Torn in Two – Part 12 (The Finale)

The Chronic Pain Series

Given some events that have unfolded since writing the end of this series, I’ve realised there has to be a ‘postscript’ to this thing. However, until those events have passed, I will not be writing that. And so, for now, I’ve decided to publish this final piece as it was originally written. All of which means, I will be returning to posting my random-stand-alone-curiosity-inspired-(hopefully-funny)-personal-essays-about-God-only-knows-what, after the holiday break. I hope you enjoy this final instalment and thank you for reading.

If you accept the idea that everything is connected, that everything bleeds into everything else, and that the supposedly 13.8 billion years that have passed since the Big Bang led us to this exact moment – then what does that do to the idea of endings? How can we pin-point definitive endings when everything emerges out of what came before it? This has been my problem with writing this series: how do I end a story that lacked a clear conclusion. If this story had of just been about getting over chronic pain, then maybe the ending would’ve been clearer. But this two-year ordeal became about so much more than that. It was about staying sober, growing as a person, and transitioning from one way of being to another. Things like that don’t end! At least, not until death, and even then, what happens after is a mystery.

True as these reflections may be, they do not bode well for wrapping up this series. So, let’s make a deal. . . I’ll tell you ‘the end’ of this story – as long as you take it with a grain of salt. Because the way I see it, the reverberations of an ordeal like this, never really end. The space between each shockwave just seems to expand.

Deal?

Cool, let’s get on with it then.

The next six months were a blur. Outwardly it seemed like nothing much changed. I continued doing Yin yoga. I persisted with the physio program. I carried on seeing the therapist every Wednesday before going home to journal and cry-my-eyes-out-in-child’s-pose. And, of course, the various shades of my back pain continued to colour my every waking moment. None of this was fun and none of it was glamorous. In fact, if it had of been a montage in a movie it would have been terribly boring. The big difference, however, between these six months and everything that proceeded it: somehow, the pain didn’t grate on me as much. This is partly because I’d accepted it. Partly because I knew how to manage it. But mainly, it was because of everything that was changing for me inwardly. The eighteen months that had led me to this point had been so hard that they had completely obliterated my old ways of approaching things. I knew there was no ignoring the pain. I knew there was no pushing through this ordeal. And I knew there was no rushing my healing. Everything that had transpired had led me to surrender to where I was. And in that surrender – I started to see another side of this ordeal. I started to whole-heartedly believe that this experience was laden with lessons. Lessons I needed to learn if I ever wanted to come out the other end of this thing.

Many of the lessons I’ve already touched on throughout this story. And others are too personal to share. But there is one more I must cover. Henry David Thoreau’s brilliant line sums this lesson up beautifully, so I’ll start with that:

“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation”.

I had been living a life of quiet desperation. From the age of 13 onwards my dream was to be a professional skateboarder. But I never let myself seriously go after that dream because I was scared, I’d fail. Even though I had some local success, I never made the moves I knew I needed to make if I wanted to ‘make it’ as a professional skateboarder. Instead, I played it safe and got a job doing something I didn’t want to do, so I could have some semblance of security. Knowing what I know now about skateboarding, I probably wouldn’t have made it – but that’s not the point. The point is that I didn’t even have enough faith in myself to try. That’s what hurt. I never really acknowledged this at the time, because to do so would have made it too real, and thus, too painful. It also wasn’t this abrupt decision that happened in one definitive moment – this was an issue of inaction, which made it subtler, harder to define, and thus, easier to let slip by unacknowledged. Ill-defined as it was, the hurt never went away; instead, it turned to hatred.

I hated that I didn’t go after what I wanted. I hated that I’d succumb to my fears and picked an unfulfilling life that wore away my soul. But hatred is too hard to maintain day in and day out. So, it became quieter. It became discontent and self-loathing. And my flawed way of dealing with these feelings fuelled my deep dive into addiction. I took anti-depressants and drank and gambled and used drugs to escape the daily toll of my quiet desperation. Until eventually, all that discontent, self-loathing, and self-medicating became too much, and it culminated in my body attacking itself.

What’s ironic is that by playing it safe – I still failed. Trying to live a life I didn’t want to live drove me nuts mentally, tore me apart physically, and gnawed at me spiritually. And so, when I finally made sense of all this, I decided I had to create a life I wanted to live. I would no longer work a job I hated for the illusion of security. And I would no longer let my fears stop me from going after the life I wanted. Because even if I failed, at least, I’d know I tried. At least, I could be proud of myself.

I can’t explain how liberating it was to make that decision. To start living my life in a way that nourished my soul. To take active steps in the direction of my new goal of becoming a full-time writer. And to be doing so in spite of my fears. No single thing has made me feel better about myself than making that choice. And I truly believe making that choice is a huge part of why I had to go through this ordeal.

I also believe that making that choice is a big part of what helped me find my way through this thing. Because as it turns out, not long after I made that decision, two things happened which seemed to suggest I was finally through the worst of it.

1) I reached a point where I felt ready to go for a roll on my skateboard. I don’t know how or why I felt ready – I just did. That first skate back was super chill, all I did was timidly roll along the footpath out the front of my apartment. But I did it. And my back didn’t spasm. A few days later, I went for another skate. Still no spasm. Then I went for another, and another, and another. Still no spasm! I took each skate so slowly, easing my way back onto my board with the newfound patience this ordeal had instilled. Having spent so much time off my board, I felt completely inept. Having my body change in such a fundamental way also meant that I was immediately aware of how different I felt on my board. To this day, skating still feels different. I don’t feel as good or as confident as I did before the injury. And I don’t know if I ever will. But I’m fine with that – because I’m just happy to still be able to roll on my skateboard.

