F'''ing Relapse

Aw come on, universe.  I was doing so well.  No pain and off meds for over a year.  I had reached the point where I really thought pain was a past participle, no longer an active tense.

Then, for no reason at all, wham.  F'''ing relapse.  Full blown, Titanic crashing into an iceberg.  Why?  Why?  Why?  Why not?????

Maybe it was this nauseating political climate.  Maybe it was thinking about my deceased parents and what they gave me and what they never gave me.  Maybe a butterfly farted in India.

Back on meds.  Most, but not all, of the meds I'd spent over a year tapering off of.  I say not all the meds as if not having to use benzos now is a victory.  Hah!  A victory would be waking up and having it all be gone.  Anything less is just more defeat.

And poor, poor Richard.  He is bent over with helplessness watching me twist in pain.  We play a lovely duet.  I moan, and he stands still as a post waiting for my next move.  Will I lean towards some comfort or slip deeper into pain spasms?  If it's comfort, he breathes; if it's pain he grows more still until numbness or departing give him a break I cannot offer him.

We know this dance too well.  We are blue ribbon winners in this pas de deux, or rather pas de douleur.

My heart breaks for him.  His heart breaks for me.  That's the kind of love that offers us a few rays of light and hope when pain's shadow once again spreads from horizon to horizon.