My Body Hurts

I woke up at 1 pm today, but to be fair, I didn’t fall asleep until 7 am. Not for lack of desire, a rambunctious evening, or being caught up in a good book. No. Instead, it was because I hadn’t slept, tossing and turning. I contemplated writing it as I experienced it, but the voice inside of me instead told me, “Why share this? It’s not important. You’re simply whining.” And perhaps to some it may come off that way, but I realize that is a lot of the internalized narratives we hear and then repeat.

My eyes were incredibly tired when I thought this. My head felt heavy. I fought the constant urge of wanting to close my eyes or keep them open to watch the next episode of a show I’ve watched far too many times for the sake of comfort and noise, intended to drown out the constant noise in my mind.

The bed didn’t feel right. Every movement hurt. I tried moving to the futon, only to feel as uncomfortable. The memory foam mattress can’t form to my hip curves just the right way. The futon feels almost thin with its structure, pushing against my thigh.

Nothing was working for the discomfort I’ve had for well over a year, a pain I carried over with me through Spain. And while my doctor is fantastic in general, the response from doctors overall has been that I just need physical therapy. Having dealt with chronic pain since I was a child, physical therapy and working out can help, but it will not alleviate the tossing and turning, the pulsing in my shoulder, the twinge in my foot every time I move or put pressure on it, the pressure embracing my heel, or the deep feeling, like a fist perpetually lodged into the muscle fibers of my lower back and gluteus medius and maximus. Today is a good day, though; I don’t have a narrowing of my vision, lights that have reduced my peripheral vision as part of my aura with the migraines I’ve experienced since I was four years old. Yes. Four.

The pain gets better some days, but the arthritis I’ve had since I was 16 is still there in my knees, reminding me as I step that there are two screws below my kneecaps, anchored into my tibia to reduce the possibilities of my knee locking, initiating excruciating pain that historically exceeds the pain of unmedicated childbirth, something I noticed when I went unmedicated for the first 30 hours of childbirth with my son.

The first time my knee locked up on me, I was seven years old. I kneeled down to pet my dog, who was in the backyard at the time, pouring her dry kibble into her metal bowl. As I scratched behind Moochie’s ear, I felt a jolt of pain coursing through my leg, my knee now immovable. I screamed, and my dad rushed over, leaning my back carefully to rest on the linoleum floor. He gently placed his hand on the bottom of my foot, his other hand cupped over my knee, and carefully pushed my knee up, then pulled, straightening my leg. The intense pain reduced, but the residual lingered, causing me to limp for the next few days. And despite this completely unusual event, my doctors would require me to do three years of physical therapy, eventually and ultimately finding in X-rays, after an immeasurable amount of locked knees and those years of PT, that I would need surgery. The defining moment was when I was supposed to be front and center for a parade (I play the saxophone) and, minutes before, simply tying my shoes, I instead had to be rushed to the emergency room. This would lead to the surgery that I should have had years prior.

X-rays of my knees with screws in them from my surgeries in high school.

I had similar events around my migraines. I experienced incredible stomach discomfort for a while before, which would eventually be identified as abdominal migraines, but the first migraine I felt in my head, which I can recall, was also in the backyard, this time at dusk, where my peripheral vision began closing, spots filling my line of sight, followed by immense pain in my head. I would lie on my mom’s lap for two days with a washcloth, sobbing at the age of four, wishing I could just feel better. Doctors would dismiss this for many years, saying children could not get migraines, or that they were simply related to my cycle, or my favorite, that I needed to lose weight, even when I was at a healthy weight and was physically active as a teenager.

This level of dismissal is not new for me, clearly. And unfortunately, I do a good job of keeping it quiet. For years, I pretended I wasn’t in pain. Not because I wanted to appear strong, necessarily, but to protect myself. My jobs. My relationships. Walking with colleagues, I would get the occasional snide remark about taking the elevator, though they didn’t know that I was struggling with the pain in my knee that I’d experienced since I was younger than seven. Or mornings that were far too hard to pry myself out of bed, disturbing my plans, or the friends who stopped trying because I had to cancel time with them because of the chronic pain, causing me to sleep in, with a sleep routine already impossible due to insomnia since childhood. A story for another day.

