Yes, this is my wrist, scarred by pain and desperation. These scars represent days when my pain was at a level 10, not attempts at suicide. See, I’ve read that cutting releases endorphins, and those endorphins can decrease pain. (I also saw it on an episode of House, one of my favorite TV shows.) And as I’ve tried almost every other way to manage my pain, I thought it was a good idea to try this one. I mean, if I’m willing to try treatments like hypnosis, why not something like this?
Of course it didn’t work. The cutting just left scars, which I used to be embarrassed about, but now I rarely even notice. These scars are like my stretch marks from pregnancy — they show what this old body has been through. They are like… badges of courage.
Today is a bad pain day for me, and I confess that I’ve thought about trying to release some of that pain by causing myself more pain — attempt to distract myself from the pain in my head by causing pain in another part of my body. In theory, it should work. But in practice, it doesn’t help — nothing could distract me from this level of pain. I know that, but sometimes, desperation doesn’t make any sense.
What would decrease my pain levels are things I don’t currently have access to, like hydrocodone and medical cannabis. I’m telling you, the drug war (and Unum) is slowly killing me, just like my constant pain.
So, if you read these words, please support your state’s medical cannabis program, if one exists. And if not, please support the creation of this kind of program in your state or country.
Because desperation is never pretty.