A poem about how pain can feel like it takes over your identity. Written in a flare. Any Spoonies who can relate, please make yourself known in the comments!
As anyone with chronic pain will tell you, sometimes the huge effort it takes to do little things, like make a cup of tea or shower, really grinds you down. So when something big comes up, it can really knock you for six. Like, for example, having to make the significant decision to quit your Master’s degree because you’re not well enough to finish it.
WARNING. DO NOT READ THIS ARTICLE IF YOU ARE SQUEAMISH ABOUT FEMALE BODIES AND/OR DON'T WANT TO KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT MINE AND/OR ARE MY DAD.
In my first meeting with the Women’s Health Physiotherapist, she did an internal examination. In the second meeting, she forgot my name. No, she couldn’t remember my name, but she’d had her fingers inside my vaginal tract. Welcome to the weirdness of pelvic floor therapy.
More often than not, we chronic pain warriors have another huge fight on our hands: getting the right treatment. It’s a long old slog. Like Frodo on his perilous quest, the path is twisted and arduous, and you’ve usually got one dim-witted friend dragging you back pining about potatoes, a slimy little creature intermittently spitting venom at you, and a whole host of characters to meet before you get one treatment to cure them all.