Strings
The slow weave of imagery I use to refocus the pain or draw it away from my body. The slow stanzas of breathing steps I take.
All this is genuine in helping me overcome the extreme chronic pain. Even though there are some nights I cannot tolerate it anymore.
But imagine weaving intricate lace or a basket. How you have to draw the threads out then place them back. A repetition.
This is how I start removing, how I am capable of enduring severity. Yet so many doctors think I joke when I say I can place a pain in a different area.
As crazy as it sounds I can make myself believe a dislocated shoulder pain is actually just pain from the rain extending into my knees.
Though as I said there are times I cannot focus my mind because the irritation has rubbed me so raw. That I have to break down and take pain medicine. Meaning passing out for a little while. Probably the best thing for me, sleep.
And now the breathing has me with chapped lips. Craving salt and cranberry tea. Yet the swelling and stinging of pain is phasing me. Short spurts I breathe. Close my eyes and release.
A few more times then I can get up. Indeed the imagery I use is remarkable. Lifting, sifting like harp or cello strings. Lightly and musically removing and replacing until tolerance is available once more.
All this is genuine in helping me overcome the extreme chronic pain. Even though there are some nights I cannot tolerate it anymore.
But imagine weaving intricate lace or a basket. How you have to draw the threads out then place them back. A repetition.
This is how I start removing, how I am capable of enduring severity. Yet so many doctors think I joke when I say I can place a pain in a different area.
As crazy as it sounds I can make myself believe a dislocated shoulder pain is actually just pain from the rain extending into my knees.
Though as I said there are times I cannot focus my mind because the irritation has rubbed me so raw. That I have to break down and take pain medicine. Meaning passing out for a little while. Probably the best thing for me, sleep.
And now the breathing has me with chapped lips. Craving salt and cranberry tea. Yet the swelling and stinging of pain is phasing me. Short spurts I breathe. Close my eyes and release.
A few more times then I can get up. Indeed the imagery I use is remarkable. Lifting, sifting like harp or cello strings. Lightly and musically removing and replacing until tolerance is available once more.
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