Pain is a lonely place to live in.
It’s an insular, remote little world all your own.
It’s isolating because it makes you feel like nobody really understands except someone who experiences the same kind of pain you do… and even then, you don’t want to burden them with your pain because theirs is enough to bear.
It’s not about martyrdom.
It’s about realising how fragile even the strongest, funniest, most courageous person can be.
I usually don’t write about my pain because that enables it to take power over my thoughts to a greater extent than I am comfortable with.
Besides, I don’t want to be the whiny person that nobody likes.
Even when I am alone, there’s something within me that wants to say that I am okay, that I will get through it, that I can handle it.
Yet I know that isn’t always true.
Sometimes I am just broken and, quite honestly, I don’t know how to not be broken anymore.
I so wish things were different.
I wish I could move the way I used to.
I wish I could fall asleep as easily as my husband does.
I wish I could wake up refreshed each morning.
I wish my spine was not so fragile. I would love to go boxing and punch my frustrations out on a leather bag, or run until I was exhausted in a good way, or smash a ball around the squash court.
I wish I could hold a baby for longer than a few minutes without aching.
I wish I didn’t feel so sorry for myself.
I wish I could sleep.