The Truth Hurts

I’ve been struggling with this post a really long time.

The reason for the conflict is simple: I’ve presented a fairly consistent  image of successful pain management techniques here. And for the most part, that’s been true. Heck, it’s been completely true – until fairly recently.

What happened was this: I found myself in a hellish situation — staying with some friends (now former friends) who … wow, how to put this? Let’s say “had some issues.” They, and their kids, systematically worked over the course of several months to make life harder than it had to be. And it all ended in a fabricated explosion designed to push us out — myself and my child, that is.

Well, you don’t have to tell me twice. Despite the massive amounts of stress and pain I was dealing with, I managed to pack us up and get out within a day. We drove two hours late at night, ending up at a hotel in Raleigh, NC, where I slept for the first time in over six months on a real bed. The next day, we met my brother for lunch, then took off yet again in the poorly-air-conditioned car – this time for Savannah, a good six hours away.

That’s where I am now — my daughter is spending a few days with her dad in South Carolina — staying with a true friend who needed some help and had an extra bedroom.

The truth is: I am quite literally homeless. Without a place to call home – at least, of my own.

That’s what chronic pain has done to me. I am unemployable, I have lost the law license I worked so hard for, and I have no home and no regular income — all because I have chronic pain.

The reality of this has made me even sicker, much as the insane additional amounts of emotional stress have contributed to it as well. The practicalities are that I have had to steel my body to do things it just is not capable of doing in the past weeks. And it is screaming at me right now.

“Do you get it yet? Has it soaked in through your incredibly thick skull yet? You are DISABLED, you moron.”

I hate it when my body yells at me. It’s so … rude.

I have no idea what’s going to happen. For the first time, I’m scared. Truly, bone-crunching-ly, soul-shaking-ly scared. This arrangement won’t last much longer — it can’t, because I won’t let my friend take on one more thing she has to fix at the expense of herself, and because … well, I just won’t let it. And what happens then feels like one huge question mark.

All I can do now is cry, while my daughter isn’t here to see me, and lie here on this bed, because I can’t sit up without wanting to scream. And while I know this current level of pain will not last — it never does — it will ease, and I will rise again — the enormity of the other problems makes it all seem like one great big giant taffy ball of evil trying to trap me in a box.

Perspective is hard to come by these days, in other words. So if you’ve come here looking for “thriving!” tips (gaaah, I want to rip that word from the English language right about now), you might want to go elsewhere for awhile. Or look through the happy/healthy archives. Stay away from current posts for awhile. Because I’m fresh out of thriving. Because the truth, quite literally, hurts like hell.

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8 thoughts on “The Truth Hurts

  1. Melissa Travis

    Hearing you – feeling you. Thank you for sharing. Powerful and real. Sucks. Life is sometimes so unfair. Now- I'm in georgia but about to move. You need to get some disability. You need help. E-mail me if you need some state of georgia disability advice – longterm or short term if you don't already. Get some county free aid if you are in financial distress. I'm not sure your income state or whatever. I don't know you – but I have read this and my heart goes out. I have a phd and have lost my life to my health as well. My heart is moved by your pain and your crisis. YOU CAN DO THIS BECAUSE YOU ARE DOING IT. But I can help you through some of the georgia bureaucracy – even just the health stuff. I know doctors and medical things here even though I am being forced to move to Ohio bc of my lack of income and life. drsnit at gmail I am here. I care. I have never read you before – but I do care when I read people in pain. hugs and cheers. x

    Reply
    1. anniesisk

      Thanks Melissa. I'll email you. I definitely want to speak with you further, for my own needs but also for the book.

      Reply
  2. rochellelearning

    Ohhhh man, this sucks!!!!! 🙁 🙁 I'm so sorry. I know you don't want pity, but I don't know what to say except, oh my gosh I am soooo sorry you are going through all of this. You have meant a great deal to me and your posts always mean a lot. This one does too, don't think you can't still impact people even through the negative. That's the reality of this journey, it's not all hunky-dorey. We know. It's okay.

    Don't worry, everything's going to be okay. If you ever need a place to stay and are in the Chicago area, let's connect. We always have a couple extra warm beds. You are never fully alone.

    Never.

    Praying for you and sending you lots of gentle hugs from afar….

    Reply
  3. woo

    Thank you for sharing. I don't have much support and reading other stories makes me feel I am not alone. I lost a job and a relationship and I'm scared. I want to hug you!

    Reply
  4. Wendy Burnett

    Annie – I am soooooo there with you. I also have a place to stay only because of the kindness of friends (although it sounds like my situation is a bit better, they have a “cottage” that the hubby and I rent, so we have our own space,) and I'm also dealing with major pain at the moment due to a 5 day hospitalization with no medication.

    The negative is just as much a part of this chronic life as the positive . . . just keep saying what you need to say, we're with you, and we “get it.”

    Reply
  5. Pingback: Yeah, Yeah – Bad Blogger. I Know. | the tramadol diaries

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