Physical Pain:
The discomfort in my metatarsophalangeal joint waxes and wanes depending on whether I allow myself rest and my level of clumsiness. Low-level fatigue persists, still. Some days I blame myself, and other days it’s simply part of who I am. Dull aches dot my body, radiating from muscles I am working to grow. There’s also a point of irritation where tape flattens my chest and wrinkles into my skin.
Some pains we chase.
Emotional Pain:
The fracture in my heart feels less acute each day, though somehow the intensity remains unchanged. It’s no longer an emergency, but a condition I must manage. Guilt is fading, but there is a minimum that must always be maintained. In its place an anger burns—red-hot and refreshing.
New or increasing pain can be a sign of healing, too.
Psychological Pain:
My everyday anxiety is finally being treated and the racing, jumping thoughts characteristic of ADHD are managed when they have to be, and allowed to reign free where they can do less harm. Even so, the pause between panic and action, catastrophe and reality, still feels like a monumental mental climb.
Relational Pain:
Some losses in love feel closer to autoamputation—a misguided attempt by the psyche to sever what it deems, in conclusion or delusion, a nonviable connection. With immediate intervention, repair is possible, but function will almost certainly be impacted. There are no guarantees.
Either way, healing will be long, and it will hurt.
Spiritual Pain:
I don’t know how to pray. Even when I try, in my way, all that answers is more penance. In my search for heaven, I earned myself a hell. Now when I pray, I’m only speaking to myself, and the “greater than myself” I once held to feels that much smaller. I don’t believe in God, but I know he is in everything. I feel farther from him now more than ever.
Still, I ask myself: Who moved?
Proven Remedies and Comforts:
Mochi ice cream. Changing or adding medication. A kiss on the couch. Five hours on the phone with a friend. The sun. The rain. Permission to forgive yourself. Permission to say no. Seeing your favorite artist in concert. A therapist who tells you the truth in a new way. Crying in the car. Getting on a plane. A good night’s sleep. Screaming. Saying you’re sorry—and meaning it. Not saying sorry when you don’t. Not hurting yourself again.
Lisa Marie Blair 