—
Editor’s note: This post was submitted in response to a Call for Submissions about chronic pain.
◊♦◊
On December 24, 1999, I was the victim of an attempted murder: My own body tried to beat me to death. The cervical, thoracic, and lumbar spine conspired against me, attacking my mind and body with a never-ending violent onslaught of devastating waves of pain crashing in my brain. The nerve roots, the discs, the facet joints, every part of the spine coalesced to achieve their common goal – to take me down.
Suddenly, I could no longer landscape my yard, finish the construction of my basement, or go to work and earn an income. Explosions of excruciating pain erupted every time I tried to turn onto my side to get out of bed and walk across the hall to the bathroom. The inhalation of a full breath of life-giving oxygen became impossible as each attempt resulted in violent electric shock up and down the spinal cord. Merely lying flat and holding as still as possible, gasping for air one tiny breath at a time consumed all of my energy. There were no words in the English language that adequately express this level of pain at 30 years old.
The brain is a conductor, sending a symphony of instructions to the body. My spinal chord is off key. My spinal cord is failing me. I was 100% confident that surgery would solve this problem and I would soon be back on my feet, ready to rejoin the work force. I had no fear of surgery, in fact, I looked forward to it so I could finally get some pain relief.
Unfortunately, for my particular situation, surgery was a disaster.
◊♦◊
There was no amount of morphine, Demerol, Percocet, Vicodin, or Oxycontin that could dull my pain. I found myself in a situation where I lived to suffer. Each day felt like a month of torture. Weeks passed. Then months. Then years. I used to think I was indestructible. I found out the hard way that I was wrong. As life went on for friends and family that I know, and life went on for people all around the world, my life seemed to have come to a grinding halt.
Pain dominated my existence. Pain, and the inability to lead a normal life, lead to dark depression. Two years went by, then five years, then ten years. I thought to myself, “So this is what it’s like to be sent to hell, to live an eternity of pain and suffering.”
Through-out this process I received tremendous support from friends and family. Emotional support, physical support when problems arose around the house that needed fixed, and even financial support which I was so ashamed to accept, yet so grateful at the same time. Few people are as fortunate as I am when it comes to having others step up when I was beaten down.
For fourteen years I surfed waves of pain, and waves of depression that hit with a strength and fury that caused me to wonder how long I could stay afloat before they finally take me down. Before I finally drowned. I had no purpose in life. It was all I could do to survive. I was barely alive and questioned what for.
◊♦◊
Then unexpectedly, I began to experience overwhelming waves of sadness when I saw news reports of people near and far who suffer in terrible conditions. When I saw a news report of a bullied child, a beaten spouse, a child crying in a war-torn nation, immigrants, refugees, victims of racial violence, a homeless man, woman or child, or a soldier who survived the battle field only to live a life of nightmares, I could see the pain in their eyes, in their soul.
I could not avoid the inspiration to write poetry about their struggles. I tried to resist, reminding myself that I don’t know anything about writing poetry. Every time I experienced a wave of emotion and inspiration to write poetry, I wondered, “What is wrong with me?”
But the inspiration was too strong, I could not resist. My fingers started typing as fast as they could, as the universe seemed to dictate the words and create the poetry from a place I was not familiar.
I wanted to write in a way that would take a person inside the mind of a person who suffers. I read judgmental, even hateful comments about a homeless man or an immigrant, and I would respond with poetry. I try to help people understand that the one they rage against, that person suffers immensely, they don’t want to be in this situation and the solution might not be as simple as you believe it to be.
◊♦◊
What happened next was even more unexpected. Even though I was targeting people with an opposing opinion, there were many people who read the poetry in the comments of social media news pages and started commenting how much they appreciate the sentiment. As I wrote more, people began to ask if I have a book of poetry that they can purchase. I would always roll my eyes and reply with, “A book? I am not a ‘Writer’, I am a political activist. I don’t know the first thing about writing. I’m just trying to help people understand the suffering of others, and encourage them to have more compassion and empathy.” Readers commented that the poetry inspired them to get involved in their community to help the homeless, the elderly, or others in need.
I began to amass quite a diverse group of friends on social media who wanted to keep up with what I write. People across town, across the state, across the United States and across the world from Pennsylvania to Pakistan, Ohio to Ireland, Nebraska to Nigeria, so many people wanted to read what I write, I began to fear I could not possibly live up to their expectations.
As more time passed, the poetry I write to use as comments in news stories progressed to becoming poetry written for mental health magazines, and poetry for the first-ever English edition of a magazine in Nepal. I was published in two books of poetry that were created to express the need for social change. Former homeless people and survivors of domestic violence went out of their way to thank me for giving them a voice, for putting in the effort to try to help people understand their struggles.
My poetry was turned into songs for church and it was featured with an effort to raise money for a homeless shelter. Military veterans messaged me thanks for writing about the tormented mind of a soldier with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. One thank you grew to ten, then one hundred, now countless hundreds.
Psychologists who read the poetry I write and used as replies on news pages asked if they could use the PTSD poetry as one of many tools they use to work with veterans, encouraging them to write their own story. Counselors in the ‘Alternatives to Violence Program’ (AVP) asked if they could use the poetry with their counseling of incarcerated youth and adult prisoners. The AVP program is proven successful to encourage inmates to look away from violence and towards the arts to express their emotions, heal from trauma, and help set them on a course to becoming a productive member of society. Those who fight for freedom in Syria messaged me to tell me that the poetry I write about the struggles and suffering of the people in Syria inspires them, encourages them to continue to fight for freedom despite the odds, and despite their exhaustion. They asked if they could share the poetry on their social media pages and I quickly agreed. They chose Christmas Day 2015 to share what I have written.
◊♦◊
I don’t think the pain in my body will ever subside. However, without the pain, there would be no poetry. Writing poetry has created a world of global communication and shared ideas that I never would have otherwise experienced. Without the pain there would be no poetry. And that is why I wouldn’t trade this experience for anything.
—
This post is republished on Medium.
***
Improve your writing, expand your reach, and monetize your craft.
Join The Good Men Project’s Writers’ Community on Patreon.
We welcome all experience levels.
Learn more on our Patreon page.
***
Photo credit: Shutterstock
blessings beloved brother
This is powerful beyond words. Here is hope for transforming any difficult life situation into art and a gift of compassion to all who suffer. Bless you brian crandall.
Thank You David
– Cambiamento di paradigma – Depression, the quicksand of the mind Creeping death A dark shadow, slowly, ominously, painfully strengthening its deadly grip On my conscious self Pulling me under I try to escape Desperately reaching out for help I try to take flight before I succumb to smothering suffocation It was then I found That my wings were bound Era il dolore che ha portato la depressione It was Pain that brought Depression Pain grips my body, squeezing angrily Fiercely determined to crush my bones Hoping to hear the snap, snap, snap! As bones fall like dominoes Pain laughs… Read more »
– A Walk in the Park – When I walk through the cemetery Some of them stare at me Others are looking past me A thousand lifetimes away There is no sign of life in those eyes Anyhow, it feels like a cemetery The park downtown where The homeless hang around Bodies scattered randomly about Some burned out Some fading away Two worlds collide at the park Children laughing on the swing set Up and down Up and down Riding an upside down rainbow Their parents smile nervously Always keeping an eye On the bodies tossed aside What hell did… Read more »