To My Pain,
It feels wrong not to start a letter with Dear. I’d never send a letter across the Pacific to reach my friend Aya in Japan with to, but Pain, you’re just not deserving of such an endearment. You, Pain, are not dear to me.
When I was a teacher, I didn’t allow my students to use the word hate. I admit, it was an unconventional, often unpopular, rule. I told my students there was enough hate in the world without adding to it. But I have to admit, though I don’t say it out loud, sometimes that “h” word sneaks into my thoughts, and it scares me that I feel that way about you. Because like it or not, you’re a part of me. And I don’t want to hate a part of myself.
You came here uninvited, and you’re not leaving. In the beginning, I really thought you were just a temporary visitor. Like the time I sliced my left palm instead of the avocado in my hand. It hurt. It bled. I needed stitches. I walked around with a bandaged left hand, but then it healed. It was temporary. More than fifteen years later, you can’t even see a scar.
At first, I thought some sort of medicine, some “magic pills,” would make you go away. When that didn’t work, I really thought I could do the whole “mind over matter” thing. I wouldn’t mind you, I wouldn’t pay any attention to you, and then you being here wouldn’t matter. But that was one hundred percent the wrong approach.
I understand now you have no intentions of ever leaving. Some days are better; some days are worse, but you’re never really going away. I’ve also finally accepted the fact that you’re mysterious; there’s no sure-fire way of predicting when or how you show up. A good night’s sleep doesn’t automatically translate into a pain-free day. A thirty-minute walk with my family doesn’t always mean I come home limping and barely able to climb the three steps to our front door. And I realize that sometimes you like to rear your ugly head any time you damn well please. A cramp at three a.m. A twitching in my calf during dinner. A sudden all-consuming throbbing that causes me to step away from the stove where my pasta is boiling and sit down at the dining table. For a woman who likes to plan, your existence in my life has made me see that I need to plan for my plans to change.
At times, I feel like you bring out the worst in me—my pessimism, my self-pity, my defeat. Other times, I feel like you’re a big bully, and I refuse to cower. So, because of you, or in spite of you, you see me at my best—my optimism, my dignity, my perseverance. I’ve got a lot of life left in me, a lot I want to see and do, and I’m going to do everything I can to make sure that you don’t stop me.
The truth is I’m scared of you. I know there’s only so much I can do. I know that ultimately, you call the shots. Until you came along, I naively went through my days thinking I had some control, that I could make all the important decisions. Now I see that was just an illusion.
I always prided myself on my classroom environment. I had a reputation at my school for being calm and nurturing, organized and scheduled. And for being a hugger. It’s the reason why so many children with a variety of special needs, whether it was autism or a difficult home environment, were placed in my classroom. In fact, one of my former colleagues used to visit my kindergarten class when her older students were at lunch because it calmed her. She’d come in and sit on a chair and observe my lessons as my kids sat criss-cross applesauce on the carpet. She said my voice soothed her. She’d come in for a bit, breathe and relax and recharge, and return to her own kids.
But I can’t always create that soothing, nurturing environment for myself. My own body is attacking itself. My body is limited in what it can do.
There really is no ignoring you. You’re all-encompassing. There’s no denying your impact. You’re like a drop of food coloring that changes a whole glass of water. There’s no way to pretend like you’re not there.
So I have to accept the fact that we’re in this together. Like a noisy next-door neighbor, I have to learn to live with you in the best way I can.
I’m still figuring that part out.
I always sign Aya’s letters the same way: “Take care and write soon. Love, Wendy.”
But you’re not deserving of that, either. So this time, I’ll write: “I’m trying to take care of myself. I’ll write every day.”
From,
Me
Wendy Kennar (she/her) writes personal nonfiction about her experiences with disability, chronic illness, and chronic pain. She writes to make “invisible” disabilities visible and to connect with other spoonies. Sign up for her weekly blog at www.wendykennar.com. Wendy’s memoir-in-essays will be published by She Writes Press in Spring 2028.
Instagram: @wendykennar