Poena, the Latin root for “pain,” translates to punishment. Under ideal circumstances, this punishment serves as a survival mechanism. When tissue is damaged, nerves carry pain impulses to the brain. In a matter of seconds, the sufferer instinctively fights or flees, averting further injury. With proper care, bones mend, muscles rebuild, and wounds heal. Pain is necessary for life; those who cannot feel it are dangers to themselves. But when receptors go haywire, suffering loses its purpose. A 2015 study from the National Institutes of Health found that approximately 50 million Americans suffer from chronic pain. Their symptoms elude objective measurement, resisting diagnostic criteria and medical intervention. Chronic pain patients fluctuate between sickness and health, garnering first sympathy, then disdain. Over time, this stigma has a muting effect. Like their enigmatic conditions, patients become invisible. 

 

     Chronic pain, though perplexing, is common in middle-aged and elderly populations. This trend is shifting. Since the nineties, pediatric autoimmune and chronic disorders have been on the rise. Adolescents and young adults now comprise 7 percent of persistent pain cases, and their ranks continue to grow. As these students enter college, they face a unique set of challenges. Their unpredictable, undetectable conditions hinder social and academic functioning. Affected students may appear fine one day, then be incapacitated the next. Laurie Edwards, the director of the Advanced Writing in the Disciplines program at Northeastern University, has authored several books on chronic illness in young adults. “When they ask for assistance, they are often grouped with students with permanent learning disabilities or physical impairments, despite the differences in their needs,” she says. Like their mature counterparts, college students with chronic pain elude categorization. They are not quite children, but not yet full-fledged adults; not perceptibly ill, but not well either.

 

     As a college student with chronic pain, I occupy another in-between: ‘normality’ vs. ‘abnormality.’ Since I was fourteen, my abdominal nerves have refused to function properly. I have been poked, prodded and screened; treatments have ranged from self-hypnosis to heavy-duty painkillers. In lieu of a surefire cure, the best remedy is life as usual. Surges of discomfort accompany lapses of reprieve, stretching into a familiar cycle. But my public routine, borne out in classrooms and hallways, is no different than that of my normal cohorts. Rather than ceding control to my diagnosis, I amplify my other notable qualities. I am not the absentee, the slacker, or the patient. I am a scholar, a quipster, and a musician. Researchers label these identity shifts active coping strategies – proactive attempts to engage, manage or function despite pain. Among chronically ill students, common distractions include extracurricular clubs, artistic endeavors, or athletic involvement. Some use their ailment as motivation, mentoring others and pursuing helping professions. Though admirable, this stoicism is alienating. I rarely meet peers with similar experiences, but I cannot fault them for their failure to disclose. I am guilty of the same omission. They must also be infusing poena with a better purpose, treating mundanity as an act of defiance.

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​If asked, I am “fine.”
This is what I do to make it so.

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