Pain is like a memory, a path reinforced every time we walk down it. As such, it’s quite possible that writing this is an act of self-harm. It’s not just that it hurts to write, although it does; it’s that when I started thinking about this piece, reading around it, even jotting down notes, I felt the pain in my forearms flare up again, and for a month or two I considered calling it off. My physiotherapist would call that “avoidance”. I would call it “learning from experience”, given that it was writing that got me here in the first place.
It was late in the summer of 2020 when I started to develop an aching in my forearms: first the left, and a few days later, the right; a vague, untroubling pain, similar to the after-effects of a workout. I figured, like any reasonable person, that my arms were just tired. I had been typing late into the evenings finishing a book proposal, which, on top of everything else – household jobs, phone usage, the cliched pandemic sourdough baking habit – was taking its toll. (Honestly, have you ever considered just how much you use your hands?)
