Horrible truths: chronic illness is chronic abuse
We’ve been warned about these types.
The controlling ones. The ones that tell you what to eat. What to wear. What parties to go to, and which to skip.
The ones that hurt you, when you slip up. And often, when you don’t.
The ones that pretend it will be fine this time. Then dislocate one of your joints on a whim. Or strangle you. Break your teeth. Leave you pissing blood.
We’ve been told they may love us. And we may love them. But we must leave. We must seek help.
But for chronic pain patients, and chronic illness sufferers, there is no leaving. There may be meds, there may be help, but for patients of a certain ilk, we endure abuse daily. Hourly. If we’re lucky, just a few times a week. And that’s WITH the meds and help.
Yes, this is abuse, from the inside out. Our illnesses hurt us, even with the best treatment plans. We get tough. But we also get tired. There’s PTSD on top of…just ongoing, unrelenting T. Trauma is a buzzword these days, but it fits our severe headaches, dislocations, abdominal agony, and relentless exhaustion. What is trauma, at its core, if not uncontrollable pain?
But we can’t leave our bodies or our illnesses. In fact, I’d argue many of our bodies are doing their damndest, fighting a fog we haven’t yet discovered. I have a feeling my body is compensating for some great insult, although I’m not yet sure what it is. I don’t think it’s failed me…it’s keeping me together. But something is off. My microbiome, maybe, or some sort of virus that ravaged my connective tissue. But I can’t get mad at my body, and I don’t know how to get mad at the illness, because it feels so amorphous.
So what do you, when you’re trapped in a traumatic, ongoing situation that you truly cannot leave?
First, you leave any other abusive situations that you can. Even if it feels hard. Actual abusers, crappy friendships, disrespectful jobs, bad doctors, invalidating family members, nasty cliques—out. No matter how hard. You cannot afford ANY further abuse.
Second, you be your own shelter. You organize support for your wounded self—be it calling a friend to start a meal train, asking a wealthy family member if they might offer laundry service, or just chatting up a neighbor to carry up your groceries. You create a treatment plan—therapy, diet, downtime. So much downtime. You don’t do the shit that reliably really flares you up, at least not for awhile. You make a cozy recovery nest for yourself—be it fuzzy blankets or favorite friends or good shows or a massage.
Third, you come to understand that although you are abused, there is no true abuser. Your body is doing its best with the tools it has. So are you. You acknowledge what a bad bitch you are, and how shitty it is you have to keep doing this. You add to the fight against your illness where you can, when you can.
And you gear up for battle, again.
