Unruly pain made life harder, but better
I'm learning to embrace the ambivalence
A short excerpt of this story, narrated by me. This part begins after the orange icon.
Until five years ago, my bed was an altar to rest and pleasure exclusively. Now there's some awkward geometry involved. There's a standard head pillow on top of my pregnancy pillow, a pi-shaped bed accessory that's become my MVP. It keeps my once-crushed ankle aloft while providing lower back support, needed for two slipped discs and the nerve pinched between them. Then there's a third pillow for extra ankle support, and yet another to boost my elbow for balance. It's actually pretty cozy, despite the agony I've endured since being maimed by a forklift at 26.
These injuries have left my life in shambles. While good things can and do still happen, the life I thought I'd have, with unlimited earning potential and mobility in my prime, was gone in an instant. Debt and disability now define my existence, frequently curtailing my peace and agency. So I eagerly savor my new life's little consolation prizes, from the apparent elegance of my slow, cautious gait, or the mountain of memory foam I sleep in now. I can still get quite angry and despondent when I sit with what's happened, so I could really use the consoling. Except these tiny blessings aren't just an emotional salve.
I've always coveted soft and warm surroundings, only now I require them. I've paid an inordinate price for my soft life and its necessary luxuries, but I'm not sure I'd give it all back if I could. Beyond the superficial shit like pillows and posture that I make myself see as endearing, chronic pain has led directly to some of my life's highest peaks, personally and professionally. And for the first time ever, I have no choice but to honor my body's needs, increasingly a privilege in this decaying, hypercapitalist empire. All of this forces me to confront a strange truth: As miserable as the accident has made me, I don't wish it never happened.
It's a tricky thing to reconcile emotionally.
As a child in a sleepy, car-dependent suburb, walking was the ultimate form of autonomy for me. Any chance I got to travel on foot, outdoors and free of supervision, felt like a huge victory— even just to the 7-Eleven. So when I finally grew up and got off Long Island, I eagerly joined the rat race of New York City, strutting down Seventh Avenue in my heeled combat boots to the Fashion Institute of Technology. I was studying to be a gallery girl, beckoned by the dubious glamour of staring at art for hours and writing dozens of pages about my impressions. But on the eve of graduation, my art world aspirations were beginning to wane.
That spring, I started moonlighting at the SoHo sex toy store that reoriented my career. As a sex educator and blogger, I'd found a new transcendental experience about which to wax poetic, and it thrilled me to use my words, written and spoken, to help people uncover their authentic desires. That I could walk to work from my then-boyfriend's East Village apartment was a big bonus. The city's sensory overwhelm only accelerated my pace, and I craved that undulating current of kinetic energy, even the unsolicited (yet innocent) touches from strangers. It's this quotidian eros that makes New York so famously frenetic— and at present, mostly inaccessible to me and my hair-trigger nerve endings.
There are too many body checks from distracted pedestrians, too many stroller wheels mauling unsuspecting toes. There's too much standing on train platforms, bearing the MTA's broken promises. And there are too many motherfucking stairs everywhere, with precious few functional elevators. Disabled people can and do survive the city; we too have big dreams and deep roots that yoke us to that so-called concrete jungle. In my case, greener pastures just happened to call. About a year after graduating, I followed my retiring parents to their new Atlanta homestead, curious about this leafy and vibrant Southern city. I've lived in the area ever since, happy to let New York and its lauded "walkability" be a relic of my former, easier, abled life.
Even though it's painful now, walking does still delight me. I can observe things more closely at slower speeds: the soundscape, the wildlife, even my own moods. I'd never noticed before that my thoughts would race to match my gait until they no longer needed to do so. When I'm out and about, I exchange more smiles and greetings with passersby, who engage with me more since I'm so visibly unhurried. Sometimes I think you'd all be happier moving as I do, slowly and deliberately, with a receptive gaze toward others, if only you felt like you could.
