Life is lonely without conversation.
CRPS has been slowly crumbling my body since I was 24yo. With each progression, I found ways to pace out activities and push through the pain, while I still could.
But there are limits to how much I can push through without making things worse. Limits that keep shrinking.
I’m just trying to cope, it’s all that I ever do. I feel at fault for not healing, not winning. I feel like I must have The-Secret-ed myself into this painful life. I feel like I didn’t appreciate freedom and health enough when I had them.
I feel like I should be able to improve things, to be mindful, let go and find happiness in just being alive. I feel like whenever I get to a place of acceptance or comfort, those physical limits go and drop a little lower.
I feel hurt and abused by fate and bitter and guilty for not being able to keep that shit in check.
My ability to communicate is now limited to mumbling a word or two and causing a drastic increase in pain, or briefly text typing. It’s the predictive text feature and smaller movements that mean this hurts less than keyboard typing.
I figured that if I could text, then I could blog using the WordPress app, even if it’s just thought ramble, even if it’s short and pictureless and linkless and a different way of blogging than I’ve practised before.
Text typing doesn’t not hurt though. I can barely remember what it’s like to do anything without having to physically suffer for it.
Just typing on my phone.
Just drinking a cup of tea.
Just brushing my teeth.
I can’t tell you how much I wish I were exaggerating, how much I wish that what I suffered from was the motivation problem that so many people who have never experienced my pain believe it to be….I fucking wish it was that easy.
Every activity that I do begins with a stretching/Feldenkrais warm up and a lay-down-on-the-heatpack cool down. It takes hours.
Every day, I try to move as much as possible and I try to relax in between activities and after I’ve done all that I can.
My best never feels like enough.
I do it anyway, because all I have is this faint hope that if I keep working at being a good little chronic pain exercise doer then eventually things will start to look up again.
Maybe I’ll be able to drive again.
Maybe I’ll be able to go for walks again.
Maybe I’ll be able to cook dinner again.
They aren’t big dreams for normal humans, but I can’t realistically hope to achieve anything higher on the dream staircase without passing over those steps first.
I must climb on in silence, because I can’t fix what is wrong with my face. All I can do is hope. A hard knock to take, but there it is.
Talking is for the lucky people.
Love & Desperation,