Pain for Sale

I've been away from my blog for so long because in August, I relaunched my Etsy shop (an online site that sells handmade goods from all over the world), which had been sitting dormant since 2007. And every day since...I kid you not...I've been putting in a good eight hours a day, sometimes more. I'd no idea what a gargantuan...and satisfying...task this would be.

I owe it all to quitting smoking exactly one year ago (March 22, 2011), which unleashed a shocking amount of creativity. Yes, the smoking was obviously bad for my already fragile health, but as I was obsessing about it so much, it was also bad for my mental health, as the guilt trips were apparently eating me alive. Once I stopped smoking, it was as if there was nothing to think about anymore. I was free in a brave new world that didn't include lighting up, and I was positively shocked at just how much mental real estate the guilt had devoured.

At first my creativity exploded all over the place. I was painting again, writing songs again, I even made a YouTube video. I was also painting furniture and doing crafts like making paper roses, even creating bouquets that I would then give away. (!?) In short, even though I was still in pain, I was excited about everything, but soon realized that I was on my way to becoming the jack of all trades, master of nothing.

So I whittled it down to this: I need money, so which of these pursuits is the most likely to bring in some much-needed cash?

The answer was to use my art to create all kinds of funky items to sell in my Etsy shop, and with that decision, I've yet to look back. In the seven months I've been doing this, I've made over 170 items, which include art originals, art prints, pendants, lockets, rings, journals, with even more items in the pipeline.

Since the relaunch in August, it's indeed been a curious time, as certain days I feel like my old self again, so full of joy and excitement, literally bouncing out of bed in the morning, eager to start my day. But it's also been a period of alarming increasing pain in my face, which has required an increase in my pain medication. I've no idea what's going on, but obviously the necrosis in the bone is spreading, and I'll need to get more surgery...and soon.

Aside from the pain, which is excruciating, I'm just so afraid of this condition getting worse overall. I read recently that it can even spread to other bones in my body, not just my face, which is info I did NOT need to hear. I worry enough as it is.

I was going to start a new blog that focused just on my art and my Etsy shop, but I'm not sure I can split myself like that, as my art and my pain, and even the shop, are all so intertwined. So I'll start combining things and see what happens.

My concern is that I don't want to seem like I'm using my pain to hawk my wares, as that would indeed be tasteless. On my bad days, I can write those suicidal-type posts, where I'm pouring my heart out to my readers, literally in tears. "But by the way...have you seen this week's featured necklace...ON SALE?" That would be crass, right?

Actually, this week's featured item is a giclee print, below...just $15! Grab it while you can! (sigh...)

New 8" x 10" print: "Sahara"
The shop: maryannfarley

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Soul Paralysis

Timing is surely a perplexing thing. Yesterday, I decided to clear off some outdated papers hanging on my fridge, and one was an old schedule of my flamenco teacher, Victorio, who's now teaching in a new location.

What was under it was a message I received almost two years ago from self-help author Gay Hendricks of The Hendricks Institute in reply to a question I'd sent about the spiritual nature of chronic physical pain to hear what he had to say about it.

I was in a very challenging state of mind at the time, angry at God and at a world that no longer made sense to me, for absolutely nothing I was reading was providing any solace at all for my wounded soul and for the spiritual debacle of my aching jaw and face, which back then was scoring an 11 on a 10-point pain scale.

As I was on the institute's email list (and still am), I decided to put Gay in the hotseat in response to the its current newsletter at the time, as he and his wife, Kathlyn, always seem to have such a clear point of view on all matters of the heart and soul. I thought for sure he'd have nothing to say to me (why should he when no one else did?), and I'm quite certain there must have been an angry tone to my question (which unfortunately I can't precisely recall).

In reading his words yesterday and this evening, they make far more sense to me now then they did back then, when I wrote him off as just another nut who was out to blame the victim, for right from the start, he shared a life challenge of his own (weight issues in his youth), noting that his healing began when he realized "I was the source of my reality."

