A (Sort of) Love Letter to My Pain

Last year, I wrote a love letter to my brain. Though flawed, my brain is, to me, remarkable. Taking the time to make a note of the things that I really love about it made me appreciate my brain more than I ever had before. So, I’m embarking on the difficult task of extending some sort of love to my invariable foe: pain.

Just like pain, this won’t be plain-sailing, but here goes!

Dear Pain,

I doubt you would expect such a pleasant gesture from me, given how much I’ve resented and ignored you over the years. But there’s a lot of bad blood between us that I’d like to put to rest — on the record.

Among other realities that I face daily as a person with a disability, you’re probably the harshest. You wreck plans, cause me immense frustration and lead me spiraling into states of unmotivated plainness. Whatever you don’t outright prevent during any given day, you stifle instead — either by virtue of your nature, or through your remarkable ability to rain on my usually very optimistic parade.

Let me be very honest about your conspicuous downsides: Pain, you have caused me injuries that go beyond what is purely physical. I gave up my first and only well-paid, full-time job because of you. I’ve cried, ached and lamented over who I am and the circumstances of my being on this planet because of you. You serve as a constant reminder of some of the worst times in my life. I have lived comfortably in my hatred of the barrier that you represent between myself and the things I am capable of achieving. That is, until recently.

I’ve put my body through a lot as of late. I’m exercising more, and pushing and breaking through physical limits I thought I’d never even dare to look at. Pain, you’re right there with me, as I expected. But you look different now — less like an opponent, and more like a challenge. In my letter to your companion, cerebral palsy, I referred to the lessons learned over many years that taught me my physical boundaries. Without you, there would be fewer hurdles to jump over, that’s true. But I’d also lose a valuable tool with which to measure my endurance. That’s how you’ve served a positive purpose many times before and, as I strengthen my body, your input is now all the more necessary.

Though it may be vital that I use you to create realistic expectations of my body’s capabilities, I also know from experience that you’re not always fair. To be frank, Pain, you often arrive when you’re not wanted, and you could so easily spoil things that way. However, whilst I try my best to listen to your calls — your subtle echoes in my joints and shrieking duets with my spasming muscles — I have learned I can push through you on occasion. I can accept you as part of a moment in time without becoming defeated in your presence. In this way, you empower me to push through difficult workouts. You spur me on to finish beautiful walks as you remain a distant whisper in my limbs. I know my body can and will grow stronger both in spite and because of you.

Pain, I can’t say I have as much love for you as I do for my brain. But I know you exist in order to test, motivate and protect me. For that, I am grateful.

Know that the next time it’s just you, me, and a day fit only for uncomfortable lounging on the sofa, I will try my best to appreciate the quiet time you gift me regularly, even if you do spend a lot of it shouting at me!

Pain, your lessons have molded me, and I’m thankful for every one of them.