The vicious cycle of overwhelm.
During periods of unbearable pain, the desperate plea to get out of pain encompasses every cell of your body. Nothing else has room in your brain space. Crying and screaming in pain just to be able to roll over in bed doesn’t allow for any other thought. Every thought outside of escaping the pain is excruciatingly overwhelming.
There’s only room for thoughts of making it stop.
The pain endures until you find a way to make it stop — the time spent in pain varies based on your resources. This time it took me a week. After doctor appointments, fine-tuning my medication, physical therapy assessments and treatments, a diagnosis, and a plan, I was able to sleep and wake up in less pain.
It took a week to get out of unbearable pain, not pain entirely. A week sounds doable, but every moment of every day and night, the pain was dictating — physically and emotionally pushing me to the edge. Every moment of life is upheaved during unbearable pain.
Replacing unbearable pain with bearable pain becomes the name of the game.
The plan becomes all-consuming. It begins as soon as you open your eyes in the morning and continues until you close your eyes at night. Then you hope for a break during sleep. Sleeping through the night without pain is the ultimate desire. At first, it’s not possible. The plan continues through the night — walking around the house to loosen up, icing, heating, and deep breathing to calm down.
The plan to fix the problem includes physical therapy — strength training, stretching, and myofascial release and the plan to alleviate the symptoms — dry needling, cupping, tens unit, balms, supplements, medications, etc. is time-consuming. The plan is to do even more than I was already doing. The biggest challenge is controlling the emotional roller coaster of frustration, disappointment, and overwhelm.
With physical pain, comes emotional pain and vice versa. It’s a vicious cycle.
If you can’t break through unbearable pain there is no room to move onto the plan to fix the problem. You’re stuck in the plan to alleviate the symptoms of pain and dysfunction before you can move forward. If you can’t even bend over to put your shoes on, you won’t be able to lift weights to strength train. If you can’t get out of bed without holding onto the edge as you shuffle to the bathroom, you won’t be able to walk for exercise.
The rehabilitation of this acute on chronic back pain will take much longer than a week — it will take months. The entire summer at least.
There’s a high when you start to feel less pain and can move your body — rolling out of bed without crying, standing up straight, bending over, lifting, sitting, laying flat. The high feels like the ultimate freedom. All the little things you achieve in a day feel so rewarding. You’re happy for a moment.
Then you realize you have to leave your house. The doubts pour in. Can I tolerate sitting for that long in the car? What if I get to where I’m going and I’m alone in unbearable pain? Can I go without my husband? What if I stay home instead and spiral into depression? Why is it so bad to be stuck in such a beautiful home I love? The thoughts don’t stop.
The fear of unbearable pain returning is the only thing your brain has room for.
Then you talk yourself out of doing anything outside of normal. You obsess over how your pain area feels — in my case, it’s my back. Cooking and cleaning could be too much — I could lose everything I’ve gained just to vacuum the floors. I can’t do laundry unless my husband is here to carry it. I can’t wash the dishes — the position is terrible for my back. What will happen when I go back to work? Will it exacerbate me worse? Will anyone there understand? Will I become a burden? Will they keep me or push me out? Will I ever find a job I can physically tolerate? If I lose my job I won’t be able to afford to take care of myself. This exacerbation alone has cost me $1000 out of pocket in a week.
When there’s so much at stake — losing financial stability, health care, relationships, the ability to care for yourself — the thoughts don’t stop.
Fear develops around the pain, the return to pain and disability, and the possibility of doing the wrong thing to make the pain worse. It becomes an obsession. You become hypersensitive and hyper-aware. You over-analyze everything you do and might have to do. Your brain can’t think past the day. You can’t make plans. Regrets pour in.
Everything depends on whether you’re in bearable or unbearable pain.
Your social life suffers. The summer you thought you’d spend with your friends is out of reach. You cancel plans and wonder why you thought a concert, a road trip, teaching yoga, or a new art hobby would be possible for someone like you.
Where did I go wrong? How did I end up like this? If only I didn’t ignore the initial injuries, make the wrong career choices, fall in love with physically demanding hobbies, live so far away from everything…
Regret forces its way into the already overwhelmingly full brain space. Reflection on the relentless battle takes over. This battle has taken all of my adult youth. My youth is gone, and I’ve spent it fighting for freedom. Only to lose that freedom over and over again. I’ll never feel truly free.
I think about a time when my body felt good. There was a brief period in my early twenties when I trained in the gym and yoga class for 6 months before beginning raft guide training. I felt light, strong, and free. That’s the only time in my life I physically felt that way — it lasted less than a year. Why did I do all those things to lose that feeling? Only a few years later, I destroyed my back. Ever since I’ve felt broken or on the verge of breaking. Almost twenty years have gone by.
After recovering from unbearable pain and beginning the plan toward fixing the problem, you feel relieved. That’s when depression sets in. As the beautiful summer days go by you lose touch with your friends because they know you’re on the bench again. You don’t hear much from them. You cry while you’re doing physical therapy at home, alone.
Like the snap of my fingers, my summer is gone. All of a sudden I’m homebound. My emotions fluctuate between overwhelming gratitude for my home and the depression of being trapped — trapped in a home I’ve built to supply me with everything I need when I’m barely functioning. At least I have enough property to walk, watch wildlife, and just be outside.
The countdown begins. July has already passed. There’s one month left of summer. I won’t get better in one month. I’m reliving a nightmare of constant loss. Loss of freedom and independence — loss of opportunity to be with my friends, playing outside, and relishing in the water and sun. The loss of feeling young ever again.
Instead, I go out my front door and appreciate the company of my dogs, love the view from my yard, and lay in the sun and read. I walk laps along my pond. I do my physical therapy exercises. I do chores in small increments. I avoid making plans. I listen to music when I get overwhelmed. I take it day by day. I make tiny gains.
I cry when the tears come. I ride the waves of happiness as long as they last.
I pray the pain that makes me scream aloud and struggle to get out of bed never comes back. I hold onto that thought. It holds me back and pushes me forward. I get lost in it.