At first it was difficult to equate a weight problem and chronic pain, for the former seemed controllable to me (you can decide what you put in your mouth, which sounds unfairly simple, I'm aware) while the latter was out of the patient's hands. (How does one take personal responsibility for a bone marrow disease?)

But in reading his words again more carefully, something is resonating for me this time around.

He told me a short story of how he'd been obese since birth, and that his weight problem seemed to be genetic in origin, so he could have easily disowned it. But he had an insight in his 20s (when he was 100 pounds overweight), which was that he chose at that moment to be the source of the problem, and once that occurred, he began to lose the weight and has stayed slim ever since.

"It's the act of choosing to claim the source of the issue that liberates the healing energy," he said. "It's when you align your consciousness with it and say, 'This is me. This is happening in me. I'm obviously making it up because where else would it be coming from?' That's when the magic begins to happen."

At the time, these words just sounded kooky, hollow and abstract, for what did he mean by "source"? It rang of self-help jargon, for surely there was no question that the pain was IN me, but how was I "making it up"? Still, I kept a print-out of his words, where they became buried on the fridge until now.

And so I've been thinking about it. In a recent post ("The Wait Is Over"), I talked about embracing the pain as a part of me--not something to be waited out or wished away, but rather recognizing it as an essential part of the journey that has made me all I am today...a person I've come to like, actually. A lot.

And then I began to think about the "source" of this pain--of all pain in my life, not just the physical--and I could see how much I've absorbed the strengths and weaknesses of my relatives, for good or bad, and how I've embodied, in particular, the awful truths they've believed about themselves.

When you're a kid, your parents are who they perceive themselves to be because of their own upbringing, and you accept them as that, just as you accept the perceptions they have of you as absolute truth. And it dawned on me that, despite years of therapy, the scars I carry from the harrowing, constant criticisms are actually still open wounds to a degree.

When I was a child, any time I bravely expressed any individuality, there was some dark force that seemed to be lying in wait for me to take that chance so that it could seize the opportunity, almost ravenously, to denigrate, mock and ridicule. It hurts me to even remember this, because I can feel a twinge of fear that all those comments about me were actually true (words I find hard to repeat here, as they still hurt so much).

I've had to learn to detach myself from them and realize that my loved ones were so insecure themselves, and that it must have given them (my dad in particular) a sense of great and much-needed power to hurt and manipulate a defenseless child.

I could sit here and plague myself with questions as to why he did this--why anyone would feel a need to destroy instead of build up the foundation of my personality--but they can never be answered, really.

The only thing I can do is tend to the scars, and claim my fears now as strictly my own, not coming from any outside source. They're within me, and it's up to me to own them, and to realize it's me who's choosing to not let them go.

Why? Well, again it's just history repeating in a brain loop that I must somehow learn to interrupt.

I'm not on any pain medication today, so I've been asking myself why I haven't gone down to my studio to work on the new paintings I'm so thrilled about, and the answer is clear. I want to forge ahead with this thrilling work, much like I did as a child, when I joyously wanted to venture into a world of discovery and chance.

Back then, though, these forays were met with sadistic criticism, and my disappointment was profound, even crushing. I suppose it's not big leap to see my fear that any stabs I make at individuality, fulfillment and success will be met with terrible disappointment, and so I freeze in a temporary state of soul paralysis where I simply don't move, literally.

Yet I'm aware that if I don't start taking some real chances here, healing on any level won't happen for sure.

I'm afraid that a pain-free, pill-free world will be stark, scary, disappointing, and perhaps worst of all, boring. That might surprise some people, as I seem to be all about adventure and creativity and putting myself out there. But have I really?

Today is a clear-headed day, and the pain is low to moderate. Will I be so open to these thoughts when caught again in the vice of crushing pain? I'm always optimistic that the most recent attack will be my last, but realistically, I'll be confronted with the beast again, I know. Will Gay's words resonate then?

