Say It Ain't So
It took me a while to find a photo where I wasn't smiling brightly or with people (or a dogs). I've not normally been someone who shares when I'm not feeling okay. And I am a very social creature by nature. Facing insecurites and uncertainties was always something that I did on my own, but I've grown through my struggle with chronic pain due to herniated discs in my spine. I am still in recovery from a surgery I had in November of 2019, as it can take up to two years for nerve pain to dissapate. I want to show others who might be struggling with negative mental health that they are not alone. To do that, I'm going to share a few exerpts of some writing I did when I didn't know what else to do.
Written approximately 1.5 years ago, while trying the conservative approach to heal herniated discs:
Gym rat. Noun. A person who loves to spend copious amounts of time at their gym, working out. A term that I used to use to self-describe myself. I’m someone who felt empowered by my strength, especially as a woman. I have always loved being able to do things by myself. Even as a little kid, I wore t-shirts that said “I’m not a tomboy, I’m an athlete” and took pride in my lack of fear of heavy lifting or getting my hands dirty. I think my Mom kind of wanted a girly girl, but she proudly sat in the stands as I became a starter on each of my basketball teams.
There is a reason that I became a gym rat. A reason that I wanted a hard outer shell. When I was in middle school, I was the fat kid. My metabolism and growth spurt didn’t work together. Both of my parents worked and didn’t have time to monitor what I ate, so I ate a bunch of trash because it was quick and easy and I didn’t know any better. I was bullied by everyone in my grade, but even worse, I was bullied by my older brother and his friends. Today he claims that he is the reason that I got interested in fitness, that he set me along a path to health. I don’t try to explain to him that it didn’t start out that way. I don’t tell him about the dangerous habits that I occasionally find myself slipping back into when I feel desperate. I don't really blame him either - he was just a kid himself. When I was hurt by the words others said, I didn’t show it. I decided that I was going to take more control of my life. I begged my Mom to pay for personal training sessions and to let me take over food in our home. Though I’m not proud of it, I can admit to myself today that I became anorexic at the beginning of this transition. Increasing exercise and decreasing caloric intake is how you lose weight, after all. Eventually, I did transition to understand how I was making changes wasn’t healthy, and even more, wasn’t sustainable.
I have always been emotionally strong for others though, even when I wasn’t emotionally strong for myself. The mediator for my family members, the therapist to my friends….I am who people come to lean on when they need support. I like this about myself. I would never change the level of energy that I want to give to others. It’s difficult to say this, but some days now I don’t even feel like I have the energy for myself. I don’t say this for pity and I think that I’m honestly too stubborn to ever really be suicidal. I say this because my sudden drop in energy wasn’t by choice. I have been thrust into a world of uncertainty where my usual coping mechanisms are no longer available to me.
Support. Verb. Bear all or part of the weight of; hold up. That’s what your spine is supposed to do. It keeps you upright and allows for motion. It connects your limbs and holds your cranium. For such a powerful system, it can be so surprisingly weak, I didn’t have any great trauma to cause what happened to me. I wasn’t in a car crash. I didn’t fall down a flight of stairs. I was told that I was too active and overuse caused a slightly bulging disc to herniate badly enough to pinch my sciatic nerve. It didn’t matter that I am certified as a personal trainer and know how important form is for injury prevention. It didn’t matter that I fed my body to be strong and healthy. It still happened and caused me to be in crippling chronic pain.
At first I didn’t know what was happening. I felt sharp pains down my right leg when I moved certain ways. I was used to feeling sore or achy muscles, and knew that wasn’t quite what this was, but felt I could handle the pain. I figured it might just be a pulled muscle, or a strain or something. I didn’t change my routine of going to grad school, working and working out for over 6 months of this pain. Finally, I couldn’t deal with the pain anymore and went to the ER to try and get an MRI to figure out what exactly was wrong. I went to my 9am class and then right after walked over the hospital and was signed into the ER.
I waited for a few hours before I even got to go get the MRI done. It was a terrifying experience, especially for someone who is claustrophobic. You’re basically put into a tube where you can’t move at all. While the nurses tried to calm me down, I could hear my heartbeat pounding loudly in my ears while I tensed my body and tried to remain still. The loud clanging of the MRI didn’t help my fear and couldn’t be drowned out no matter how hard I tried. When I got out of the MRI, I was covered in sweat. I still needed to wait in the ER for my results. The doctor gave me oxy and valium for pain and to try and calm me down. The ER is a scary place on it’s own. While I was there, I saw a man get arrested for being drunk, an overdose case of a young girl and another patient punch a cop. Oh, and my male nurse was trying to hit on me. I took out my computer and tried to work on grad school finals because I didn’t know what else to do. Even when I was terrified and confused, I still looked for ways to be productive.
