By Liliana Tricks

Complex Regional Pain Syndrome (CRPS) is like an unwelcome house guest that refuses to leave. It arrives uninvited, overstays its welcome, and disrupts your life completely.

CRPS took residence inside my body after my left foot was injured in 2017.  It feels as though someone is hacking at my leg with a meat cleaver, while a thousand insects bite and nibble at my flesh.

Living in Australia, I soon discovered that CRPS is largely unknown, and many specialists I encountered admitted they hadn’t even heard of it. This lack of understanding left me feeling vulnerable and isolated, as I had to rely on medical professionals who were often blind to my condition.

Clothes, once a source of joy and self-expression, now feel like a torment. I used to adore shopping, pampering myself with manicures, and indulging in all things feminine. But now, those same pleasures have become painful reminders of my limitations.

The clothing that once brought me comfort and confidence now itch, feel heavy, tight and suffocating. It's as if my skin is covered in prickles, shrapnel and itchy powder, making every movement a struggle.

Shoes, my former weakness, now sit in their boxes, ornaments of a life I once knew. My foot, a constant source of pain, swells and protests even the slightest pressure. There's no appeasing it, no soothing its fragile skin.

Simple tasks, like putting on pants, can derail my entire day. It's as if I've suddenly gained 100 pounds and all my clothing is too small. The uncertainty is maddening. Will my clothes be okay to wear today? Will my shoes be too tight? Will the socks dig into my foot, causing unbearable pain?

I used to dream of exploring the world, hiking in the mountains of Nepal, immersing myself in new cultures, and starting a family. Now, my only wish is to endure the day without my body betraying me.

Humidity has become my arch-nemesis, a villain that steals my comfort. Cold weather is a cruel joke, rendering my body statue-like. When it warms, I feel like I am trapped in a heated sauna.

Growing up in neglect, surrounded by drug and alcohol abuse in my family, I vowed to avoid that path. But when CRPS moved in and consumed my life, I became dependent on medication. My mind is now clouded by a cocktail of medications that once delivered relief, but now only numbness.

I was prescribed apo-clonidine, alprazolam, gabapentin, Ativan, Valium, Lyrica, buprenorphine, tapentadol, codeine, apo-tramadol and Celebrex, just to name a few.

This nightmare concoction turned me into a docile Muppet, where I lost my sense of self. Labelled “non-compliant” due to my inability to attend doctor appointments and therapies, I felt isolated and alone. I barely survived those years, lost in a haze of medication.

Life resembled a puzzle, where the pieces seem ever-changing or lost. Friends, family and my social life dissolved. Being bedridden followed, as my body began failing me. That's when monstrous thoughts invaded, taunting me with all the places I'll never see: Scotland, England, Bali, Thailand. My dreams are now a constant reminder of my losses.

The relentless pain of Complex Regional Pain Syndrome ravaged my once vibrant spirit, leaving behind a hollow, sorrowful shell. I was simply existing. Sleep became a distant memory, replaced by restless nights filled with sweat, and hot and cold flashes. The changing of seasons felt like a cruel joke, as my world shrunk, chained with me to the confines of my bed.

CRPS drove me to apply for “voluntary assisted dying” or euthanasia. But I was deemed too young and too healthy.

Forced to live decades more in constant pain, I've come to realize that even those who suffered brutal deaths, like being hung, drawn and quartered, suffer for only a moment. Yet, in the 21st century, I'm expected to endure this agony because it doesn't bother anyone else. The pain is beyond comprehension, but others dictate what I should endure.

My mind yearns to do what my body cannot, leaving me stuck on a seesaw, half in the air, half on the floor, unable to move. Everything is fatiguing, seems out of place, and lacks familiarity.

Finding the strength to fight is challenging when understanding is scarce. I feel trapped in a world as unpredictable as a broken clock, caught in a time loop.

Ultimately, nothing remains unchanged. Each minute differs from the next. Each day brings its own uniqueness. The ability to perform an activity one day doesn't guarantee the same the following day.

At times, I may walk with slightly more ease, only to find moments later that I'm unable to walk at all. Suddenly, my body will feel heavy, fragile and brittle, as if my brain is no longer connected with the lifeless body it now drags. 

That’s when I often hear remarks like, "That's sudden." But it's not.

It's a challenge to learn to comfort oneself against the constant pain and flares. Otherwise, one might end up screaming incessantly for the rest of their life. Whether you express your pain loudly or keep it to yourself, the way you handle it doesn't determine its presence or absence. The intensity of someone's pain can’t be measured by screams.

There are moments when I do scream, hoping the pain will vanish. Other times, I attempt to “breathe it out.” There's no cure for CRPS, no instant relief, no definitive solution, not even a temporary fix, because nothing is certain to work consistently.

One must come to terms with life's new constraints. After eight years, I still battle every moment to accept my altered existence. This chronic nerve disease has overshadowed my life and keeps me in constant loops of various pains.

With a background in physical therapy, I have fought to maintain my strength despite the challenges. It hasn’t been easy; I've watched my body deteriorate, but I've also witnessed improvements through dedicated therapy. Every extra hour, day, or minute that I’m not confined is a testament to my resilience.

“If you don’t use it, you lose it,” became my guiding mantra.

I spent years blaming those who had a hand in my injury that resulted in CRPS. I didn't know how to let the anger go. I can’t change the past, but I could sit and stew in it, punishing myself further. For a while I did exactly that, but now I'm learning to accept it. The web of highs and lows.

This journey is mine, and my acceptance is what matters. Today, I search for peace in my life and hope for others when there is disappointment. I strive to push myself, for the moment I stop, I lose.

I remain steadfast, persevering in the struggle, and continuing to strive for joyful times. Because I still matter.

Liliana Tricks is 33 years old and lives in Western Australia.