Hating pain...

I have ten millions drafts, all only just started, because it is near impossible for me to concentrate.  You'd be amazed, I think, at how difficult it for me to write on Facebook.  But I will say, again, if you are at all interested in what is happening to me that you should go there.  You do not have to friend me, Myrtle Bernice Adams, because most of my posts are public now.  You can just follow me.

Anyway, I have half a mind to take the plunge and just start "publishing" all those half-started posts.  Or publish whatever I get written going forward, in a way of showing how my mind is struggling.  And in a way of not silencing myself.  I miss my voice.

I deeply miss writing.

I have been writing since I was a young child.  It grieves, deeply and greatly and truly ineffably, that I am losing my ability to write.  I, the Grammar Queen, am making grammar mistakes and am starting to forget the beloved rules of grammar.  I, the one who still LOVES diagramming sentences, now struggles to identify how words are acting in a sentence.  Diagramming would be ever so difficult, now, if not plain impossible.

But all of that is neither here nor there for this post.  Because I am also going to start posting one thought, so as to have a better chance of actually getting back to regularly posting here on my online rememberer that I have had going for years and years and years and years.

I read on Facebook, yesterday, a meme post asking what makes you want to get out of bed in the morning.  Well, nothing. I do not want to get out of bed.  Why I do is another post.  Mostly, I just focus on that I hate my life and I do not want to live it.  Doing so is wretchedly miserable.

Mary had a thought that she shared with me, because she knows how important reframing is to me.  She reframed for me:  "It is not life that you hate but pain."

On a very significant level, Mary is right.  I do hate the pain.  I hate enduring it.  I hate dreading it.  I hate surviving the incredible flares.  I hate the post periods after those flares.  Wouldn't any sane person?

I do not hate life, itself.  I do hate my life, but it is very much because it is a life of pain.

I hurt all the time.
All. The. Time.

I hurt when I am smiling.  I hurt when I am laughing.  I hurt when I am at church.  I hurt when I am volunteering with hospice.  I hurt when I am snuggling with Amos.  I hurt when I am cooking.  I hurt when I am seeking peace by puttering away in the soil.  I hurt.  All the time.

I hurt especially now because I got cortisone shots in both of my wrists today.  Yes, I have carpal tunnel syndrome.  Yet another way that Sjögren's is attacking my body, inflaming and swelling the nerve running through my carpal tunnel.  Shots first.  Then surgery if the shots do not work.  SIGH.

But I was enduring the pain I had from the shots rather well until I started typing.  The edge of the keyboard is pressing against the spot where I had the shots.  My pain level has jumped from a 6 to a 9.

So, I am off to rage against the pain.
Bewail my existence.
And clutch Amos.