When the pain is invisible, doesn't mean it's not there

Danielle Colin
Jul 26
3 min read

from a Black woman's body living with diabetes, neuropathy, fibroids and recovering injuries

I don’t know if there's anything like living with pain, especially the kind folks can't see, that kind that lies just under the skin in veins too small to stick a needle in right on the first try, pain that needs repeating until the tongue bleeds from being bit too often. It’s no wonder I learned to suffer in silence so well. Nothing like teeth cutting like a fishbone finding its way down a throat, but at least when a person chokes, it’s visible. At least? Right?

I think about how fast I used to walk. Add a few minutes to the time it takes to get to the bus stop so I won’t have to run because if I have to choose, running might cost me the night. The doctor says my kneecap is a little crooked, and I nod, not because I agree, but because I expect this kind of news. His calm, smiling face, voice like a late-night host letting me know I didn’t break any bones, and somehow, that’s what makes the pain okay. Everything can always be worse. No cast, no crutches, just pain shooting up my thigh, strain on a stressed left hip, and left ankle that decides before I do how the day is going to play out.

I chuckle when I tell people the left side of my body lives an entirely different existence than my right after one too many falls and car accidents. I say things like these fibroids, a doctor once compared to a large plate of curly fries, though all I could think of was how many times I’d thrown up before anyone knew what was wrong. Talk about it being the size of a small orange. I let my lips bleed over the word neuropathy, say it’s a side dish to diabetes since doctors like to compare my body to something that can be eaten. I tell my body to leave the fire in hell, but it likes to make barbecue out of my legs without a hint of smoke. Every time someone realizes I’ve fallen behind a spirited walk to point B, that I’m still closer to point A than they expected, my body leaning to the side, my brain willing my body to balance, I know I can say slow down, but I’d rather pain not deprive me of more joy.

It’s hard to die, however small, in front of a person.

But, there, in the pain, is how you can see that I lived.

Now, I tell people, the way I talk about the state of the sky on a particular day, about the pain they can’t see. That I am in some level of pain every day. Today, I’m at a 2 out of 10, but tomorrow might be an eleven, so I make the most of now. I work out a poem that makes language for my next doctor visit. My feet feel like they’re asking for a hug from my shoes, each toe tingling like thumb tacks playing tag up to my ankles. My knee cracks loud enough to make a wood floor envy. My neck and back talk back like a teenager slamming a room door. I lost weight, but I’m not sure if I lost the inflammation. I have a conversation every day about fire. I say it hurts the way I say I’m fine. Go on and smile, write your prescription, compare me to fried chicken, make it sound normal. Just know, I’m done losing this much blood over saying my pain is real. It’s real. It’s real.

Thank you for reading!

This post was previously published on Substack.

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Until next time,

D. Colin