I woke up today in unbearable agony, the kind that feels like it’s clawing through every inch of my body. My legs, lower back, all the way down to my ankles—it’s like my bones are burning, muscles twisting, and the pain refuses to loosen its grip. I’ve tried everything—four hours of 1600 mg of ibuprofen, endless heat packs wrapped around my legs, desperately trying to ease the tension. But nothing. Not even a flicker of relief.
But the physical pain is only part of it. My PTSD comes crashing in, riding on the waves of this agony, dragging me back to 2018 like an unrelenting nightmare. The moment the pain hit, I was transported back to the most horrific moments of Kingston’s suffering. I can still hear him—Bubby—his desperate cries, the way his little body writhed in unbearable pain as I tried everything I could to comfort him. I remember holding him, rubbing his legs, hoping, praying that heat packs or warm baths might soothe his agony, even though I knew deep down there was nothing I could really do. That helplessness, that gut-wrenching feeling of failing to take his pain away—it’s all still there, hanging over me.
Now, as I lie here, wracked with my own pain, it feels like I’m trapped in that same suffocating helplessness again. My body feels like it’s physically carrying the weight of those memories, still echoing his pain alongside mine. The trauma from that time is so deeply etched in my bones that it’s impossible to separate it from what I’m feeling now. It’s as if my body can’t let go, so it clings to the past, replaying the agony over and over again, making the pain more intense, more real.
And yet, despite this relentless suffering, I know I won’t see a doctor. I can’t. I won’t advocate for myself the way I did for him. The truth is, I don’t want to know. There’s a deep-rooted fear in me, a terror of what they might say. What if it’s something real, something I’m not ready to face? Or worse, what if they tell me it’s all in my head? That this pain is just my body’s way of manifesting the heartbreak, the grief, the anxiety I carry every single day. Maybe that’s what terrifies me most—that this pain is something I’ve created to distract from the ache I feel inside.
Maybe my mind is using this pain as a shield, something to deflect the deeper hurt I don’t want to confront. Or maybe it’s something else entirely. I don’t know. What I do know is that I’m not ready to find out. I’d rather live in this limbo, pretending it will all just go away on its own, rather than face the fear of what might be waiting for me on the other side.
I don’t know what will make any of this easier, physically or emotionally. But maybe writing it down, letting it out of my head, will release some of the weight, even if it’s just a little. For now, that’s all I can hope for.
