I’ve had a rather interesting experience in the last few weeks that has highlighted to me the change in perspective I’ve had since having PsA;
I’ve sprained both ankles, independently, within 4 weeks. Neither was a direct result of PsA. My daughter is learning rainbow colours, and my most recent sprain was so spectacular today, that we were calling the bruise a rainbow on my ankle! (And usually I don’t swell much, but my ankle was like a balloon!)
I sprained my ankle due to a stupid error on a weekend away on some unfamiliar stairs. My lovely, supportive husband asks me how it is today, and I answer honestly - not as good as yesterday because I’ve been at work, but its really not a big deal because I know it will get better.
I know it will get better, and I smile, because its true. And besides, a moderate ankle sprain with a rainbow colored bruise hurts about the same as my neck and shoulder tendons today, when my recent one week flare (which I would describe as very minor) has waned and is almost over.
So what perspective has PsA given you on life?
For me, whenever I know it will get better, it never seems a big deal, and I can always smile!
I think the biggest change in perspective, or maybe hike in perspective is to have more understanding of people living with invisible illnesses, I know looking ok doesn’t mean feeling ok.
Not much bothers me now, Yes I get upset about things sometimes but I think “In the big scheme of things does it really matter?” If it doesn’t I let it go
Absolutely agreed Louise - I have a very different approach to most things now - my gym sessions revolve around a 20 year plan (1040 week plan), not the typical sales pitch of 12 weeks weight loss. If I have one week where all I do is chat to the pt and go to the spa, who cares? It’s the other 1039 weeks that count…!!!
I wrote this in 2011, three months after diagnosis, after going from hiking, to painful walking, to using a cane, to using crutches, to using a wheelchair in those three months...
One of the biggest changes in perspective I’ve had recently has centered on my need to slow down and learn how to live with my psoriatic arthritis, rather than fight my body to maintain an unreasonable level of activity. It’s been difficult to go from doing tobeing. Finding joy in stillness and slowness has had its challenges but has created a sense of balance and the ability to live in the moment. Physical slowness has allowed me to slow down my thoughts and perceptions so that I can move thoughtfully through my day and has transformed my world into one of beauty and relative peace. I notice more of the beauty of the world around me and in the people around me. I have more time to be thankful for the blessings in my life, to let go of the what-ifs and concentrate on the now.
I think all of that is still true. Even though I'm more mobile, healthier, and feel much better now, I still appreciate every step I take, and continue to value a slowed-down life.
Great thread to start, as I've been thinking about this a lot - because being so recently diagnosed (after several years of unexplained pain), there are strange shifts going on for me that are hard to express. Definitely puts smaller conflicts or hurt in perspective - like the rainbow ankles =) There's the slowing down that happens too - sometimes between pain a level of gorgeous attention, like you said nym, that we're almost given permission to have because we have no other choice? This is a strange and unique part of chronic illness and pain - that it sets us aside from ordinary life sometimes, whether we give it permission or not, however hard we're fighting to get back in. It seems like it's vital that we fight, but also vital sometimes that we LET it set us aside? Does that make sense? That we're actually able to exist in that separate space so we can try to understand it and describe it and be in it?
The first thing my therapist said when I told him about all this was that I should get back to writing. And in a life where I've been trying to balance everything and stressing over what I should do, suddenly with all this, the ONLY thing I want to do is write again, when I was terrified before. This is interesting to me because part of why I was terrified was that to write like I want, I have to give myself permission to sometimes separate from all the people I love - to absent myself into a different space. Loving my partner and my life and my deep friendships and family, and all of the relationships I have fought so HARD for and maintain every day, I felt really damn guilty and scared at the idea of devoting myself to something that can take me away from them, however briefly. In a very strange way that I don't understand yet, this disease is taking away my choice, putting me in the space whether I want to be there or not, and saying: This is where you were supposed to be the whole damn time, and now I'm forcing your hand. So DO what you've always wanted to do because if you're going to spend ANY portion of your life being in this kind of pain, you had better make the most of it.
And then I have to go grade papers ;) But it's something I'm learning how to treasure, while it lasts . . .
