- Sitting on a pillow on the floor
- Crossing your legs
- Being 110% silent
- Staying still
- Closing your eyes
- Certain hand movements
- Being mindful
- Allowing thoughts to arise
- Being non-judgmental to yourself
- Rest and relaxation
- Personal insight
- Compassion
Lower sensitivity to pain? What?
“Meditation teaches patients how to react to the pain,” Zeiden said. “People are less inclined to have the ‘Ouch’ reaction, then they are able to control the emotional reaction to pain.” He explained that the meditator learns while sitting on the cushion that pain is fleeting and doesn’t deserve such a strong emotional reaction. (source)
Mindfulness also shows me that even the hardest pain of the most difficult emotion is just a temporary thing. Noticing that change has made a massive difference. The pain is still there but now I can even be grateful for it. I now have the self-awareness to notice any discomfort and itching before it becomes full-blown pain. That’s quite a change from when all I could do was be angry and resentful.
Mindfulness has really helped improve my relationships which previous had been quite difficult. I guess that working on being compassionate to myself means that I’m able to be more compassionate to others. That’s also how I see all the blogging I do. Sharing my own story and struggles with others through blogging and other social media is an expression of my compassion. It’s part of my practice. (122)
I’ve met a lot of mindfulness experts in my time. But as she is someone who has lived with pain for the majority of her life, I’ve never heard as clear or as real an articulation of how mindfulness helps us transform our experience of the difficult as the one Kirsten shared with me. (122)
Via Tumblr |
Self-Portrait with Bandaged Ear |
Via Wisdom to Inspire |
I feel like a hypocrite…
Lately, I’ve been sleeping on the couch instead of in my bed next to my husband.
There was no torrid affair with a movie star or falling out. Instead, this is all thanks to the plethora of illnesses that I’ve collected over the years. The biggest culprit as of late has changed from my mostly-controlled Systemic Juvenile Idiopathic Arthritis (SJIA) to my Fibromyalgia. With that comes allodynia, or that thing of when sensations that shouldn’t hurt you do hurt – like clothing touching your skin. Our couch is super soft and feels like a fleece blanket so, when my Fibro flares up, that’s where I live.
That doesn’t mean I slow down by any means. I do a million things from that couch: work on my masters, plan advocacy events, raise awareness of illnesses or money for new treatments, mentor others, write, run two websites, host a weekly chat, Skype or game with my sister, be a badass friend, play with my guinea pigs, pass out and snore, and more! I do sleep – promise.
I’m not superwoman. I know this. I have dealt with such bad fatigue that, when I have the energy to accomplish these things, I have to act. Call it making up for lost time, being stubborn, hogging opportunities – I call it helping others. That’s what I love to do.
Participating in such a wide variety of things contributes to stress and, in turn, pain at times. It takes away from things I might be able to do with family or for self-care. The topics I write about – relationships, self-love, sexuality, dealing with comorbid conditions, managing healthcare, recovering from childhood abuse, and more – resonate with others. They are topics that aren’t covered well by other patients, physicians, healthcare professionals, organizations, and more.
I do all of this because I know that I could have used someone like me as I grew up, as I learned more about my illnesses, to show that you can still be sassy, realistic, have a crummy backstory, and STILL live an awesome life despite rocking a replica House, MD cane sometimes.
I have often said over the last few years that I feel grateful for being sick since childhood. I don’t remember living really without the limitations that I have grown up with, even though they do change enough to irritate beyond belief. I have multiple chronic diseases but my fibro is currently the worst offender now that my SJIA is mostly under control.
That brings its own challenges, though, like feeling that I’ve lost a huge part of me. Arthur, as I’ve always called my SJIA, was much like a twin. There is an emptiness that comes when the thing you’re closest to is gone, especially when you have a tendency to personify it.
There is a mix of joy for some semblance of pain relief, sorrow that he’s not around, and guilt that I’m doing so well while children I know have been in and out of the hospital seriously ill and fighting for their lives.
If Arthur had come along later than kindergarten, would I feel differently about him? If I grew up in a home without abuse, would I have gotten so attached to him, to that familiar pain?
Courtesy of Quotes Gram |