By the time I finally got out of there, almost a full eight hours start to finish, it was 1 am. I was told that I had a severely herniated disc, that I should see a neurosurgeon and was then sent on my merry way. A friend of mine came to pick me up at the hospital and drive me home. She brought me cucumbers and seltzer because I told her I had been too anxious to eat anything during the ordeal. I was so messed up on pain meds and anti-anxiety drugs that my friend said I was actually quite amusing. I referred to my legs as ‘sh** sticks’ and talked about cutting the one in pain off.
I saw a neurosurgeon. I saw two at first, actually. They both said surgery was an option, but that I was a young case for such a procedure (I was 25 at the time). I wanted to take the conservative approach. Physical therapy was recommended. I was sent to a pain clinic to investigate the potential for an epidural injection. I tried numerous physical therapists, with little progress seen with any of them. I went through with the epidural and would continue on to get multiple. I told myself that I didn’t need surgery and that I could get through this without it.
It has been almost two years. I now have a regular therapist. I’ve had two MRIS and seen two different neurosurgeons. I take three pills, at least, every day as part of my treatment. I've seen four physical therapists. Six epidurals, today being the last in my second series of three. I can’t even begin to count the number of tears that I have shed over this. I absolutely hate crying. I am not normally one who cries because I am sad. I cry out of frustration, or anger. I cry because I don’t know how to explain to others what I have been going through and how it feels like I am so alone in it. I snap at people who care about me when they try to offer advice because it makes me feel like they think I’m stupid, or not doing enough or haven’t spent time thinking about my options enough. I don’t like who I’ve become and I’m scared that I won’t ever get back to where I was.
I waited for a few hours before I even got to go get the MRI done. It was a terrifying experience, especially for someone who is claustrophobic. You’re basically put into a tube where you can’t move at all. While the nurses tried to calm me down, I could hear my heartbeat pounding loudly in my ears while I tensed my body and tried to remain still. The loud clanging of the MRI didn’t help my fear and couldn’t be drowned out no matter how hard I tried. When I got out of the MRI, I was covered in sweat. I still needed to wait in the ER for my results. The doctor gave me oxy and valium for pain and to try and calm me down. The ER is a scary place on it’s own. While I was there, I saw a man get arrested for being drunk, an overdose case of a young girl and another patient punch a cop. Oh, and my male nurse was trying to hit on me. I took out my computer and tried to work on grad school finals because I didn’t know what else to do. Even when I was terrified and confused, I still looked for ways to be productive.
By the time I finally got out of there, almost a full eight hours start to finish, it was 1 am. I was told that I had a severely herniated disc, that I should see a neurosurgeon and was then sent on my merry way. A friend of mine came to pick me up at the hospital and drive me home. She brought me cucumbers and seltzer because I told her I had been too anxious to eat anything during the ordeal. I was so messed up on pain meds and anti-anxiety drugs that my friend said I was actually quite amusing. I referred to my legs as ‘sh** sticks’ and talked about cutting the one in pain off.
I saw a neurosurgeon. I saw two at first, actually. They both said surgery was an option, but that I was a young case for such a procedure (I was 25 at the time). I wanted to take the conservative approach. Physical therapy was recommended. I was sent to a pain clinic to investigate the potential for an epidural injection. I tried numerous physical therapists, with little progress seen with any of them. I went through with the epidural and would continue on to get multiple. I told myself that I didn’t need surgery and that I could get through this without it.
It has been almost two years. I now have a regular therapist. I’ve had two MRIS and seen two different neurosurgeons. I take three pills, at least, every day as part of my treatment. I've seen four physical therapists. Six epidurals, today being the last in my second series of three. I can’t even begin to count the number of tears that I have shed over this. I absolutely hate crying. I am not normally one who cries because I am sad. I cry out of frustration, or anger. I cry because I don’t know how to explain to others what I have been going through and how it feels like I am so alone in it. I snap at people who care about me when they try to offer advice because it makes me feel like they think I’m stupid, or not doing enough or haven’t spent time thinking about my options enough. I don’t like who I’ve become and I’m scared that I won’t ever get back to where I was.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
My stomach feels weird as I re-read these words. I feel anxious about making these thoughts public. But, I am determined to acknowledge these past emotions and let them go. In this month of mental health awareness, it is important that we work against the stigma of staying quiet and suffering in silence. I share my own story in the hopes that others might be able to talk to someone about their own.
-Vicky
Comments
Post a Comment