Do you ever feel like you’re useless? Maybe you do. But you might not feel that way as frequently as I do.
About five years ago—the summer before fourth grade—I woke up with horrible pain in my knees. It hurt to walk. When I was younger—say, four to nine years old or maybe even when I was a toddler; I don’t remember—I had hamstrings that were so tight it hurt all over my legs, my thighs especially. But it always went away by the next day. Worst case back then was that I took some Tylenol or ibuprofen and I got pain relief. This kind of pain was different. It was stabbing pain. My knees throbbed no matter what I was doing. My mom ended up calling my physical therapist after I complained of pain for two days straight. He said it was probably just a growth spurt.
Five years later—after at least six different medications, countless doctors, and an (inaccurate) diagnosis of fibromyalgia—here I am. The pain is manageable on some days, and nearly unbearable on others. The fact is, I don’t have the kind of time to sit around and nurse my aching hips. Or at least, I’m too stubborn to do that.
I am blessed with an understanding family who doesn’t pressure me to do things when I’m hurting. However, my pride kicks in. For example, I was helping out at my Nana’s garage sale and everyone was active, setting up folding tables, carrying boxes to different tables, and generally rearranging things. For the first thirty minutes of this, I was active, too, helping to organize the table that my sister and I were selling our stuff at. After that time, though, I was exhausted—and really, really frustrated. Most kids my age can run for a long time without getting super tired, much less move some things around at a garage sale.
I was the first to sit down on a lawn chair, guzzling from a water bottle, grateful that my exhausted, aching feet were getting a break. Then I looked around at my family members, who were all scurrying around, effortlessly (at least, that’s what it seemed like) carrying boxes and things like that—all physical things that required legs that were “fully charged”, aka not super tired like mine were.
I felt so useless sitting in that chair. I was angry and I resented that my legs couldn’t cooperate for what I considered simple activities—especially since I had taken my medicine that morning, which admittedly, I’m not always so great about. I also resented that I didn’t get to experience a so-called “normal” childhood. As much as I hate that word—“normal”—I do feel like it has a point. But mostly, I was frustrated because the rest of my family seemed to not even get tired as they helped, while I probably sat in that lawn chair for longer than I had helped! It was annoying.
Not to mention that it happened again! I was cleaning out my grandpa’s thousands of CDs (literally I have never seen that many CDs in all my life!) and putting them in boxes. There were so many that I maybe was boxing for an hour. I’m not complaining here, because I really like to help my family. I’m just saying there were tons! I was getting tired because the CDs were on a high shelf, which meant I had to stand up as I reached for them to put them in a box. My legs were shaking, which they do when they’re tired. (I have learned to read the signs.) My sister noticed and told me to go sit down; she would finish packing my grandpa’s CDs. It was a sweet offer, it really was. But I got mad (not really at her, but at my legs), and told her I was fine. I was not trying to be dishonest. I was trying to save my pride, which was a bit bruised though my sister had offered in the sweetest way possible. I just wished I could complete a chore without my legs giving out. Is that too much to ask? If I sound bitter, I’m sorry. I know how fortunate I am. I just get exasperated because I feel like I’m useless—no matter how many times my family tells me I’m not.