So what does one do? I teach. I write. I have two kids. I do all of this while my body sends nervous responses throughout, the pain radiating from my shoulder through my neck, down the right side of my body today. People see me functioning and assume I’m fine, and in turn aren’t quite aware of the effort it takes to go for that hike, or head to the gym, both things that I enjoy, but sometimes are hard to muster. And some days, like today after no sleep, the hurt takes up so much space there’s barely room for anything else.

During this winter break, I’ve found myself sleeping during the day, feeling unproductive, but then I write. As I’ve mentioned, it might be 50 words, it might be 2,000. It doesn’t matter as long as I write, but I find myself comparing myself to others who proudly boast about their 8,000 words. It’s amazing for them! But the comparisons are real, unfortunate, and sit nestled in our minds. I’m trying to break out of it, but it’s hard not to. As an academic, I do the same consistently with my work. I find myself still comparing myself to the colleagues who had time during the PhD to publish or who have the mentorship to crank out the articles. Or to the colleagues who have tenure-track roles and only have to teach 3–4 classes, having time to write and publish all the academic articles they can imagine, while I have to teach 5–7 classes, still not making as much money as they are with a heavier workload, because research is valued more, yet I have little time to contribute. Never mind the physical pain I am enduring.

I write this in some ways to act as a reminder. As I sit here in pain, curled up on the couch with a fleece blanket laid over my legs, my senior cat, who I’ve been nursing back to health due to a tooth infection and a regular medication schedule to prevent seizures, I have been asking myself why I have not been more prolific in my academic endeavors. I know, logically of course. I know that it’s the burnout, the pain, the lack of a schedule and my body wanting sleep (though I’m not getting extra sleep, just a different sleep schedule), the kids at home from break, and the struggle of writing at home, never mind an upcoming procedure that is occupying my mind, but the reality of life is that we are bombarded with narratives crafted for us.

And the reality is that I can write endlessly about the struggles we may face due to the traps of comparison across any identities we have or possess or may develop in life. But one of the messages we often receive, especially within our economic structure and across minoritized identities, is that rest is lazy and productivity is the ultimate goal. Yes, we should try to achieve our goals, and we can and should celebrate and honor our efforts. However, what if it’s just enough to exist, to find laughter and joy with our loved ones, in our favorite films, or in a nice book? What if it’s enough to have a day to cry or struggle, to sleep? What if it is enough to enjoy our favorite dessert alone, binge-watching television, because anything beyond existing is just a little too much?

My job, nor is yours, is not to inspire. I’m certainly not trying to prove myself. I’m tired, as many others are, too. And let us not forget about the sociopolitical conditions of the world, weighing heavily, reminding us of our existence with the expectation of waking the next day to go about life as if it is “business as usual.”

Little Charlene, around age 4, which is around the time migraines started in full force

I’m writing this because there is often a narrative I adopt, which is “don’t share this, nobody cares,” and so, I stay quiet. But what I’ve realized is that it’s the ableism, the capitalistic drive for productivity, the cultural values of “vulnerability is weakness,” or that sharing words and lived experiences is somehow overshadowing the professional image we should convey, when in reality words can help us feel less alone, to know what people are experiencing and find connection, community, and people. Chronic pain is real, as is exhaustion. The impossibility of meeting productivity standards while your body is failing you is real and devastating, especially while fighting to be believed and keep up.

The world doesn’t slow down for us, and as much as I am an advocate for systemic and institutional change, it isn’t always that easy. Of course, many of us, especially those of us who analyze the world around us on a larger scale, want change that is widespread and will impact more than ourselves; sometimes, the biggest act of resistance is in our daily interactions and how we view the world. So, if you’re reading this and understand this exhaustion, or perhaps if you love somebody who does, it’s okay to want to be more than your pain and chronic struggles. But today, I’m just tired, and that’s okay, too. This is something I’m still learning at 37, despite three decades of chronic pain. Pursue the things you want and can, but don’t break yourself, especially for a world that expects that of us within the scope of productivity for productivity’s sake, and capitalism’s sake.