I couldn’t care less what they call it.
I stagger in to the doctors office spine propped up by tylenol, tears behind the friendly smile and pretending to care about whatever the doctor is saying about general health. I don’t care about that, or long term. I try to. Some days I succeed.
Mostly I laugh to cover the scream in my throat and barely resist asking …
“Can you hear it?” That sobbing as we chat
“Can’t you feel the heat?” That fire that flares hotter each time… and never dies down.
Flames of hell. Is this punishment? Is this what I deserve?
I feel them you know. The words you throw around.
“What kind of pain?”
“Throbbing burning stabbing dull??”
I feel those meek sounding words carved in my bones with arcane symbols. Trails of blackened flesh and grooves of cracked calcium laid bare.
“On a scale of 0-10, zero being none and 10 being the worst you can imagine where would you rate your pain right now?”
I’d answer. It tended to be 7-8.
If I can talk it’s 8 maximum.
If I can move and think in sentences it’s 8.5.
Nine is where I want to die.
Ten I don’t remember clearly. And I’m glad. Because the fractured memories I do have is of reaching for something, anything, to stop the pain.
I don’t want to remember that.
But I still moved everything potentially deadly out of reach in the areas of the the house I’m most often in when pain hits that hard.
Flared they call it.
The carving starts again, the deep nerve pain. So different from surface heat or muscle aches and pains.
“Doctor it hurt’s when___-“
“Then don’t do that”! The old joke goes
I laugh as my world burns from the inside and no one notices the smoke.
You didn’t let me finish. The laughter flares into hysteria….
“It hurts when I breathe.”
(Disorder referenced is RSD/CRPS)