Who would I be if I wasn't broken?

That was the title of some blog post I read recently (notice the complete plagiarism). I've thought about this a few times, over the last couple of years. I spent the years before that not acknowledging that I even was broken. The thing about chronic pain is that it fundamentally changes you. When pain just doesn't give you a break, then eventually it breaks you. It's like when you're really sick or really tired, or both, and you get grouchy and snappy and irritable and fault-finding and you can't seem to help yourself. The difference is, eventually you tend to be well and rested again, at some point. Unless you're a parent, and then it might take 18 years or so. But imagine that out of control person you don't want to be, all the time, and then couple it with the hopelessness of understanding that there might not ever be an end.

I can't remember anymore if I used to be a nice person, or a good person. I can't remember what I ever did for fun, or enjoyed doing. I can't remember if I used to be able to actually handle life, without falling apart at anything remotely stressful. I do remember that I used to very rarely cry. Usually the only thing that would make me is extreme frustration. Maybe that's why I cry so often now.

Sometimes I feel like a really rotten person for hating life so much right now. I do have a lot of blessings in my life, and all around me I see people who have it harder. I sat next to a woman in a wheelchair at church today. I should be a lot more grateful that I'm mobile, that all of my senses work, and that I'm surrounded by good, loving people. Then again, I should be a lot of things that I'm just not.

Whine over.