The shroud came down on Saturday afternoon. Blanketing me from head to toe, floating around my body like a cloudy veil between the world and me.
I recognise it now, although the shroud’s favourite game is disguise. Sometimes the shroud would feel like me, like some sort of real me that was always lurking underneath the me that I am on better days. Sometimes the shroud would feel like injustice, like it was thrown over me by the abusive or ignorant actions of another person. Sometimes the shroud would feel like despair, as though the whole world was lost to darkness and the me that I am on better days was simply ignoring this fact.
Being under the shroud feels like being depressed, but it’s not quite that. It feels like being sad, but it’s not quite that. It feels like being tired, but it’s not quite that.
It’s suddenly harder to understand words. They look the same, those oddly sized collections of letters. They look like words, but they don’t convey any meaning. I understand and then I don’t. No sooner do I get it than it’s gone. It feels like a sudden language barrier between me and a book that I’ve read a hundred times.
I feel the thought zaps fading into unsuspecting brain matter before they reach their destinations. My mind draws blanks instead of ideas. The mundane tasks of the everyday become so confusing. Emotions rise suddenly and don’t fit with my reality. The pain becomes more difficult to tolerate as it sears me from my skin to my bones.
The shroud separates me from my usual state of consciousness, my usual realm of functioning. It’s like drunkenness without the drinking. Like dreaming without the sleeping. I walk around feeling separated, lonely and more vulnerable than if I was naked. The shroud feels like a covering, but it doesn’t protect. It perforates the energy field around my body, poking holes in my defences and preparing to tear at any moment.
I speak, but it’s harder to say things. I do, but it’s harder to feel. I stumble through the actions that keep me going and I focus on keeping the shroud from merging with my identity. I can’t shake it off but it isn’t forever stuck. The shroud will fall when the shroud is ready, like a satiated leech.
I say that I’m flaring when the pain rises, but really, a flare is so much more than that. It’s the complexity of Complex Regional Pain Syndrome. It’s the brain fog and the fragility. It’s the tension seizing parts of the body that didn’t even know they could tense. It’s the overwhelm and impaired cognition. It’s the constant desire to lie down and cry versus the will to go on, to continue to function through the flare for however long the shroud stays down.
Under the shroud is a strange kind of limbo. I can rest there, but I can’t stop. The shroud won’t be fought off, but it also won’t leave if I stop fighting. I fight for the tiny parts of functionality. I fight to eat, to dress, to bathe and to strengthen both my body and mind enough to endure a flare without slipping backwards into weakness.
Fighting the shroud isn’t about bravado, mostly it’s about fighting the bullying thoughts that circle my mind. The shroud can block my ability to see ahead, to comprehend the temporary nature of angst and to imagine an end to the suffering. One of the shroud’s favourite disguises is permanence, but I refuse to believe its deception. The only way to fight thoughts is to recognise their insignificance and let them go.
There is danger in letting weeds of doubt spread through my mind. Weeds grow so quickly and overtake so thoroughly. Weeds can disguise a beautiful garden as an unkempt tangle. If I allow my mind to become overgrown with overwhelm then I freeze up. I lose the ability to keep moving and movement is the only way through the pain.
I have to move when it hurts like Hell. I have to move when it feels pointless. I have to move no matter how much it feels like I’m slipping backwards. I have to move or I lose my legs, again. I have to move or I lose my hands and my ability to make a smile. I have to move because the only alternative is surrender and I have no intentions of giving up.
When the shroud is down, I must remember that there is never a real reason to suddenly feel upset about an unchanging situation. I must remember my bottom line:
If I am uncomfortable then I must let go of the beliefs that are keeping me that way. Comfort isn’t given, it’s cultivated. I can learn to feel comfort and ease in any situation, regardless of my initial reactions. I can learn to separate my emotions from my physical pain.
I fight to let go until I feel like myself again. It’s the biggest and most private of battles. It’s a war waged in silence, with kindness the only weapon. I must be kind to myself, take care of myself and let go of anything that is standing in the way of me finding a peaceful way to be alive.
I will move until I am through the fog, until the shroud falls and I can see again. I won’t assume it will leave and I won’t assume it will last. The shroud is an uncertainty but my determination is not. The shroud is a symptom of disease and it doesn’t belong, but I do.
I refuse to be smothered.
Love & Focus,