I can't think about this anymore. Where's the remote?


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Popping Mad

Oh, man. Today is really bad. There's just something about this pain that is so debilitating, so crushing to the soul. I tell people it's like someone injected acid into my face and jaw, and lemme tell ya, it's hard to imagine at the moment what could be worse in this life.

Perhaps there are equivalents, like losing a child or being unjustly imprisoned for years, but as far as I know, this particular type of jaw/face pain (also known as atypical trigeminal neuralgia) is the only condition on Wikipedia called "the suicide disease," as sufferers find it so unbearable, and ultimately become despondent and suicidal because it's so untreatable.

In fact, that Wikipedia entry is truly the best description I've read so far of what I suffer through, and believe me, I've read plenty.

I know there are unconventional things I've yet to try to find relief, but frankly, I'm exhausted. Plus, life goes on; I need to earn money to stay afloat (disability doesn't cover my expenses), bills need to be paid, obligations must be met. And there are those days or weeks when the pain just isn't so bad, and I enjoy simply living my life. The last thing I want to do during these periods is make an appointment at that swanky pain clinic. I want to paint, or hang with friends, or buy shoes, or visit my nieces!

When things are bad, though, after so many years of this ordeal the idea of making even more appointments and telling the whole story all over again--with full knowledge that absolutely all of my previous efforts have been in vain--is just torturous. It's certainly easier to just pop pills and forget about it all for awhile--to drift off into a temporary Utopia where the darkness isn't quite so black.

I don't have any pills right now, though. Damn! I want to just check out; go watch "House" reruns and pop pills whenever House does. I want that smooth feeling to come over me that everything is going to be okay, or better, that everything is okay. I want the pain to lift just a bit (it never goes away completely), so that I can sigh and maybe take a nap.

Instead, I sit here wrapped as tight as a drum, wondering how any creator could have screwed things up so completely to have this condition even exist.

Sometimes people say to me, "Everything happens for a reason."

"Oh, really?" I respond (just in my mind, of course). "Let's hear you say that while I slice your skull with this machete."

I don't even know what I mean by that other than I'm obviously pissed and upset and sick to death of that irritating concept called "spirituality."

I suppose if I had a boyfriend or husband, my workload in finding a cure would be divided. But every responsibility of my life is on my shoulders and my shoulders alone. Normally, I actually enjoy this and rarely even think about it. But when I really need help of the more dire sort, I'm acutely aware that I'm in this by myself, and it's up to me to do it all--to seek out the treatments, make the appointments, find transportation, then follow whatever program is laid before me.

For years now, it's all been paid for with credit. Yes, money is another issue.

My friends in recovery encourage me to call someone when I'm suffering, but sometimes calling friends or family is worse because no one knows how to advise. No one has dealt with anything even close to this, and I actually feel bad for them that I can sometimes be so inconsolable. It gets frustrating for us both when every suggestion they make is something I've tried, and while this often makes me sound negative, I'm basically just reporting the facts.

Ultimately, I end up doing a faked cheerfulness before I get off the phone, just so that they don't feel so bad.

It's just way easier sometimes to sit back and start popping. Sometimes friends say, "But you could die from those pills!" Trust me--I'm not clinically depressed when I say, "Yeah? And?" The only reason I don't check out is that there's so much of the good life I've yet to live. I know it exists--I've seen it in movies.

I dunno. I gotta find some pills. This is just awful.

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History Repeating

The History Channel had a show on about the plague this afternoon. Half the population of Europe died because of it, and the surviving population was devastated psychologically as a result, questioning the meaning of life. I get this. Families watched one another die tortured, agonzing, senseless deaths. Talk about misery.

Not surprisingly, they all thought God was punishing their evil ways, but in watching this show with the wisdom of hindsight, it's clear that it was just a tragic thing that, well, happened. It wasn't God; it was a pathogen that half the people couldn't fight off. It spread from England to China, and some Christian Europeans began flagellating themselves, thinking that maybe inflicting more suffering on their bodies would somehow stop the insanity.

