Today, my back hurts—badly. But the pain itself is only the beginning. Almost immediately, I feel panic. That’s my second skin, my automatic response to discomfort: fear. Not just fear of the pain, but fear of what it will cost me. I’ve learned that being unwell, having needs, or showing any kind of struggle leads to consequences—judgment, abandonment, rejection. So I don’t just have the pain. I have the terror of what the pain means about me, about my safety, about my future.
I’ve been fighting for a surgery which keeps getting denied, and I have no confidence that relief is coming. Every day, I’m managing my body with medication that makes the pain bearable, and I wonder: is this my forever?
It is like a panic attack in slow motion. I’m in pain, and I’m alone with it. What I need more than anything is someone to come and sit with me, to regulate with me, to say: “We’ll get through this. I’m here. You’re not alone.” But that’s not happening. And I’m left carrying it—pain, fear, uncertainty—on my own.
