Round 12 of my fight vs me

I'll say this upfront, this is not a particularly happy post, is extremely personal, and does not contain information about my work here in Brazil.  So consider this point your parachute.  Jump out now if that's not your thing.

I was planning for my next post to be a lovely recap of what I've been up to here; it was to be about how great it has been to settle into my new house, get the classes for the kids up and going, being involved in this new community, and celebrating a wonderful Lent and Easter while learning of the differences between my traditions and those found here.  But that is not seeming to be the case with this post.
In my life, I've often joked that I have the true luck of the Irish.  By that, I mean, historically that they were often a conquered, subjugated, invaded, discriminated, or just all around unlucky group of people, and also a decent portion of my ancestors.  I wouldn't say that everyone in that group was suffering the absolute worst of all things or atrocities committed by human kind, just as I have not been victim to anything so supremely terrible that I claim victim or survivor-ship of any ordeal.  I've always just viewed it as a lack of good luck that frequently derails my plans and hopes.
So that has been what has happened here.  My house is currently a bit of a disaster, classes are stalled and I'm frequently struggling, and I feel disconnected from the community often.  All because of a bit of bad luck from a number of years ago, and which there are really no further actions I can take to fix at this point.

I remember the end of my first year of high school with a combination of joy and sorrow.  At that point, after 5 years, it was the longest in my life that we had lived in any one place.  It had been where I was told I would live until college, and so I had finally managed to truly connect with some of my peers, and was fortunate to have found some with whom I found many levels of common ground.  And then, mid year, I was told there was a small chance we'd be moving again.  So of course, things started off in the usual fashion of denial, but as we approached the end of the school year, the odds only became less and less in my favor.
And then one day, towards the end of term, when weather in the Midwest tends to change its mind daily on which season it is exactly, our gym class had the state required test for scoliosis.  And I was quite confused when handed a slip of paper to give my parents that stated I needed to see a doctor for further confirmation.  But this wasn't my biggest fish at the time, and I was more satisfied staying angry about the impending move to worry about the potential outcome of this.  Obviously, my parents took me to a specialist for the poking and x-rays as soon as they could.
Doctor said Good News! My curvature was quite mild, and borderline nothing at all.  And I was 14 years old, female, and only an inch different in height that my mother at my height of 5'6", so there was really only a very small chance that I would grow any more and that this would ever amount to much.  But, just in case, I needed to come back in a year just to keep an eye on it, or sooner in the case of any sort of accident. (So if you've met adult me in person, you might have an inkling of where this might be going...)  Since we were moving, there was no point in following up with the same doctor, so we just got some info about how to locate an equivalent specialist in the new town.

I didn't even make it a year.

By the next February/March, I had grown nearly 6 inches taller...ow. And also had a serious fall during the roller skating unit in gym class. (Read: severe spinal twisting plus another girl who caused the collision landed on me.)  The girl who wiped out, took me with her, and used me as a landing mat got up and was just fine.  My luck wasn't anything near as good as hers.
I had a sprained back, and, to boot, the curvature had nearly quadrupled in severity.  It marked the end of a lot of things in my life, like my participation in competitive basketball and my ability to wear both shoulder straps of a backpack simultaneously without discomfort.  It also marked the start of a lot of other new things: muscle relaxants; endless months of physical therapy that couldn't correct the problem but only limit the constant pain; numerous more x-rays and poking and evaluations by every GP, orthopedist, physical therapist, chiropractor, and massage therapist; and so very many painkillers.
And so it is this pain that once again has derailed my plans here in Brazil.  I have had an increasingly frequent occurrence of days where walking around my house is too painful to ever contemplate the 20 minute walk to work hauling my materials.  Days where I cannot stay standing long enough to make my dinner, much less for a whole days worth of classes in order to teach the nearly 120 students I want to work with.  And the knowledge, with the reassurance of many a doctor and therapist, that this pain is not curable, only manageable and inevitable.
And yes, I am taking the proper medications for this issue.  There are numerous phone alarms daily for me so that I am never to miss a dose.  I have a whole file of diagrams, videos, and explanations of all the best therapy exercises and the possible modifications for when those still prove too much. (And I do them...duh)  And I am in the process of getting back to a doctor here, just in case there's a miracle waiting for me.
But the point of all this, in addition to explaining why this isn't a joyful post full of pictures of kids, is that I want to share about my experience of this lovely combo of chronic pain and mental health.  Because, in case you've missed the references before, there is the added issue that Bipolar disorder adds to this series of events.  Clearly I'm not a universal expert or scholar on any of this.  I have only my personal example to reference and share, so take this as a slightly anecdotal example and not a generalization of everyone who may share their diagnosis.
On days when I cannot walk, it becomes very dangerous to sit with my guilt, self-pity, and anger.  These are dangerous beginnings anyways, but without the ability to do other things and interact with other people, the proportion of these in relation to positive things gets dangerously unbalanced.  So while I lay there, arguing with my own brain about what is true emotionally and what isn't, the house also doesn't get cared for and my classes don't happen.  This only ever adds to stress, guilt, self-doubt, anger, and self-hatred.  This week, after stepping into my kitchen, I literally got nauseous from the state it was in, hurried back to my bed and tried to stop scratching myself while sobbing.  I am aware that this isn't normal.  Every second it is happening, a part of my brain stands off to the side and acknowledges this fact and repeats it.  But knowing that my actions and feelings and desires aren't based 100% in reality doesn't make them vanish or make them easier to control.  So as the darkness creeps in, it is that one piece of rationality that helps highlight this fact: for all the bad luck, I have a spot of good as well.
I have a number of people in my life who care that I am suffering, many of whom also express the desire to help in whatever way possible, some of whom understand my story, and one of whom has been there personally and will always drop whatever to make sure I have help and support.

And so, what I have to say about it all is this: if you know someone with a chronic illness (undiagnosed or beastly battles like cancer, lupus, fibromyalgia, MS, chronic fatigue, or any host of mental health issues) your availability and concern matter more than any amount of money.  But please don't say the words "it'll get better." They aren't helpful, and often they aren't true.  What I'm learning in this moment is not about aiming to get better, it's not about fixing anything.  It is about the outlook that, better or not, if I am doing all I can each day to compassionately care for myself (and some days that means just eating or brushing my hair), continue to try and communicate with others (because it's hard when you're stuck alone and have no new joys or funny jokes to bring to a conversation), and know that it is not appropriate inflict myself with pain to uphold ideals of productivity and obligation, then I must not continue to berate myself and sink darker for things that I did not choose and cannot control.
Sometimes, in circumstances like these, "healthy" doesn't mean "better".  Sometimes improvement is found in my spending more time studying God's word, religious teachings, praying more, and instead of the sentiment of "how could God make me go through this" just to appreciate the fact that my physical pain allows me time alone to focus on spending more time in the presence of God, which is really something that ought to have been the primary goal all along.