Inked Again

So, to celebrate the successful completion of nursing school, I have decided to get a tattoo.  I'd been tossing around the idea of getting a second one for a while, but I was having difficulty settling on a design.  Then an idea struck me.  And I was certain it was right.  

I have a feeling that I'm going to be explaining this tattoo multiple times, so I felt I had better get used to finding a concise way to do so.  As such, there have been many, many shower conversations with myself, trying to hone this down.

My original text was "THIS ISN'T THE PAIN OLYMPICS."  However, in discussing placement and all else with the artist, it was simplified to help it fit, removing the "pain."  Honestly, when he mentioned it, it didn't click immediately, but we needed to make it a bit smaller to fit well, particularly when I wasn't budging from the font choice.  However, I'm grateful to have trusted my artist because in the end, this allowed it to A) look very nice on how it landed on my arm, B) save me a lot of quizzical looks and required explanations, and C) allow the original definition of the tattoo idea to expand.  

The original thought has become an important saying in our household.  For me, it means two simultaneous and important things.  

1. No one's suffering wins over someone else's, meaning that everyone's pain is valid.  I have been in conversations or watched someone shut their own feelings down because they didn't have it as bad as someone else or they didn't want to add to the problem by voicing their own concerns.  I shut down the shutdown in these places, as I have emotional energy to do so, that no one has to "have it worse" in order to be heard.  Now, there are extreme spaces where the timing isn't great, that in a crisis it isn't time to address everyone's hurt--one must triage, take care of the person that is bleeding to death before the person with a stubbed toe--but pain is pain and valid.  
2. There is no medal for suffering, for lasting the longest.  Talk to someone; take the ibuprofen; politely harass your doctor.  Pain can physiologically stop the body from healing.  Address it.  I hear patients that are worried about addiction, not wanting to feel groggy, feel like they "should just tough it out," think that not taking them will get them home sooner, or any number of reasons to delay pain medications express these concerns while guarding wounded parts or explaining through gritted teeth.  In the hospital specifically, we're a setting where these medications are used correctly, for their purpose.  No one is going to clap them on the back and say "Good job!  You waited five hours; here's your bronze."  I watch people refuse to talk about or process their experiences, not wanting to be a burden on their family members or family members shut down the processing by stopping it with reassurances.  You can give yourself compassion, too.  I remember that when I recognize pain in myself, I should address it as soon as possible, before it goes any further, and to take a moment to express compassion to the parts of my body that are "failing."  

So the super short version:  It reminds me that everyone's pain is valid and no one gets a medal for ignoring or enduring pain.  

However, there are so many other places where I can apply it as just "the Olympics:"  there is a huge difference between pushing through something and white-knuckled striving.  I think about it with pain first, but there are also many, many other places where I can apply that mentality.  I don't win a medal for trying harder than my body or the circumstances will allow.  No one's success invalidates someone else's success.  Staying in a toxic relationship does not give anyone a medal.  Ignoring one's mental health isn't a virtue.  There isn't a committee of judges dictating the "right" way to approach a challenge.  Asking for help is not against the rules, nor will it deduct from your score.  

When I feel overwhelmed or harried, I can pause and ask myself, "Am I white-knuckling through this or pushing through this?"  If it's a pushing through, it's time to pause and refortify; if I'm white-knuckling, it may be time to stop.  Withdrawing can be a courageous act.  And there isn't an audience watching nor nationalistic pride at stake, mostly just the unnecessary pressure we've put on ourselves.  

This isn't the Olympics.  It's just "today."