The Painful Journey: let’s talk about pain

Today I cried.

Unexpectedly and in front of people who also weren’t expecting it. I cried because I felt weak and exhausted, and trying to get dressed after swimming proved almost impossible. I have a window of about 10 mins after winter swimming (water is about 5 degrees above freezing) and if I can’t get my socks on in that time, I’m basically stuffed. I have Reynaud’s disease and I will lose all function in my hands. I may as well lie down with my arms crossed over my chest and wait for hypothermia. It hasn’t happened yet but I did get frightened. I couldn’t get my socks on because I couldn’t bend my back. I couldn’t lift my legs. Not because of the cold, but because my long term pain which has improved so much I sometimes forget it, has steadily increased over the last few days. Maybe it’s because it was a dawn swim in March and I just hadn’t warmed up, but the pain not only suffocated me, it terrified me. I did manage, obviously, otherwise I wouldn’t be writing this, but I got straight in the car and sat in my blessed, beautiful, amazing heated seats with all the fans blasting, which I never do, for 15 mins whilst my hands shook so hard I could barely pour my coffee. I got out of the car then for a little social banter. “Oh there’s Kate” someone said, “we wondered what had happened to you”, and before I knew it I was crying.

Nothing more alarming than someone who cries without any provocation so of course I had to explain. How to explain? How to explain.

When you meet someone who talks about their healing journey, there is inevitably a physical manifestation of that. It’s easier for people to understand the quest for “healing” when they think the pain is physical, but many of us who are healing don’t mention the physical aspect because it’s so ingrained in our everyday survival we overlook it.

One of the very early lessons of chronic pain is to stop talking about it. It’s also one of the hardest lessons. There is a huge egotistical need to talk about pain. Initially for comfort, for reassurance (which you’ll never get) then, as time goes on, if you’re not obviously disabled, there is a need to constantly explain yourself in case people don’t know. A need to explain or justify why you can’t do something, why you feel shit, why you lose your temper, a constant justification of why you are performing below par. And for me I realised a couple of years ago, a desperate attempt for some sort of sympathy. Married to a dour Scotsman, I don’t get any of that, and I’ve learned that complaining doesn’t help. Whether or not Gary knows I’m in pain, he’ll never refer to it. Eventually I followed the advice and stopped talking about it. Yesterday, and today in fact, I felt so shit I did mention it (noting to myself that this was not advisable, and it was just because I was feeling sorry for myself, and turning my attention away from this would be the sensible thing to do instead of indulging it). He barely acknowledged it, I don’t even know if he heard it. I’m sure if I confront him he’ll either not have heard it or look at me squarely and say “what do you want me to do?” And what do I want him to do? Make it go away? Sooth me somehow? He’s not going to do that ever, and nor should I expect that from him. That’s just not what he does. I know that he will never give me what I want in this scenario, so why do I repeatedly replay a situation expecting a different result?

(Gary just read this and said if you want to join the “Gary’s a Bastard” petition, just click here. I asked him what I should write instead – i.e. why doesn’t he say anything, and he admitted, what do you expect me to do?)

I know now that my pain is a result of years of suppressed emotional energy. There is nothing medically “wrong” with me, and anyone with any long term pain or disability knows that unless your leg is hanging off, or you’ve got an axe in your head, mysterious pain may as well be made up for all the help you’ll get from the medical profession. Why don’t you see a doctor? Someone once asked me. Honestly? I dunno, I can’t remember. But actually I did see a doctor (at least 20 years ago), probably after a few years of backache. They referred me to a physio clinic that was set up in some makeshift cubicles in a school hall in a somewhat rough area in Edinburgh. All I remember is it looked like a scene after some massive tragedy like an earthquake or a bombing when everyone is piled into the town hall for emergency treatment. A nurse ran her fingers none to gently up and down my spine, established that I could lift my arms and told me there was nothing wrong with me. I didn’t rush back to the doctor after that. Eventually I must’ve mentioned it to the doctor a few years later and learning that I had private medical insurance, sent me to a private physio. This physio was much more attentive, but essentially blamed my posture and skilfully laid another layer of guilt and unworthiness on my disability, now making me feel that it was entirely my own fault that I was in pain. A few years on and I was working in New York and Gary came out to meet me. It was deep winter and I had borrowed a gorgeous coat from my sister. All I remember was that the coat, a beautiful, black, faux sheepskin coat, was too heavy. It was too heavy for me to wear. My legs were too weak to carry the coat and I spent the weekend in the hotel racked with pain.

