It’s become very apparent that the best moment to write about any senses. Is when it’s at it’s worse.
There is so much information to remember. So alot of the whole spectrum is compressed. Only remaining rememberance is that it sucked and times was very hard to cope with.

But the truth is much worse.

First of all it’s not like pinching your own skin very hard. Or getting punctuated by a needle. Though there are those with such pain. Like those in the last stages of cancer.
Thank God. It’s not even close.

But for me it seems like the general idea of pain is either at an enoying stage or hell. The understanding of the spectrum as a whole however. Seems to be rather narrow.

With IBS and general anxiety the pain is like a curse of trying to be better. Everytime you push the lines of social contact or are trying something new. The stress within wind up the tension in the muscles. This subsequently leads to inflammation in the muscles.

The great question is. When is it too much, if the pain won’t end before medication sedates the sensation to such a level it’s possible to live with.

It’s everywhere at the same time as it is constant. Described in other terms like a piano, the muscles seems tense to the point of break.

It was hard to accept that this type of pain would always return. And sometimes in a greater power than last.

The intention of writing is not about getting sympathy. Though there was time this need was felt. You quickly learn that feeling is pointless and empty.
But the constant trying to express. Even being able to describe the issue so clearly someone either learns or feel that they aren’t alone. And that it might even be normal.

But know that though it might never go away. The theachings of coping are great and valuable. You start to get attracte to finding a solution that lasts. The medication looses it’s powergrip and becomes a remedy. Rather than the oxygen when it’s at it’s worst.

The only point I’ve ever felt gratitude with pain. Is the point I realise it’s dissipating.