Day 215. My Secret Pain Self

You may have noticed that I haven’t been posting quite as much of late.  That has been for two concurrent reasons.  I have been in the middle of writing about how fantastic my phsyical therapist is–because he is really great. Then at the same time, I have been in an existential crisis about how miserable I am because I am in pain and horribly fatigued as a result of physical therapy.

Over the weekend, I was so miserable; I had to miss doing two things I really wanted to do, and I barely un-beached myself from the couch long enough to eat another caramel rice-cake with tofutti cream cheese, honey, and cinammon (my absolute favorite GF, Dairy-free treat…but more than three of those a day will put a girl into two size 22 mu-mus, sewn together, mighty quick).

But I digress, as usual.

I went to PT on Monday and told Mike about my misery.  He was very concerned and jumped right into diagnostic mode.  At the same time, though, he reminded me that I had come in happily last week and announced that my shoulders had never been so relaxed in recent memory and that I thought we were making real progress with this body work.  I do have a vague memory of saying that. Here’s the problem:  When I am in pain, I can only think: pain,pain, pain, pain.  When the pain is over, I can’t remember or describe it clearly (without referring to journals).  Seriously.  He asked me to explain what happened over the weekend that was so bad, and I was hard pressed to elaborate.  It’s embarrassing because it sounds like I am making it up.

I think I have a dissociative response to my pain, to some extent.  On a large scale, people who have a dissociative response are really in trouble, because they are disconnecting from themselves or the world; for example, dissociative identity disorder is the present name for what in the past was known as multiple personality disorder. But a more adaptive form of dissociation frequently occurs to people in something as mundane as, say, a car accident; dissociation from the fright of the situation is gives the person a safe place to stash the self, so people often report having watched the accident occur as though they were watching it on TV. Disconnecting from the whole scene to process the deep and difficult feelings, including pain, may be the safest way for some people–like those of us with very intense feelings–to do it.

Maybe I disconnected one tiny bit of myself that day my parents walked me down the hall of my apartment building and I went to the hospital with an exploded leg aneurysm.  Without any doubt I had the sense of standing above the stretcher where I was lying and watching the radiologist tell me, “Yup!  See!  This is an aneurysm right here.”  And I looked at the angiogram with great interest, as though it belonged to that imaginary patient we always see on television. That dissociated piece of myself has undoubtedly remained….well…split.  And it has a tough time articulating much of anything, particularly pain.  I am sure that is why, on the rotten days like today and yesterday, I tend just to fall asleep.  When that dissociated part of me takes over, I’m not available for talking or thinking much, so the porch light’s off.  Nobody’s home.

There’s going to have to be a whole chapter on physical therapy in my book.  It’s complicated.

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