That started a new chapter of pain. I couldn’t walk upstairs without my thighs burning like I’d run a marathon. The backache got worse, my joints ached; I started getting severe and debilitating menstrual cramps. I did an ergonomic assessment at work for my backache and they sent for a posture specialist who gave me a new chair. At that point everything got worse. Whether it was the drawing of attention toward my pain, the involvement of others and having to explain it, examine it, test it, but it all got suddenly worse. I didn’t want to go on holiday with Gary anymore, because walking was too hard, I was OK for about an hour and then I’d get tired, I’d get crabbit, I’d want to stop. Gary would always want to push on a bit further, and (now I realise) I didn’t have the voice to say “no, I can’t do this”, so he wouldn’t know I was in pain until I had passed the discomfort and fallen into sullen, suppressed rage. And all I wanted to do was go back to the hotel and die.

I saw a nutritionist about the cramps and muscle fatigue. She told me to stop drinking alcohol and gave me a million, expensive, supplements. I had already given up tobacco, I then gave up alcohol, I ate only unprocessed food, I took supplements, I exercised through the pain. There was really nothing else I could do for my health. And there was nothing else I could do to make my life more miserable. Nothing made any difference. But in retrospect I never did talk to a “normal” doctor. I can’t really explain why other than it never seemed like a something they could help with.

I don’t even know if anyone else knew what was going on. I didn’t really tell anyone and I still made myself run a few miles several times a week, and just kept carrying on. I didn’t see myself as damaged or ill, I just kept going. Other than my pain and IBS, I’m about as robust as can be. I never get sick. I never get colds. I never get flu. I hadn’t taken more than 3 days off sick in 20 years I realised when I finally had my breakdown.

I read so many books, I tried so many methods of coping with back pain, I saw so many physiotherapists, that I completely lost faith in all of them but I still tried. But I mostly tried to fix it myself and eventually, after suffering a major, complete and utter psychological burnout, I realised that it was all about my emotional pain. Emotional trauma that I didn’t even recognise I had until I was 50.

However recognising that also means that I can make myself well. I believe that if I can overcome my negative beliefs and turn away from my suffering and live in joy and appreciation that I can live in wellbeing. I believe that I can live in abundance, and all I have to do to achieve all this is to raise my vibration. And over the last few years my pain has improved dramatically. So much so that writing this makes me cry again, because I have come so far that I’ve forgotten how bad it was. But I still have pain and stiffness in the mornings. So back to this morning…

I recently joined a group online of Law of Attraction folk, people who work hard to raise and keep their vibration high. There is something wonderful about being part of a community of real people who are actually making this happen. People who post daily about wonderful things that happen in their lives, who openly declare love and appreciation for themselves, for their pets, their lives, their families, for rainbows, and insects and clouds, and each other. It’s amazing, I can’t think of a better way to use social media. There is no judgment on these forums, it’s a completely safe space where people nurture each other, encourage each other, love each other, support each other. It’s not all rainbows, there are people who lay open their pain and their suffering and ask for advice, and the advice is kind, consistent, loving. These are people who are actually, in real time, attracting more abundance, who have healed themselves through holding steady alignment.

These are real, ordinary, mortal people who are actually doing it and that’s the encouragement I need. However, the problem is that these are real, ordinary, mortal, people who are actually doing it.

And I’m not.

And my pain has got worse.

My Law of Attraction teachings tell me this is because I am holding myself even further apart from my “Vortex” – all the things I have asked for in this life on earth. This newfound enthusiasm and expectation of healing has created an even greater distance between where I want to be, and my observation of where I am. My constant evaluation of how much I NOT healing is holding me back. This new group of happy, vibrant, successful people is another, bigger stick to beat myself up with as they achieve things I cannot. Another bigger stick to beat myself up for not doing enough, not trying hard enough, not working hard enough instead of holding myself in compassion, and loving myself as I am, where I am, in my healing journey.

So when someone asks you what is wrong, how do you explain all that to people who probably don’t believe in all this woo woo stuff, or even know that you do? How do you explain the irony that in trying to raise your vibration to make yourself more happy and well, you have unwittingly made yourself more unhappy and more unwell?

Sometime, it’s just easier to cry.