Not to be dramatic, or eccentric, or anything other than a melancholic seriousness, but I would consider the past five-ish years of my life to be characterized entirely by pain management. Predominantly head ache, face, neck, and upper back pain. A knot right at the base of my skull which sores my eyes and ripples upon the check bones. Which runs down my tenderloins down below and between my shoulder blades. Below my ears and in my jaw. And underneath in the flabby half under chin which I self medicate with thrusting. It certainly doesn’t help my case.
It’s an ibuprofen maybe once a week, maybe twice a week to sleep kind of ever present discomfort. When it crosses that threshold from background to foreground and into all consuming frustration the only cure is sleep. Probably just the bodies unconscious relaxation of my worrisome muscles, the unclenching of my spine and skull that comes from slumber. But even then its 50/50. And even then it’ll be back by tomorrow evening.

I remember complaining to an ex girlfriend that it hurt to kiss. It hurt to smile.

There is a stark difference between emotional and physical pain. One might cause the other of course. But I have decided one kind of pain is beautiful and the other is cruel. How romantic a heart break. How important it is to grieve. How interesting to sore and slump and experience the low highs and high lows of life. Happy. Sad. Sad all the time, sure, bad. But Poe was a downer, and Hemingway, and Nirvana’s Heath Ledger.

Physical pain is, probably, developed within us deeper than the emotional sort. Lizards need to know if their tail is being bitten off, not poetry. The deep nerves, the middle brain, the core. Real pain reacheth here. From within or without. It cannot be explained away, or mediated on. So least that I have tried. And drugs do not but mask and hide it. Yet the body knows. Even under anesthetic, you might not remember the scalpel, but I think your body does. Like the phantom limb phenomena.

Sometimes the only relief I get is laying in a dark room, feeling my heart beat in my gums. Right where teeth meets pink. Pump, fill, fade, pump. Sometimes I realize its been an hour since I’ve noticed my neck. Sometimes I think, wow, its been a week without the need for a hot bath and a pain pill.

It’s not so bad to need prescribed medication. Most days its a 2. On the 1-10 Happy smiley to absolute misery doctors office scale. Some days it hops up to a 6 and I take an ibuprofen. Some days it hovers at 1. Never quite 0. Never so bad to not deal with eventually.

Though I would say, for about five consecutive years, I have hurt. Been hurting. Will hurt.

Neurology telehealth visit is scheduled. Big help that will do. X-rays and brain scan to come. Is it the culmination of all of my issues? Is it just one thing in ten? We shall see. I often wonder how much more I could achieve or do if it wasn’t for needing to get home and occupy the floor while I wait for the over the counter’s to save me. Would I smile more? Be a Marvel fan? Be a better friend or son or coworker? Would I go to the gym or run more? Would my ambition exceed just making it through the day?

Should I seek a chronic ailment diagnosis? Get disability? Cry? Cry again? Throw up? Throw up some more? Is that anxious panic I keep just below the surface the result or the cause, or separate?

Or should I just write about it on my obscure blog page and not otherwise bring it up. Bingo.