2) One Wednesday afternoon after therapy, I came home and did some journaling. Once I was done, I got on the floor in child’s pose ready to cry – but nothing came out. I even tried to force out a little whimper, and still nothing. From then on, my back has never radiated with that same hot surging pain. Never! Since that day I have never had another back spasm or felt any more of the sharp pangs either. Before this ordeal I would’ve found it ridiculous to say that part of my pain was connected to unresolved emotional issues and that therapy, journaling, and crying-my-eyes-out-in-child’s-pose would be part of how I’d overcome it. But nowadays, I find it hard to think about it any other way. And to be honest, I don’t even care if there is some other explanation that completely discounts the way I understand this experience. Because back pain or not, I needed to face my demons, and I wouldn’t have done it if the back pain hadn’t driven me to therapy.

These days, the only pain that’s still with me is the dull ache, which I understand to be arthritis. But for reasons I can’t really explain (beyond everything I’ve already shared) it isn’t as intense as it used to be. Nor is it as relentless. In fact, there are times I hardly notice it. And even when it does crop up, I am now so well versed in how to alleviate it that it doesn’t give me too much grief. In some weird way, I’ve actually come to see that ache as a sort of guardrail. See, if I’m not taking care of myself, if I push myself too hard on my skateboard, or if I bottle up my feelings – then that pain quickly appears to remind me to keep walking down the new path this ordeal laid for me. In this way, there are times when I genuinely think of that ache as a good thing.

And that brings me to some last words. . .

Throughout most of this ordeal I saw the experience as a bad thing. I hated it. I resisted it. I wished it had never happened. But the further into it I went, the more I started to see the silver linings. The more I started to see how it was helping me in ways I sorely needed. And by ‘the end’, my view on the experience had completely flipped. These days I see that two-year ordeal as one of the most important and transformative things that ever happened to me. I’m not only glad it happened – I’m deeply thankful for it. This change in the way I see that experience has made me think that maybe I don’t need to label everything that happens to me as ‘good’ or ‘bad’. Maybe I don’t need to define and categorise every situation that occurs – at least, not initially. Maybe I can postpone my judgement, until I’ve given the cloud enough time to reveal its silver lining. See, at some point I realised that a part of my suffering wasn’t caused by the sensation of the pain or even the rigmarole of the ordeal itself – it was caused by my resistance to these things. I made the whole experience harder on myself because I was unwilling to accept what was going on. And I was unwilling to accept it because I had already decided it was bad. Even though I couldn’t see the full picture, and even though good and bad are two sides of the same coin – I still labelled that situation as wholly negative. Doing this not only caused me unnecessary suffering, it also blinded me from seeing how being torn in two was exactly what I needed. As that was the only way I could rebuild myself anew.

Since that ordeal I’ve become acutely aware of other people’s ailments. Go anywhere in public and look around. You will see people with limps. People resting all their weight on one leg. People moving in ways that reveal how life has maimed them in one way or another. And, of course, there are the ways we can’t see. Before this experience I didn’t really notice people in this position as much. And even when I did, it always made me sad. I’d feel sorry for them. And I’d feel fearful of aging and impairment. But nowadays, I don’t see things that way. Now I see the beauty in it. I see the indomitable strength of the human spirit. I see people who, despite being maimed by life’s heavy hand, still find a way to carry on. People who still choose to aim up even with clipped wings.

The End. . . For now. . .

---

---

RESOURCES THAT MIGHT BE HELPFUL:

The resources I’ve listed below are ones I’ve found personally beneficial. They are, of course, far more in-depth, helpful, and wide-ranging in their subject matter than my meagre descriptions could ever convey. (P.S - Some resources have links, and some don’t.)

Huberman Pod with Dr Sean Mackey: This podcast illuminates a bunch of different ways to manage, think about, and alleviate different types of pain.

Huberman Pod with Dr James Hollis: This podcast explores the importance of following your souls calling – and all the dis-ease, pain, and illness that can come when we ignore that call.

Huberman Pod with Dr Stuart McGill: This podcast highlights how much nuance and complexity there is around different forms of back pain. And how identifying, through thorough examination, what is wrong with your back – on a biopsychosocial level – is crucial if you want to employ the correct treatment.

Book: The Body Keeps the Score, by Bessel Van Der Kolk – This book illuminates how emotional and physical trauma can corrupt mind, body, and soul through many harrowing stories. It also explores different treatments and so much more.

Book: Walden by Henry David Thoreau – This book is a must read for anyone who still has the flame of passion burning within them. Or for anyone who simply enjoys good writing.

Substack: The Bright Side by Donna McArthur – Donna’s uplifting Substack offers a seemingly endless array of practical and actionable tips, through stories and essays, all of which help people bring more joy, contentment, and peace to their lives.

Substack: Unfixed by Kimberly Warner – Kimberly’s heart-warming Substack (and YouTube Channel) shares the stories of people living with different chronic illness or injury. Kimberly has also shared her own story in her beautifully written memoir, which I found deeply inspiring.

Unsolicited Advice: If you feel a sense of discontent, if you feel something isn’t right in your life, if you have a reoccurring pain or illness or distress that crops up – DON’T IGNORE IT! Journal about it. Talk to someone. Spend some time really thinking about it. Maybe you need to see a doctor for tests. Or a therapist for counselling. Or maybe what you need is something you have to discover for yourself. All I know is this: a wise man once told me that the universe keeps giving us the same lessons, until we learn what we need to.