We did all slow down together once before. The accident happened on February 5 of 2020, as the pandemic was dawning. I was wrapping up a shift at my new warehouse job, and lost control of the motorized pallet jack I was riding while restocking shelves. Suddenly careening toward a storage rack, I yanked the steering column into a sharp turn instinctively. But that same mechanism also controlled the brakes, which I'd inadvertently activated. This caused a slingshot effect, sending me sailing a dozen yards ahead of the vehicle.
I was airborne for so long I had time to dread coming down. Never again will flight seem like a superpower. Though my ankle took the brunt of my collision with the polished concrete, the force of it shot through every molecule of me. Sprawled on the floor, I was stunned into silence while I waited to be discovered. With the day winding down, the space was eerily lifeless, which felt like a gift in the moment. As I slowly sat up, cradling my lower leg, I felt no pain, not just yet. But my ankle was so swollen that I thought it might burst.
Finally my colleagues appeared, calm but clearly concerned. They produced an office chair and rolled me to my desk, where I sheepishly called my mother. Within minutes she arrived and rushed me to urgent care, where an x-ray revealed I'd somehow broken no bones. The attending doctor treated it like the standard ankle sprain it appeared to be, ordering ice, elevation, and rest. I was still moving through my parents' garage when my foot violently rebuked this assessment. The endorphins were fading fast, and the nonstop five-alarm fire began burning.
As my ankle ignited, a violent series of muscle spasms dragged me deeper into hell. I collapsed onto a stool and tried to stretch out my calf, a punishing miscalculation that sent me straight into panic mode. A strangled scream erupted from me, drowning out the rainstorm that was suddenly raging outside. Somehow my beleaguered brain produced a factoid from high school chemistry, and I pleaded for my mother bring me a banana. To my astonished delight, its potassium eased the cramping just enough to catch my breath and crawl to my bedroom. It was a sadly short-lived triumph.
The pain only deepened in the following weeks, a sharp ache that invaded every waking moment, with sporadic muscle spasms in tow. I spent part of each day crying out of fear, pain, or both. It didn't help that I'd returned to work after only four days, in bitterly cold weather that worsened my symptoms. My boss spent his own money on a knee scooter to bring me back ASAP, and I felt so much pressure to keep the warehouse launch on track. I put on a brave face, but I just knew something was really wrong. In March I finally saw a podiatrist, who was as perplexed as he was concerned. He put me in a cast and ordered a medical leave from my job, after which he'd reevaluate.
And like so many others, I went home on March 13 and stayed there for a month.
I often refer to 2020 as "the accidemic," a grim shorthand meant to capture my experience of that cursed year's twin crises: not as separate events, but a singular mega-trauma. It was only once my medical leave began that I could start to process it all. My pain levels didn't improve, but my mental state definitely did. Not having to drag myself to work at a frigid, pre-dawn hour and pretend I was okay was a huge relief, and I passed the time watching music documentaries and bedazzling my foot cast. Once the plaster was sawed off six weeks later, my doctor sent me back to work part-time and also straight to physio, hoping that hands-on help would restore my mobility.
Physical therapy became its own occupation. I practically moved into that BenchMark, with three full sessions each week of stretching, electrostimulation, and other assorted tortures. My leg felt as if it were flayed and then subsequently boiled, and the lack of visible progress over many months was wildly discouraging. It went on for so long that I witnessed my therapist's pregnancy from start to finish. I was gradually gaining strength as her body bloomed, a potent reminder of the power in slow, sustained progress. Plus, I figured if she could enter motherhood in the midst of the novel coronavirus, then maybe I really could relearn how to walk.
I was obviously distraught by the widespread suffering wrought by COVID, but also quietly buoyed by its timing. It meant I wouldn't be alone in my terror and distress, axing summer plans and feeling confined while deeply concerned for my health. I wasn't the only one missing my best friend's wedding and other joyful milestones of my loved ones. I, too, was hoping my nightmare would be over by autumn, because anything else was just unfathomable. Besides, what kind of injury could simply refuse to heal? This question went unanswered until late that first summer.
