Subscribe to The Pain Companion Navigating the Tight Rope of Chronic Pain
(This article also appears on The Mighty) I teared up when I watched the video “Headway” by Access Oneness, because it is so like life, and particularly, so like living with pain. I highly recommend taking a moment to watch it.A man starts walking along a tightrope suspended over a river and loses his balance. It looks like he’ll fall into the river, but he catches himself.Then something absolutely wonderful happens.He uses the place of falling, the place that...
I teared up when I watched the video “Headway” by Access Oneness, because it is so like life, and particularly, so like living with pain. I highly recommend taking a moment to watch it.
A man starts walking along a tightrope suspended over a river and loses his balance. It looks like he’ll fall into the river, but he catches himself.
Then something absolutely wonderful happens.
He uses the place of falling, the place that starts to look like a mistake, starts to look like failure, and makes something new from it – something completely unexpected and creative. It’s remarkably beautiful.
Making the Journey
I found watching this video to be a very visceral and emotional experience. Yes! I thought, this is exactly how we can be with our pain. We can cling to it, we can hang ourselves from it, we can twist ourselves up inside it and stay stuck and caught in it, hanging over an abyss, or we can use it to create beauty.
Both the tightrope and pain set parameters around experience, but they can not fully determine who we are. They do not determine our response. We may be living with severe limits, but we can create something new in that, through that, with that, and beyond that.
The tightrope limits, yes, but it is also a way across.
Pain limits, yes, but, somehow, it is also a way to something.
We may have to live with pain for a long time – we may have to keep coming back to it, just as the tightrope walker keeps bouncing off and coming back to the rope – but we can also create a kind of awesome flexibility and resilience within that.
The Space Above and Around Pain
This video could have depicted a stressful walk with the man focusing almost exclusively on his footing and the tightrope itself, trying to control every aspect of the experience, the way we often focus on and try to control our pain experience.
Instead, through the looseness engendered by his fall, his relationship to the tightrope becomes meaningful, alive, exuberant and full of freedom. He shifts his focus to the spaces above and around it and uses it to propel him into places he never would have gone before.
And this is the way we can be with our pain, I feel. Yes, we are in it, yes, it defines a lot about our lives, but we have choices within that and around that.
We can choose to focus on the pain itself as something to be overcome or eradicated or fought against. We can look down at it, metaphorically speaking, and hate it. We can stand in one place, our feet aching, our body tense, trying to hold our balance in one stuck position, whatever that may mean for us.
Or we can create.
Even with the pain, we can create. Even if our creativity is more internal than external, we can breathe, flex, adjust. We can re-learn to believe in ourselves and to dream.
Imagine if the tightrope walker had chosen to fight the rope, or cut it, or simply sit down and hang onto it. These are all options open to him, but look what he would have lost! Why I Won't Let Pain Put My Life on Hold
When you watch, notice how he completely changes his relationship not only to the rope but to the space around it – he becomes more engaged with the air, with gravity, with his own body, and the music, and through this engagement he allows himself more freedom, and allows whatever happens to simply and elegantly inform his next move.
This is so much how we want to be with our pain, I believe.
I think it bears watching Headway repeatedly, for those of us walking the tightrope of pain. We can imagine ourselves moving more freely, practicing inner agility and creating a relationship with pain that is fluid, has breath and may even propel us into unexpected places of freedom and beauty.
Consciously or unconsciously, we often push our “real” lives to the side when we’re in chronic physical pain. We think we have to.We imagine that we just have to get through this one thing, this present phase, this latest difficulty, and then we can return to our lives, or be returned to our true selves. Only then can we re-engage again.Of course, there are things we have to give up when we’re in deep pain, that goes without saying, but we often stop...
Consciously or unconsciously, we often push our “real” lives to the side when we’re in chronic physical pain. We think we have to.
We imagine that we just have to get through this one thing, this present phase, this latest difficulty, and then we can return to our lives, or be returned to our true selves. Only then can we re-engage again.
Of course, there are things we have to give up when we’re in deep pain, that goes without saying, but we often stop interacting with others and participating in events and activities almost entirely because we can only do them minimally or from the sidelines. And, in that way, we put our lives on hold.
