part of my life now? Accept that I have to do practically everything differently now? Accept that life would be filled with agony forever?
Hell naw.
I fought my conditions hard, and still do to a certain degree. I did everything I could to rid myself of my ailments. I saw them as curses or a punishments from God for something awful I might have done in this life, or something terrible I'd done in some other life long ago.
And on the days I couldn't fight, I became as solid and immobile as a rock. I went nowhere, did nothing, saw no one. I shut the world out and concealed my suffering, kept it to myself, and locked myself away. Eventually, I became a ghost: unnoticeable, floating about to and fro from obligation to obligation until I was finally able to return to my resting place to wrestle with peace and conflict.
Now, an additional three years later, I honestly don't know what changed. Maybe it was one of the many breakdowns I'd had over the years, or maybe God revealed Himself to me in an extremely random way. All I know is one day, I felt differently.
Change happens slowly, gradually over time. It's why you can't tell that someone has lost weight until about 15-20 lbs in instead of 5-10 lbs in. Sure, they'd been working out for eight weeks and changed their entire diet up until that point, but you only notice the change after a while, never the struggle or sacrifice that has been immediate. This is what my progress has been like for me to a T.
Sometime, along the way, I realized that in my fighting and falling, I'd stopped living.
I was so focused on finding a way to live without these ailments that I'd forgotten that life was still worth living even with these ailments.
I still deserved a life filled with happiness and depth and hope and zeal, even if nothing ever changed. I'd stopped pursuing life outside of pain and obligation. I just went about my day and did what I had to do without going after the things I wanted to do, the things that made me smile. I'd stopped journalling, put a huge chunk of my writing on hold, wasn't making much headway with therapy, wasn't leaving the house to meet with friends or go to the movies or have any kind of fun. I'd shut myself off completely, consumed with pain, depression, and anxiety.
I didn't want to accept this fate, and I haven't. Instead, I've only accepted that this is my current situation.
Over time, in diving into the "why's" and "how's" of my situation, I realized that part of the reason I was unwilling to accept my situation was because I lacked faith. In my mind, there were only two options: get rid of these illnesses, or suffer for the rest of my life. I didn't believe I could live a happy, fulfilling life while also dealing with these health challenges, or that I could ever truly be free of this while living out my fullest potential. Most importantly, I didn't realize that suffering was, in fact, optional. Just because I'm enduring all of these hardships doesn't mean I have to put my whole life on pause just to deal with it.
So now, with some time and some growth, I've discovered there is a third option: live my best life in spite of the pain.
This has been a bumpy road, and I can't be at 100% every day, but that doesn't mean I should be glued to my bed for the rest of my life. In fact, being immobile is one of the worst things I could possibly do for my body. In addition to movement, my body needs all the things a plant needs: sunlight, fresh air, water, and attention. So, I've set out to meet all of these needs as often as possible. Now, I get out more, eat and drink better, and seek out things that involve being around people I care about.
Some days are better than others. I still find myself staying inside for days at a time when my body hits rock bottom, but when I'm feeling even remotely well, I do all I kind to get outside and expose myself to nature's beauty. On days with nice weather, I even walk to the beach (I live by Lake Michigan) just to plant my feet in the sand and submerge myself in the earth for the sake of healing and connection (for the record, this actually works, it has to do with the earth's magnetic field as it relates to our own magnetic and electric energies, google it, it's pretty dope).
I deserve to treat life like it's the best thing ever, even on my worst days. Swimming in my own sorrows won't bring me back to shore—it'll only pull me further out into the current. As my body is healing, so are my spirit and mind. And as they all heal and grow stronger, so does my ability to reach beyond the pain. My hope and faith have strengthened. My ability to bounce back has strengthened. My will to live regardless has strengthened.
My life's worth living because of what my Creator has placed in me. I'm worth giving myself time and space to shine, and ironically enough, the harder things get, the more I do just that; the darker my world, the brighter I become. This life is seriously so crazy, and it's not like any of us are gonna make it out alive, but we can still make it through; still move beyond simply existing, to a place of fulfilled living.
Comments