In my own case, I sometimes think God is punishing me, too, for some evil deed committed in maybe a previous life, or that he's trying to teach me a lesson that I somehow refuse to learn.

But if I'm going to learn anything from history, sometimes things just, well, happen. There's nothing inherently good or bad to the event. As humans, we're simply organisms prone to infection, like bugs, or dogs, or even the dinosaurs, who could actually get cancer.

Many desperately want to believe that things like disease happen to us because of stress, unresolved rage, because we're not spiritual enough, or because we're not understanding the mind/body connection. While there may be some truth to this, another truth is that bad things do indeed happen to good people for no reason at all. Accidents happen, disease happens, as does death. There's no escaping it. Believing there's reasons for it is simply a vain attempt to control it. If we can blame the patient somehow, then we think it won't happen to us.

The History Channel ended on a positive note, saying that the plague ushered in a new era of thinking. People began questioning the Church's authority, now defining God for themselves, and because of the loss of the work force, labor-saving machines were invented that were the very beginnings of the industrial age.

The most positive thing that developed was the beginning of the Renaissance--a rebirth of art, culture and science.

Like the plague survivors, I don't know about this God thing either. But I'm certainly not going to flagellate myself, nor blame anyone else for my misery. (The Christian flagellators actually blamed the Jews for the catastrophe.) The best I can hope for is some kind of rebirth of my own...a new person that will rise from the wreckage.

That's hard to fathom at the moment, as I'm still swirling in a haze of pain and addiction. The plague had to run its course, and perhaps my own dark days have to run theirs, as well. This has been going on for an awful long time, though. Years now.

I'm exhausted.

Wager, Anyone?

I'm on and off the pain meds. Luckily, they're again entrusted to a friend so that I take them as prescribed. In my possession, they're absolutely diabolical. I watch my hand go up to my mouth with yet another pill as if I'm not in control of my own body parts. I suppose I'm not.

Yesterday, I attempted to completely go without pain meds, as I did most of the day before. When the pain went through the roof, I called my sponsor, Mary, which I don't often do. In pain, I tend to isolate as my emotions are so overwhelming that I assume they will overwhelm others. I cry so hard that I'm barely coherent. But I called, telling her that the reason I haven't been able to write down my perception of my Higher Power (an assignment she had given me) is that I feel there isn't one for me.

The funny thing about recovery is that at meetings, I'm often listening to people talk about how wonderful their lives have become with sobriety and this newfound relationship with their God. What's difficult is that I know exactly what they're talking about, as I had this exact relationship with my creator before this disaster set in. I prayed for my divine purpose (as opposed to what I thought I should be doing with my life), I surrendered vexing problems, my ego was far less involved in my life than it had been, and I was of service to my community.

All of these things are in the "promises" of the rooms. And I agree, when you live your life that way, it gets better. For the 18 months before my hemmorhage, I was happier than I'd ever been, and my life, although not perfect, seemed on a continued upward path towards betterment. I suppose I had some kind of hubris that with God as my co-pilot, what could go wrong? Really wrong?

Well, what went wrong far exceeded anything I could have ever imagined, and despite prayers and pleadings and countless affirmations, nothing changed. The pain was all-consuming and untreatable. I had to live with it 24/7. I went to bed with it and woke up with it.

And my spirituality ended up in the toilet, along with the question, "How could any loving creator create such potential for this type of suffering?" My answer was one of two things: Either there wasn't a God, or if he does exist, he certainly ain't loving.

So when I now hear all my recovery pals talk about their union with this great spirit, I think them delusional. They say they found God when they hit their bottom, thinking they'll never find themselves there again, or if they DO find themselves there again, it will be because of something THEY have done, like picking up. They often say of their darkest days, "God didn't leave me; I left God." They think God will never leave them now if they continue "to do the next right thing."

Oh, yeah? Wanna bet?