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My Back Is My Enemy
Back pain is worse than the asshole in middle school
Having a chronically bad back in middle age is like having a bully in middle school: You’re always on edge, fearing some horrible surprise is about to sneak up on you from behind. A bully could abruptly kick your notebooks out of your hand or stuff you in a locker, triggering an afternoon of shame. The bad back abruptly triggers a spasm when you bend down to get something off a lower shelf at CVS, and sends you hobbling off to bed for three days.
But at least you eventually escape bullies. Bad backs, on the other hand, never relent. And they only grow more powerful as you get older, perpetually hovering right over your shoulder. I should know. My Back has bedeviled me for decades, escalating its assault from mere twinges of pain to far more sinister and wide-ranging tactics. Chiropractors, physical therapists, John Sarno acolytes, and Alexander Technique-ians have assured me that if I can just make peace with my Back, everything will be okay. How naïve. My Back and I will never be friends. Our rift goes too deep. Ironically, my Back does not have my back.
I’ll admit it: I started this never-ending war, however unintentionally, drawing first blood with an emotional strike. It began when I was just a young teen. Spotting my first…
