Today, I feel like you are hovering all around me, like you’ve fashioned yourself into a suit of scouring pads, hugging me tightly at every turn. I can’t remove you while you scrub into me. Abrasive to my peace of mind. Bruising me with invisible bruises.
I feel the weight of you with each move I try to make. Whether I sit, stand or lie down, each position brings its own individual challenges — stabs, jabs, or prickles of pain. Shooting pain or radiating pain. A never-ending menu of surprises.
I stare at you in the mirror sometimes, and it’s like staring at myself but more elusive.
This week, I noticed that I have worn a hole in my sheet with restless legs in pain at night.
I have no questions for you now — just making these observations so that I can remember these days.
Last night, I took you along on an adventure that pushed the limits of your comfort zone. You definitely protested at times–sending stabs of pain ricocheting through my arms and legs or igniting nerve cells to make pressure points at my shoulder blades feel like they were on fire! You seemed to enjoy making me feel fuzzy-headed and like any second with my eyes closed was a welcome relief. But we did it!
Admit it. You made it through OK!
Well, you do seem to still be sulking today, so that’s why I’m writing. I’d prefer if you would get over this and take away this sense of all-over pain I’m feeling, but you know as well as I do that you’re also glad we went, so I’ll take that as my consolation for now.
This is just one example of what I’ve been talking to you about for a while — I really want you to be a willing partner in helping me to continue to learn the balance between when I should push and when I should rest. We’re in this together.