When the initial x-rays showed no broken bones, at first I thought that was good. I'd later learn that when such blunt force isn't fully expressed through a break, its impact is often dispersed through various complex issues that can't be addressed with surgery. Mine included torn ligaments, deep bone bruising, and a paralyzed Achilles tendon, among others. These were considered "crush" injuries, not unlike what I might have endured had the lift rolled over my foot instead. But even this litany of woes didn't explain why I still couldn't stand after so much grueling therapy.
It was August 2020 when my care team discovered extensive nerve damage in my lower leg. This helped them diagnose the condition amplifying my misery: chronic regional pain syndrome. High impact traumas like mine are a common precursor for CRPS, notorious for debilitating pain and inflammation that's often constant, as it has been for me. It's also characterized by hypersensitivity, such that the gentlest caress can register as a knife slice. If you've ever seen the Netflix documentary Take Care of Maya (2022), my condition is a milder version of the titular girl's. CRPS is graciously rare, affecting about 200,000 Americans at any given time. But that's cold comfort for people like Maya and me.
Half a decade later, even sliding on a sock too fast can set off a flare-up that leaves me bedridden, clutching a heating pad switch and a blunt. While my daily pain levels have gradually improved, it's possible I'll eventually plateau. The final prognosis from my podiatrist was ominous: "Good luck." I live in constant fear of CRPS spreading to new body parts, as it did when I struck a deer on a dark road two years ago and shifted my spinal column. Bulging discs are always brutal, but for someone with already-hypersensitive nerves, the impact has dramatically compounded my disability.
This has also made it harder to determine what kind of work I can actually do these days. Now it's painful to stand or sit for very long, and laying down is also… a process. Waistbands have become my new nemesis, and I can't always wear pants when I want to. I'm also more sensitive to stress these days. So to keep things at a dull roar, I have to constantly switch positions, keep stress levels low, and dress like a loungewear influencer. Not so conducive to formal employment! Luckily, I do have one skillset that accommodates all of this. If only it weren't the one I tried to avoid relying on.
The body of knowledge I built at the sex shop became a major asset after the wreck. Back when I was preparing to depart my home city, I'd started exploring new parts of the adult industry, where copywriters, journalists, and other wordsmiths could thrive. I'd always been good with words, but as an emerging adult afflicted with the desire to write, trying to live on any income from that seemed wholly impractical. Ditto living in extortionate New York. So when I arrived in Atlanta, I stayed with family and worked part-time at a home-improvement store, happily sporting a neon apron to bolster my freelance income.
Out of nowhere, I was offered the chance to run the shipping department at an upstart distribution center, in the warehouse that changed my life forever. Those first few months on the job were a heady mess of brainstorms and blueprints. Soon I was envisioning a full career in logistics, where my writing was demoted to a happy hobby. Then came that fated February day, and none of it mattered anymore. By the end of 2020, I understood that mine was no ordinary ankle sprain, but no one could tell me if I'd ever return to a life without the specter of severe pain. Standing up still felt like stepping on a taser, and I had to contend with the staggering toll this would take on my earning power.
My logistics career was officially cancelled, along with the financial stability I thought I was building with those pallet racks. Eager to move on with my life, I opted out of the weekly, conditional checks that tethered me to the company, and pursued a worker's compensation settlement. I was incredibly lucky to get any money at all, but it definitely wasn't the set-for-life kind of settlement. Without question, I'd have to rejoin the workforce as soon as I could. I'd just have to figure out how to do that from a desk at home. Suddenly, my original thinking about whether writing was practical was totally inverted.
When people ask me what I "do" and I say I'm a freelance writer, they often seem impressed. "Good for you!" they'll cheer. "Anything I've read?" (Why does that matter? goes my inward reply). I badly want to take this as the compliment it is, but I can smell the baked-in assumption that I'm supporting myself this way. Reader, I am not. My survival and comfort are enabled by familial wealth, which, despite my best efforts, may always be true. This path was not a leap of faith in my talent. I was actually pushed off a cliff, and five years later, I'm still trying to fly. Am I pursuing my passion, or is that passion — plus the pain — holding a knife to my spine, nudging me along?
