the ways of coping

pain is permanent.

Have you ever been sick? Physically sick to the point where your week consists of doctor's visits and therapy? Where you can't get out of bed so you lay there and wish for death to be sweet? Countless visits, sessions, and consultations later, they tell you it's anxiety or stress. Maybe it was for a while, but no drug would change it anyways. Finally, in last-ditch efforts, they give you a treatment plan and you follow it. It takes months and months and months for zero progress and increasing pain, but slowly you notice little changes here and there. Well let me tell you, I've been there. 

I've been in a cold room where they stick a needle in you, poke and prod you, and ask the same questions over and over. "Where does it hurt?" Everywhere. "When did it start?" For as long as I can remember but the pain has been getting worse recently. "On a scale of 1-10...?" 7.

It's always been a 7. No, not because 7 is my favorite number or because 7 was the last time I can remember not being bullied, but because someone once told me if you answer any higher than a 7, they can admit you. And I'd do anything to avoid admission. Just like I avoid telling my therapists things that can give her probable cause. 

But now the visits with different specialists have slowed and some have ceased. It feels nice to sleep in on Saturdays, but I feel like my life has a hole in it now. My entire life revolved around my pain. The debilitating days where walking was excruciating, empty pill bottles littering my nightstand, water burning like acid down my throat. In my head, my pain is still there. The trauma that has been etched into my brain sits heavy on my eyes. I've been told I show be grateful someone found a way, but for me, though the physical pain has ceased, the mental pain has anything but. 

I isolated myself further than I thought possible from friends and family. I avoided social events, dinners, and nights out. My pain kept me home. But now, I have the capabilities to do everything and more, yet the searing pain has a grip around my throat and won't let go. It tells me every night relapsing is easy. But I don't want that. I don't want my parents to pick me up from work with scared wide eyes thinking they might not get to see me over the holidays. I don't want my girlfriend to try and soothe me over facetime every time the pain would ravage my body until tears dripped down my cheeks. But the pain hides around the corner every day. It's inviting and warm. It was stubborn and held on, which is more than I can say for most people in my life.

I was secure in my pain.