Again, there are absolutely legitimate times when we feel we have to withdraw from others for awhile in order to heal. We need more rest and less stimulation than normal, and we often need to pull away from group situations in order to give ourselves that space.
But it’s also important to find ways to step back into life, to re-include activities we enjoy and people we enjoy in whatever capacity we can, even while we are still living with pain.
When we’re in pain, we may not remember that we are still important to others. We still have an impact on the people who love us. They miss being with us, they still care for us, and they are part of our overall connection with life.
When we feel terrible, it’s easy to forget that we are still lovable and still loved. Withdrawing because we assume that people don’t want us around, or because we feel we don’t have anything to offer, cuts off opportunities for loving engagement with life. It’s not entirely healthy, and it’s often not happy either.
We may not be able to be with others or participate in life in the same capacity as before, nevertheless, our ability to love is still present and we must never allow that to be shut down by pain. When we withdraw completely, we aren’t necessarily being abandoned by others, we are then the ones who are pulling away.
When we’re in pain for a long time, it’s true, some of our friends and acquaintances will no longer be part of our lives, they will move on without us. But others will want to stay connected, and others may show up in unexpected ways if we’re open to that. I think it’s important to find out who is still there for us, who tries to understand, who tries to hear, who offers to help in whatever way they can.
More Than Getting Through
And it’s important to reach out, not just for help (which is, in itself, a very important skill to learn), but to reach toward life itself and toward engagement. It’s important not to wait for pain to stop before we can carry on with life. How I Freed Myself of Feeling Ashamed of Chronic Pain
It’s so important to find ways to reach out in love, and to express love. To let dear ones know that, even in pain, we care about them. No loving gesture is too small. A phone call, an email, a cup of tea, a short visit, a meetup, an update. I’m still here. I still love you.
We may choose to put our life on hold while we’re in pain, but it doesn’t wait for us. It keeps flowing on. That can become a great sadness if we wake up a few years later and realize we’ve disconnected ourselves from the stream of life.
It’s sad, and it’s frightening. Best to find ways, however small, to remain connected with others, connected with life, even as we’re on this challenging and often lonely journey through pain. Especially while we’re on this challenging and lonely journey.
And I’ve found that to be the strongest and most positive path of healing.
(This article also appears on The Mighty) It doesn’t make any logical sense that anyone would feel guilty about living in pain, but I have.In our goals-oriented culture, we’re supposed to keep on keeping on and not complain. We worry that if we let ourselves withdraw from participating fully in life for more than a very brief time, we will be left behind. Or worse, it will mean that we are simply not good people. Good people take short breaks and then keep going, keep...
It doesn’t make any logical sense that anyone would feel guilty about living in pain, but I have.In our goals-oriented culture, we’re supposed to keep on keeping on and not complain. We worry that if we let ourselves withdraw from participating fully in life for more than a very brief time, we will be left behind. Or worse, it will mean that we are simply not good people. Good people take short breaks and then keep going, keep trying, never give up and never say die. In fact, it is considered almost a sin to do nothing, to step out of the constant stream of work, entertainment, and busyness.But once I was injured, I couldn’t do that anymore.I was forced to slow way, way down and I felt bad about it. I thought I should try to take care of all the things I used to take care of. I thought I had to hide my pain, pretend it wasn’t there and attempt to do as much as I would normally do. I thought I was supposed to just “grin and bear it.” But that didn’t heal me. It only made things worse.As the length of time I was in pain lengthened, I experienced a subtle, creeping, persistent feeling of shame and failure. Here are the seven things I learned to tell myself to counteract my feelings of shame and guilt around living in persistent, unhealable pain:1. I am not wrong for being in pain. When It Feels Like You're Drowning in Pain
Being in pain is not my fault. I am not wrong, guilty, bad or screwed up. Being in pain does not equate with being weak, bad, or needy, nor does it mean I am inadequate as a person.2. I am not on anyone’s timetable.
Pain keeps its own timetables and no one has the ability to read them completely accurately, not even my doctor. My body is on its own healing schedule that can’t be forced.3. It’s OK for me to do less.
