Pain is a funny thing. Especially when you live with it constantly. Every moment of every day.
In some ways, it grounds you, like an old friend. It keeps you humble and it feels like home.
But that doesn’t make it pleasant.
It’s more like that nostalgia that drags at the fuzzy corners of your mind, prompting an acute sense of melancholy or longing.
And then there are the days where you just wish for a physical manifestation of your pain to punch in the face. With an anvil. Or ten. And the frustration of having nothing to take it out on is palpable.
You can reach out to friends and family. Tell them you’re struggling, tell them you’re hurting. And they’ll be there for you. They’ll listen to you rant, they’ll wish you the best, they’ll be just as frustrated as you are that they can’t fix it.
But they can’t do anything.
And you can’t do anything.
And sometimes, that fact is enough to keep you tossing and turning all night. Fear, maybe. Anger, sometimes.
But mostly it’s just helplessness.
It’s grappling with the truth that you don’t even know what it means to be without pain, even just for a single second of a single day.
And that hurts almost as much as your body does.
At that point, there are only two options. You can give up and cry and let yourself fall apart. Or you can suck it up, embrace the pain, and find the things that make life worth it.
The friends that hold your hand through it.
The stage that makes you feel alive.
The words dancing under your pen that show you that you are more than your physical, pain wracked body.
The light in another’s eyes when you unlock a door of knowledge for them.
Pain is hard.
Pain is everywhere.
And sometimes, pain is constant.
But it isn’t everything.
And it isn’t who you are.