i saw my regular pain management doctor on Monday. i was hoping that she would finally consider giving me something for break-through debilitating pain, given that she is the person who sent me off to a neurosurgeon. She still said no.
No to pain meds. No to medical marijuana because there “isn’t enough evidence that it works.” No to upping the cymbalta. Just plain no.
i keep seeing this person because she talks to and listens to Sir Raven, and that is of extreme importance to me. Obviously.
So, anyhow, i’m angry.
i’m tired of living in pain. i watched a documentary about Death with Dignity and felt jealous of the people in the film. Not because i want to die, because i don’t, but because they had something they could hold in their hands that would guarantee that there would be an end to suffering. Plus, they had morphine. They were gardening, walking on the beach with a smile, walking up a goddamned cliff, and dancing. It was like watching a two hour long tampon commercial, except people die at the end. They all died saying, “this is so easy. People should know how easy this is.”
i’m not making light of the suffering of people with terminal cancer. Nor would i. It’s a tragic affair for everyone.
My point is that pharmaceuticals exist because the relief of suffering is valid in terms of medical care and the hippocratic oath.
And i’m suffering.
i’m suffering physically and emotionally. i’m not depressed. i’m not crazy.
When i realized my sight issues could not be fixed, i gave myself one day a year to feel bad about it. So far, i’ve never used the whole day. i am keen at focusing on gratitude, daily. At being mindful, thankful, open.
This though? The barrage of pain. i need two days to lament, to feel irrational anger at the able-bodied people who move through the day with ease, to deal with the fact that i’m angry that i’m wired in such a way that the stress of it all makes me need to be beat until i can cry it all out.
i’m angry. i’m resentful. i’m seething.
Yesterday, i remembered after the car wreck that the doctor took x rays and used a machine that made a print out of my neck each visit. It was damaged, out of alignment, curved strangely, but no herneated back or neck discs.
And in the midst of it, i’m reading, “Daring Greatly” by Brenee Brown and found that she is confused on a point.
She said that Sociopaths don’t feel shame.
i find this to be categorically untrue, and since i’ve had a lifetime to have many be attracted to me, i should know a thing or two.
They know they are monsters-they say so.
They know there is something wrong with them.
They say they are bad, a bad seed, something dark.
But instead of feeling shame about it, it’s a simple knowledge, no different from me pointing out that i have dimples. It’s not that they don’t know what shame is in terms of naming it, they just don’t feel what we feel about it.
When i binge and practice self-hatred, i feel shame. i feel that i am bad. When bad things happen to me, or i am neglected and hurting, i feel shame. i think, “If i were prettier, this would not be happening.” And then i bury it and me under more fat. i bury the anger, the shame.
If anything, there is a sense of bravado in a sociopath, a psychopath will be especially likely to enjoy being a monster. Depraved.
Do the people who abused me have to carry the weight of the shame?
i am the memory.
My bones are the memory i can’t deny.
i feel gratitude still, force myself to focus on that, give more, serve better, look nicer, smile often. Underneath that though is a searing pain, because i’m not enough. i can change nothing. My pleas change nothing. i keep falling down a hole, i tell myself to adjust the lens, view everything through Sir Raven’s eyes and needs and wants. Forget my own. They don’t matter.
And it works, for months at a time.
Right now, i’m too tired to fight myself. i’m exhausted with need. i can’t turn anywhere for relief. So, i will rest awhile. Give in for an hour. Then, i’ll get up and put on a fresh smile and clean apron and cook. Serve. Give thanks.