It’s physical. visceral. fucking real is real is real!

My ears scream at me. My nose runs, and backfires. My throat system shot by congestion vicissitudes. My skin on my hands is literally dissolving itself into rashes and fuckwhat. My nights wake to shallow breaths. My asthma feeds my anxiety dreams. At any time during my rapid cycling events, my heart will feel like I am running marathons without taking any steps. It happens so often, it is the low bass thumping underneath the feedback screeching of my ears.

 

That’s just what is inside this body, this torture temple. This prison of chronic pain. Tormented by auto-immune inflammation. Pillaged and desecrated by hormones.

 

The vulnerability, shame, and isolation that afflict those of us with chronic physical conditions that steal our comfort can cause intangible injuries of the mind. I can only speak to the trifecta of allergies, asthma, and eczema, the badges of misspent youth like tinnitus, the complications from conditions untreated or medications required in treating the litany of shit. The weight of those conditions, the stigma of ab-normalcy, and the demands of treatment take an awful toll on the mind.

 

My mood disorder must have its roots in my physical struggles, growing stunted by the quality of the light in my life as a young child. Counseling/therapy has me digging through midden piles of childhood deprivation, isolation, and repression. I struggle through the sprouting of resentment, the full blossom of internal conflict between anger and forgiveness, the dying back of branches not offered, and the revealing of all those limbs I went out on, only to fall.

 

My ADHD runs frantic. Mixing metaphors like mixed drinks. Tossing back thoughts like strong shots. Stumbling senses like drunken distortions.

 

It’s all pain. My body. My brain. In pain. Sometimes it’s one thing at a time; most times it’s many things all at once. One leads to the other and into the next.

 

If that was your reality, would you want to talk about it?