Three Lessons from Chronic Pain that Prepared Me to Face My Trauma
They do say everything happens for a reason…
The pain began aged 16, bending down to tie my shoelaces. An agonising shooting pain in my lower back that confined to my bed for the day.
After physiotherapy failed to prevent a reoccurrence, I saw a consultant. ‘Is my spine supposed to be straight??’ I asked incredulously looking at the x-ray. The doctor diagnosed me with scoliosis and advised against surgery, saying it would cause more problems than it would fix. So life went on, with pain an occasional uninvited guest.
A decade later, the rude interruptions were accompanied by an ever present ache in my lower back and left leg. Painkillers became a necessary lifeline to get me through the day. This marked the start of a two-year journey, learning to live with and manage my pain.
Little did I know as my body began to feel safe and listened to, my brain was taking notice. Long repressed trauma memories had been biding their time, waiting for me to be strong enough to face them. My journey with pain got me to that place, so when the trauma started to make itself known, I was well-equipped to face it.
Here are three lessons I learnt from chronic pain that have helped me hugely in my trauma healing journey:
Lesson One: Medical science doesn’t have all the answers
In 2018 my pain got so bad that my career and my social life shrunk as a result. Reluctantly I accepted it was time to talk to a doctor about my back again.
Referral after referral followed but each one felt like another false start. Ever increasing pain meds failed to stymie my ever increasing pain. An MRI confirmed my scoliosis but gave no explanation for the location or the severity of my pain. Two consultants suggested steroid injections but they disagreed where the injection should go. With no guarantee the pain relief would last more than a few months, I declined. I wanted a solution not a sticking plaster.
I sought out a physiotherapist who specialised in treating scoliosis patients. Finally, I received a confident diagnosis. Gluteus medius tendinopathy caused by my poorly-managed scoliosis. The physio assured me my pain would reduce after two to three months of his care. I sobbed in relief.
Nine months on, every day was still dominated by pain and my mental health had deteriorated further. Pain fuelling anxiety, and anxiety fuelling pain. The continued delays and disappointments in my search for a cure only made matters worse. Eventually I saw a pain psychologist whose overall message was to accept that pain was here to stay. Easier said than done but given I’d run out of other options, I took heed.
I stopped chasing specialist referrals and began learning to live with my pain, rather than trying to get rid of it. This was a major turning point. Focusing on the things I could do rather than the things I couldn’t meant my pain stopped getting worse.
This was all fresh in my mind when I began my trauma healing journey. It meant I never approached my PTSD as something a pill or even a therapist could fix. I knew healing would be a long game that would require some level of surrender. I refused to waste my energy seeking non-existent silver bullets or to spiral into fear that life would be this scary for ever. Instead, I’ve embraced the limitations caused by my anxiety and hyper-vigilance as necessary for now.
Therapy and antidepressants have still been integral to my healing process, but I’ve approached each as a temporary crutch, not a fix. I knew from the start that a big part of the work would sit with me, not with the professionals. Thanks to my back I was already empowered to take that work on.
Lesson Two: Support is out there if you ask
Voicing my needs isn’t something I used to do. A classic people pleaser, I’ve often pushed my feelings down for the sake of other people’s comfort. By mid-2018 this approach was failing me. The level of my suffering made it vital I ask for support.
I started small, asking my flatmates for a whole sofa on which to be horizontal. This meant them bunching up elsewhere, but they did so happily with few complaints. I asked close friends to adapt social plans around my limitations. That meant coming to visit me at home or checking a chosen pub or restaurant had comfy seats. This show of support helped my confidence hugely. A meal out might mean drawing attention to myself, shuffling in and out of my chair, but at least I wasn’t home alone feeling sorry for myself.
Next I began to ask for support from ‘the system’. I received a sit/stand desk from . I reduced my working hours, ensuring long lunch breaks so I could rest. I even applied for to wear on my commute. I felt self-conscious, assuming fellow passengers would question my credibility. The joys of being a young woman with an invisible disability! But once anyone clocked me clocking them clocking my badge, it was rare I would be left standing.
