So, J. Alfred Prufrock had his coffee spoons, Will Freeman had units. I have days with no pain. Or less pain. Hey, days with a good poop measure up pretty good I'd say. I don't know what it is like to not have pain. Maybe no one does. I measure the success of me, by the amount of pain inside my body. If a monkey on your back is a literary form of measurement, some days I have a howler monkey screaming so loud nothing else can be heard. Maybe I should start a rating system: Capuchin, Spider and everyday Marmosets. Never, ever going to invite the Ape for a stay. He would crush me. I stubbornly push off the help, any assist in fighting the weight of carrying my pain monkey around with me. When I wake, when I sleep, it is there. I stupidly think if I can beat it on my own, I win something ( like what a Pride Trophy sheez ) It always wins. It wakes me up from sleep, or keeps me from it. Keeps me from smiling at the little girl skipping and humming because she could. I try to wrestle it on my own, yet it is now and has always been stronger than me. I don't like it. Never will.
And why should I? Why should anyone? It sucks. Literally, it sucks. It sucks life and energy out of you. Depleting what you were, or what you would have liked to be. Your face contorts into this ugly grimace of dislike and distrust. You distrust the time when pain is absent. Oh, it will be back, just like the neighbors you don't want knocking at 11 p.m. asking for the plunger. ( No, you can keep it. Trust me on that. ) Why should I like that after nearly 40 years ( yeah, ugh you read that right and I didn't like typing it either ) not one doctor has any idea better than my own self why I have this pain? Nothing to be glad about on that. Shrug after shrug after shrug. I am simply hoping for as many good days as possible and to survive the bad ones as well as I am able. Possibly without losing friends and family members with my rage and angst along the way. There have been casualties, might be more. For as J. Alfred said....
"And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea."