It is three in the morning and once more I am in the foetal position in the bathtub begging whichever divine being is crazy enough to be awake at that hour to take the pain away. What is wrong with me? The answer very much depends on who you ask. If you ask me, I have chronic pain and along with many diagnosed conditions I have an undiagnosed one. If you ask my loving, supportive family who see my struggle everyday there is definitely something physically wrong with me. If you ask medical professionals, it is all in my head until it’s not.
I am not shying away from the fact I have an anxiety disorder. I have had one for most of my life. I own it. I live it. I know it well. I have a Degree in psychology and a postgraduate Certificate in Wellness. I understand clearly that psychosomatic pain hurts just as much as real pain. This does not mean, however, every symptom I have ever had in my life is caused by my anxiety disorder. I have lived with my mental illness long enough to know which pains and symptoms stem from it and which are from a physical cause.
One of the very few doctors who ever listened to me for more than a minute said, “Your physical pain doesn’t stem from your anxiety disorder your anxiety disorder comes from being sick and in pain for so long.” I wanted to hug him and go hallelujah someone gets it. I thought this was hope. Sadly, I was mistaken when he told me to take some vitamins and I would feel better. I did not. This man was one of the better doctors I encountered. In a day and age that screams equality for the most part I am treated like Freuds hysterical woman, told I am crazy or looked upon as a desperate, bored, uneducated housewife. I am none of these things. I am an intelligent, educated, loved woman with a full life. I do not need to make up stories to get attention. Quite frankly attention causes me further anxiety which is not something I desire.
It may be assumed I am not looking at my situation realistically. This is not true. I have proof I know my body better than anyone else. For years the kidney stones I told the doctors I had were called anxiety. They turned out to in fact be kidney stones. For my Gallstones I was sent to a psychologist. She told me I looked like I was in real pain and sounded like I had a malfunctioning Gallbladder not anxiety. After years of horrendous pain, it turns out we were both right and my Gallbladder was removed. The anxiety in my gut turned out to be Irritable bowel syndrome and an ulcerated stomach lining. The anxiety in my chest turned out to be chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. The anxiety pains in my heart turned out to be a hole. Every time I said the pain was not psychosomatic it hasn’t been, yet I have had years of being ignored, ridiculed, judged and left in agony.
When I was in hospital with my heart problems a male nurse who had met me only once told me there was nothing wrong with me and that I needed to stop looking for attention. Within the next few months the hole in my heart was diagnosed. That man had looked at the words “anxiety disorder” on my chart and decided on my character. He decided I must be a lonely, sad woman desperate for approval. I get love, approval and attention from my husband, I get it from my three amazing children, I get it from my beagle constantly, I get it from my parents and my siblings. I do not need it from medical professionals. In fact, hospitals and doctors terrify me. I will only go as a last resort. I will suffer until the pain is all-encompassing and then I will choose to suffer some more before I will ask for help. If this nurse had bothered to look, he would have seen how rarely I came into emergency. I have lived in Tasmania for over five years and have only been in emergency three times. If I wanted attention I would visit much more often.
As a woman living in modern times in Western society, I should not have to fight so hard to be heard. I should not have to suffer for years. I should be listened to, respected and understood. It should not be assumed my life is empty. For my life is full and I love it. Even on the hard days my heart is bursting with joy for all I have. My husband is loving, nurturing and supportive all while making me feel strong and capable. What a balancing act that must be, but he pulls it off every time. My fourteen-year-old daughter sits with me and we play fun BuzzFeed quizzes and watch YouTube where we guess the song or movie. On my bad days she tells me, “You’ve got this Mum. You’re tough.” Thankyou sweet girl for being wise enough for seeing what others do not. Most perceive me as weak in mind or body, but I get up each day knowing it might be a bad one and I walk through it anyway. I never think about taking my life, I never give up and I smile more than I cry. My daughter is right, I am tough. I love her and my sons. My sixteen-year-old boy who hugs me out of the blue all the time and my twenty-two-year-old who rings from the other side of the country to chat about how his days are going at uni. I love my life both the bad days and the good.
I do have good days. Days where the pain is less. Days where the fear forgets to rear its ugly head. On these days I love to stroll the beach, have lunch at a café, pursue the bookstore or watch a film at the cinema. I love to lay on the back lawn in the sun and flip through a magazine or play with the dog. I do not need pain. I do not need to lie. I do not need to sit in doctors’ offices or hospital waiting rooms for hours just for something to do. I have plenty to amuse me. What I do need is to be listened to. What I do need is to be heard. What I do need is a cure for the physical pain. What I do need is for every day to be a good day.
In the last few years more symptoms have arisen. I have mood swings, extremely painful breasts, unbearable itchiness and internal shaking. I am exhausted beyond belief. There are days were I literally cannot leave my bed. I believe I am going through menopause. I have asked the doctors to run tests on my hormones. They refuse telling me if I don’t have hot flashes then I am not going through menopause. Why is that I know night sweats are not the only symptom of menopause and the medical professionals do not. My periods are not an indicator as I have had a hysterectomy for medical reasons. I had thickening of the uterine wall which caused crippling cramps and continuous heavy bleeding which were somehow for years was also diagnosed as anxiety. As for these new lot of symptoms apparently that is just my anxiety getting worse.
While I wait for the doctors to catch up with me, I will manage both my mental and physical symptoms. I do this in a number of ways; I eat mostly healthy foods while allowing myself a few little treats, I spend time with my family and my dog, I do yoga, I meditate, and I write until my hand goes numb. On really bad days I spend time with my television friends. Besides my family I don’t have many real ones. It is a rare person who gets why you can’t go out or don’t call. It is a rare person who understands your physical pain prevents you from seeing them and your mental anguish stops you from calling. I am always worried if I ring you that I am interrupting your day and feel that you have much more important things to do than talk to me. So, instead my friends are the Halliwell sisters, the Winchester brothers, Buffy and the gang, Melinda Gordon, Allison Dubois, Cassie Nightingale, the brilliant Dr Spender Reed and the mirror of my soul Penelope Garcia. I am not crazy. I am well aware they are characters but the are always there when I need them. They give me comfort and don’t expect anything from me.
Even though my family and friends get me through the bad days there is only one thing that rescues me when the pain is immense. Books. I have a vivid imagination. No movie or television series could ever compare to what is in my head. Reading for me is different from watching something. When it comes to television and film, I am an observer. A happy, involved observer but I am still on the outside looking in. Books, on the other hand, completely transport me. I am with Harry Potter playing Quidditch, I am drinking tea at the coffeehouse in Kabul with Sunny and Halajan, I am buying novels from Monsieur Perdu in his floating bookshop, I am eating spaghetti with Elizabeth Gilbert in Rome and I am helping Fallon hold back the darkness from New Hope. I have always loved the written word and when I open the page the book and I merge into one. For a few short hours even the cruellest pain mental or physical recedes into the background and brings me blessed relief. Books are my sanctuary. Books are my Solace. Books are my saviour. Without books I would not have survived.
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