All these experiences made me much quicker to reach out when my trauma memories began to surface. I couldn’t have got to where I am today without opening up to my flatmate, my friends and my family. I’ve gained so much from their willingness to listen and believe me, including company when I was too scared to go out alone. As my trauma was inflicted by other human beings, this support has been essential in helping me rebuild trust.
Having received compassion and support during my back trouble, I also told my employer about my PTSD diagnosis. I adapted my working hours again, shifting to a later start time so I never had to jump straight from nightmares to work demands. I took extended time off work twice in the last two years and more recently I was granted voluntary redundancy so I could prioritise my healing. It’s thanks to my back that I had the confidence to assert my needs in this way.
Lesson Three: All feelings are temporary, none of them are facts
On a friend’s recommendation, I downloaded hoping meditation might help with my pain. Listening to an introduction to ‘Mindfulness for Chronic Pain’, I had tears rolling down my cheeks. Someone finally understood what I was going through!
Pain taught me that nothing is static. Everything shifts and changes.
Speaking from lived experience, introduced the idea that chronic pain has two layers. The primary pain felt in the body, and a secondary layer comprised of the thoughts, feelings and memories attached to that pain. Burch presented mindfulness as a way of retraining your brain to loosen pain’s grip.
Emboldened, I bought her book which leads you through eight weeks of practices. A daily guided meditation. Challenges like watching the sky or sitting quietly in nature for 5 minutes every day. A pain journal to enable you to better pace your days. Gradually my pain started to decrease.
At first I told myself this was merely psychological, a placebo effect and not a sign of real physical progress. But by week eight it was impossible to deny the impact of those practices. When I felt any new or increased pain in my body (often!), I no longer tensed and panicked that this meant everything was getting worse. Instead I learned to acknowledge my pain and notice how the sensations varied and moved around my body. The more I replaced frustration with curiosity, the less intense my pain felt.
Pain taught me that nothing is static. Everything shifts and changes. This has served me well with my trauma. Even the worst thoughts and feelings are easier to bear when you know they are temporary. Two years into healing my trauma, I now try to approach my feelings as I do my pain: with curiosity. Sometimes I do this through journaling, a cognitive approach. Other times I simply take my attention to how an emotion feels within the body. This can work to take the intensity out of some emotions, but occasionally it goes the other way.
Mindfulness practice in particular can trigger new memories or sensations to surface, so it’s important to not to force yourself if feeling overwhelmed. On a few occasions I’ve gone from calm meditative state to bolt upright in panic. I was able to handle this thanks to insights gained from trauma-informed mindfulness teachers. If you’re interested, .
The impact my mindfulness practice had on my pain also taught me it’s foolhardy to treat mental and physical health as separate. This meant I’ve been quick to explore somatic healing practices for my trauma. I’m using my body to help sooth my emotional pain just as I used my mind to sooth the physical. Practices such as yoga and qi gong* help me get out of my head and reconnect with my body. This calms my nervous system and helps settle my feelings of dread. Dancing or shaking my body is also a great tool for releasing tension, worry and anger. These are all practices it would have taken me much longer to come to if it wasn’t for the lessons from my back.
Five years on from the peak of my pain, I still experience discomfort every day
But I’m no longer that pain-stricken version of myself. Thanks to my pain, I learned to prioritise my own needs, perhaps for the very first time. My life slowed down and I surprising myself by enjoying it more, not less. I’m taking the same approach with my trauma. Rolling with it as best I can with the tools I’ve got. Knowing it will never go away but life with it can (and will) get easier.
- Qi gong is a moving meditation practice similar to tai chi and developed in China thousands of years ago. I discovered it through , my favourite yoga instructor on YouTube. If you struggle with sitting meditations, this is a great way to bring more mindfulness into your life.
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