While in pain, my ability to attend to the every day tasks of life is compromised.It’s part of the package. I give myself permission to do less, and to be honest with others about how much I can and can’t handle.4. I can ask for help.
Sometimes shame and guilt about needing help makes me reluctant to ask for it, but everyone has times in life when they need to depend on others to help them or take over what they can’t do. This is my time. I will ask for the help I need as clearly and honestly as I can.5. I can receive financial assistance graciously.
One pervasive perception we have in our culture is that people who accept assistance are mooching off society. The truth is, the money is supposed to be there for me, whether it is from charity or government assistance. At times I have put money into the collective pot and now I need to draw money out. It’s the way it’s supposed to work.6. I can stop trying to make other people feel better.
Making other people feel better can take the form of a) not expressing what I need so I don’t burden others, b) downplaying my continued pain so my doctor or other caretakers feel better about the job they’re doing, or c) attempting programs or exercises that I’m not ready for because I am responding to someone else’s urging, or avoiding blame for not trying harder.7. I know that healing is my current job.
My real job, for now, is healing. I won’t judge myself harshly according to what I used to be capable of doing. I am handling another aspect of my life right now that requires a great deal of time and energy.In doing all of these things, I am taking care of myself, which has to be my highest priority right now — without shame or guilt.
The other day, a young friend of mine was nearly swept out to sea. He was surfing alone when the waves died. Strong currents pulled him further and further away from the shore toward the open ocean. He got turned around and couldn’t see land anywhere. He had no idea which way to paddle and there was no sign of help. Isn’t that how it feels, living with pain? We’re in uncharted territory and don’t know where to turn or if there will ever be a safe haven again....
The other day, a young friend of mine was nearly swept out to sea. He was surfing alone when the waves died. Strong currents pulled him further and further away from the shore toward the open ocean. He got turned around and couldn’t see land anywhere. He had no idea which way to paddle and there was no sign of help. Living in Pain? You Are a Warrior
Isn’t that how it feels, living with pain? We’re in uncharted territory and don’t know where to turn or if there will ever be a safe haven again. We’re drifting out there in the sea alone. Maybe we’ll find a way and maybe we won’t. Maybe we’ll be stuck out there for a very long time and maybe we’ll go under.
The currents were carrying my friend further away from safety. Not unlike the currents of fear, panic, victimization, despair. They take us further from where we want to go, further from healing.
That’s when we have to look within to find the place in ourselves that believes, even one iota, that we are worth the journey. We have to look up and out from ourselves too, to find something greater than us. Something we can focus on, something that can guide us, something that gives a ray of light, of hope. Then we have to use our will and our strength and our courage to begin to move toward that.
My friend eventually saw the tip of a roof over a wave and paddled like mad toward it. It was hard going against the current. He was exhausted and terrified. But when he told me the story, I could see that something inside him had changed. He’d had to dig deep inside himself to find reserves he didn’t know he had to be able to overcome his fear, fight the current and find his way back.
His struggle was so like our journey through pain. How hard it is. How we have to keep our heads above the water, even when we feel pulled under. Maybe we rest there for awhile, just floating, and maybe it feels like we’re paddling forever or like the wind is against us, the waves going the wrong direction. Maybe it feels like we might want to gently slip off that surfboard and let the ocean take us. And isn’t that when life somehow conspires to buoy us up just enough to see a sign of hope in the distance?
Those of us who are still here are finding something inside of us that is strong and sure and stable and eternal. Something stronger than the pain, a core that believes in us despite everything we’ve been through. And this is something we can draw on. A touchstone, a place we go to over and over again for inner strength, spiritual strength. It is the part of us that wants to live, wants to heal, won’t give up.
I am still here, I am still strong, I am still paddling and there is a shore out there, even if I can’t see it. Maybe closer than I thought.
Sometimes pain just won't leave, but living in pain does not make you wrong, or a failure. Every day you make it through despite the pain is a day you lived as a warrior. [...]...
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Sometimes pain just won't leave, but living in pain does not make you wrong, or a failure. Every day you make it through despite the pain is a day you lived as a warrior.