And yet, this career path I was so reluctant to invest in has brought some huge returns. I've seen my words in a major newspaper, and I've been flown out to Germany for a client collaboration. I've even interviewed an actress I've adored since adolescence. My gratitude for these bigger wins, and every other second I spend as a working artist sustains me even when — maybe especially when — the notion of financial independence seems preposterous. I'm learning to embrace the ambivalence, instead of striving to resolve it. Because not every plot twist makes obvious sense at first.
It was a year and change into The After Times, and homeownership was the last thing on my mind. I'd mostly figured out the freelancing, but I didn't have a partner and was still climbing stairs on all fours. Then I discovered my dream house in the most chaotic way possible, and my life went back in the blender. It was a lakeside cabin tucked into verdant foothills, and I noticed that my accident settlement would cover a down payment. Plus the house was completely accessible, outrageously rare in the housing market. And I was the first one to see the "for sale" sign.
Even the realtor was in awe. "I don't know what else to call this but a miracle," she said on closing day with a wide-eyed smile. Choosing to buy the place was far from practical, but in my new life, was anything? Why not spend whatever time I could in this bucolic Atlanta exurb with jewel-toned sunsets seen through wintertime trees? I like to say I "grew up" in my house, where I fell deeply in love, found my perfect little cat, and became my most authentic self. Look what this pain has made possible for me. Of course I can't help but wonder how things would have turned out without it.
When I worked at the sex shop, my favorite discovery was that pleasure and pain shared a spectrum, such that neither sensation could exist without the other. Any given stimulus, like a paddle to the thigh, can cause elation or despair depending on how it's received, and a little bit of pain can actually enhance pleasure. I'm reminded of this balance when I consider that the best sex of my life has occurred since the accident, surely no coincidence. Not long before, the belief that someone wanting me mattered more than what I wanted was so deeply ingrained, I thought that I owned it. My sex ed training helped me start unpacking this, and chronic pain finished the job.
I adore the pre-play debrief that I do with new partners. I show them how to pull me closer and where to never touch, where to kiss me gently and where to use their teeth. "You can leave my socks on," I'll say, poorly suppressing a laugh. It might look a little odd, but I'd rather ruin the fantasy than let an errant breeze trigger a flare. I'm done watching myself through my partner's eyes while we're internally entwined. And sex is always most satisfying when embodied and not performed. I wish my younger self could see me now, the girl too ashamed of her desires to steer her own pleasure cruise. I wish she hadn't paid such an exorbitant toll for this confidence. But at least things are simpler now. If agony is mandatory, then so must be ecstasy.
There is a myth among the able-bodied, that disabled people exaggerate our symptoms due to "secondary gains" we receive, like financial assistance or time off from work. In expressing this idea, they reveal the injustice they perceive in toiling through most of their waking hours to afford the right to exist. Instead of criticizing the systems that perpetuate this state of affairs, they turn their ire toward the ones who "escape" it by being too sick or hurt to work as they do. I wish I got to spend all day at home with my feet up, say the fools who wouldn't last five minutes in my body.
The prevalence of this worldview makes me worry I've done little more with this essay than hand ammunition to ableists. Except I refuse to write, or not write, for those with my worst interest at heart. Let them focus on the gifts my situation has yielded — a house, my writing career, my body confidence. They'll conveniently ignore the spiraling debt and physical suffering, and the emotional toll of wondering if I'll always be burdened by both. It doesn't matter either way, because I'm the only one who can make any meaning of it. Although, I'm no longer sure it's helpful to try.
My life is not a ledger. There is no scorekeeper. The accident and its fallout are not good or bad, they just are. But if my life has indeed become harder, but better, should that make me grateful for my own anguish? Maybe the less I try to make sense of it all, the easier I'll find it to inhabit this new reality. The only clarity I've really gained from this has come through my physical form. Is there anything to learn about life that the body cannot teach us? Patience, loss, adaptation, desire, balance, growth... Hell is your own body but heaven is, too. I'm much less fearful of what's next for having felt it all here.
This lovely and honest. Honest writers are the best kind. Well done, my fearless friend.