The world is pain

I told you to beware the hiatus, right? So it’s been a while … I have had posts bubbling away in my fevered brain (or what passes for it, these days) – food, politics, engaging conversations, the joy of a new Santoku knife – but have not had the strength to get to the keyboard. That sounds like a real “dog ate my homework” excuse, doesn’t it, but sometimes the dog DOES eat your homework …

The short version is I’ve had a rough time with pain the last couple weeks. Real rough. Excruciating writhing screaming drugs-not-fucking-working rough. I find it odd, to say the least, that “mankind” (well, man, at least, I’m absolving womankind for personal and totally subjective reasons) can not only split atoms and create vile WMDs (actual existent ones!) but are also able to build nuclear reactors, and then when those abominations go kerflooey build housings that will, in theory, last 10,000 years. Yet they cannot come up with a painkiller that fucking WORKS. GAH.

The title of this post is a real bummer, but it is how I feel right now, so tough. My world is reduced to pain, see above, there is no relief or release or end in sight. No cure, no suggestions from doctors and specialists – even the good ones. I know I haven’t got cancer, or total organ failure … but the pain is worse than those who do. And I really can’t cope with it anymore.

I’m like those consumptive Victorian females who took to their beds, dosed up on laudanum and waited on by servants. Except I have no servants and laudanum probably wouldn’t cut it if 280 mgs of morphine per day doesn’t, and I can’t fucking crochet, either. A good day, for me, is when I can make the choice to do the laundry, or a bit of grocery shopping, but not both. See?

I figure I’ve done a good job putting up with it so far – 36 years and counting, considering I didn’t get diagnosed with the various “ailments” until I was 28+. However the pain levels are ramping up, and up, and I’d gladly take a bullet for someone deserving, just to escape. If I was a different sort of animal, not hominid but feline or canine or equine, I’d be put down and yes it would be sad but sometimes that’s the right thing to do.

Which is not to say I am suicidal, please believe me on that. I’m not even depressed – at least, not the depression that can be salved by application of SSRIs et al. I don’t particularly want to die – I do enjoy the bits of life that break up the monotony of painfatiguepain. I adore my husband and don’t want to leave him, and certainly don’t want to leave him with the wreckage of a suicide. I also don’t want to suicide because (a) I think it is wrong, yet at the same time perfectly understandable and (b) I don’t want to fail. I don’t want to make a mess, either.

So that’s out. But I cannot, really truly cannot bear this “life” any longer. It’s too much, you know? So much I want to do – simple stuff, like go cycling with my fella, or go for a fucking walk without crying, maybe go dancing, maybe follow up plans to study or whatever (fucking forget dreams of working, or having a family and that other stuff that’s supposed to make one feel “fulfilled”) – but I’m kept to my bed and tiny apartment as though chained. Which quite often makes me cry with despair – other times I’m all stiff upper lip, I don’t whinge all the time, although you wouldn’t think it, I realise. And it is simply not possible to break those chains. If you think I could, by mind over matter, or the power of prayer, then you haven’t ever suffered this level, so don’t presume, just back right off. Mind over matter has kept me going since I was 8 years old and is getting a trifle weary.

So what does that leave me with, really? Nada. No cure, no let-up, no answers. No hope, any longer, I’ve been crushed way too many times. I remember a particular condescending misogynistic moronic bastard of an “eminent rheumatologist” (and I’ve met a number of those – oh the names I could give you!) who suggested, straight-faced, I try aromatherapy. What I said is unrepeatable even on these pages where my language can be somewhat pungent, however the informed use of hydroponic herbals is a possibility. I’m not a fan of the idea of illegal controlled substances, but if the authorised shit ain’t working? I dare anyone to arrest me or attack or revile me for trying. Walk a mile in my shoes … Hey I’ll be easy on you, you can just spend a day in bed trying not to scream bloody murder, and a night crying in your sleep trying not to disturb your poor hard-working husband on whom you depend, and a little hobbling around like a 95 year old dribbling woman.

Ahh feck it, I’ll be all bright and Pollyanna-ish on the surface tomorrow, and will most likely delete this post.