My back has flared up again.  Not a small flare up, mind you.  And, just for good measure, this is an entirely new brand of pain.  Usually my back hurts right between my shoulder blades, and right at about T7/8-T9/10.  But just to keep me on my toes…or rather, from being anywhere near my toes…I have a searing band of pain across my low back that is making me want to hurl.  It actually feels like, if I move, my hips/back might just break in half, leaving me with a rather disconnected right and left side.

This is a Very Bad Pain. It is also turning me into a Supreme Bitch.  (I figure I’m allowed, however, so just shut up.  I don’t really care what you have to say today anyway.)

The last time I had back pain in this region, or of anything near this quality, I had a fibroid the size of a grapefruit in my uterus.  So I had that fucker taken out.  No, not just the fibroid.  The uterus too.  You know what they say about babies and bathwater, right?  Well, I’d had my fill of both anyway, so consequence be damned, off to the OR I went.  (I’d had quite enough of bleeding on my ankles for 10 days out of every month and being in far too much pain to be able to bend over and clean them up.  It was not a pretty sight.)

But now I’ve rid myself of :

A) the possibility of ever having any more children (three is QUITE enough, thank you very much ~ Kate Gosselin is crackers, if you ask me…why would anyone want eight of the little darlings?)
B) that pesky monthly visit from Aunt Flo
C) my identity as a woman…no, wait, that one’s still firmly intact.  So strike that.
D) an uber yucky growth in my area.
E) any idea of where I was going with this train of thought….

Anyway, I got rid of all that shit, and I am still writhing in pain.  Well, to be fair, writhing is something I can only dream of doing at this particular point in time.  But a girl’s gotta dream.

The answer?

Tylenol: negative.
Oxycontin: negative.
Vodka: negative.
All three together (pleaseohpleaseohpleasedeargodletthiswork): NEGAFUCKINGTIVE.
Christ.  Fuck me.

I can be far too much fun to be so limited by my pain.  And that’s what it comes down to.  For the last 2 1/2 years, I have been letting myself be defined by my pain level.  That’s puts me in a pretty victim-esque type of role.  And, while I’m all for role play, I prefer handcuffs to be involved, or at least a good costume.  So playing the victim in my own life is getting awfully tiring.  I’m getting really fucking sick of my own sob story.  Yes I need people’s understanding when I’m not so handicapable.  But I don’t want to keep allowing myself to use my handicap – make no mistake, that’s what it can be sometimes – to slide on things I want out of.

And sometimes it’s as simple and straightforward as wanting out of participating in life for a while.  Now, granted, that is a whole other ball of bipolar II wax.  But should I be blaming it on what’s easiest for people to grasp, and requires the least explanation from me?  Maybe that is a way of taking care of myself when I just don’t have it in me to take part in an interpersonal exchange of any depth or meaning.  Or maybe it’s one way I keep falling victim to my own sob story and perpetuating my own physical pain.  I wish there was a neat and tidy answer to that can of worms.

But like most things in life, neat and tidy answers don’t often exist.  Messy, painful answers abound.  Searing, terrifying answers that we want to run, screaming, away from are a dime a dozen.  Answers that make you pee your pants in horror….well, you get the idea.  That reminds me, is it wrong to be considering the value of adult diapers while still in my 30’s?

When it comes right down to it, I hate being limited by my pain.  I hate not being able to dance and move, to knit, to feel my second toe, or to have sex without…uh…a wonderland of pillows and props (not the fun kind – the kind that help my back not go into wracking spasms…yeah, again, not the good kind.)  I hate not being able to sit on the floor for very long, and having to sit in one of the seats on transit allocated for “seniors and disabled passengers.”  I hate having to explain myself All. The. Time.  But I guess I don’t hate it all enough to not use it as an excuse when it behooves me.  But is that just human nature?

I wonder…if I never, ever used my back and my pain as an excuse just because it suited me, or it was easier.  If I only ever allowed myself to mention my pain and my injury when I had no other option and I could bear it no more.  If I only acknowledged my pain when it was so agonizing that I could not ignore it for one more second.  Would it make me a better person?  Would it make my soul rest easier?  But most importantly, would it bring my pain levels down, overall?  Am I manufacturing pain merely by the power of my own suggestion?

Am I to blame for the ongoing fuckfest within my own body?  Or is that just me beating myself up in a new and exciting way?  Discuss.

In the meantime, I need to go take some more Oxy, refill my ice pack, and pray for sleep to overtake me and allow me a few hours of escape.