In a previous post, *Sometimes Quiet Is Violent*, I shared how physical therapy has worsened my condition. I want to expand on that—because what happened wasn’t just painful. It was traumatic.

One of my first visits to PT involved the traction table. I didn’t know then how brutal it would be. The large extruded disc at L5-S1, or maybe the SI joint dysfunction—something in that region—makes it excruciating to lie on my back. It feels like I’m laying on a rock. The pain starts sharp and quickly turns into deep, burning neuropathy. And that’s just from lying there—no compression, no traction.

I’m extremely reluctant to lie on my back. But I have to do physical therapy if I want to maintain eligibility for compensation related to my documented work injury, which I have yet to receive. That first decompression table experience was traumatic. The pain escalated minute by minute. And then something new happened—something I’d never felt before.

It was like an electrical current running through my body. Not just in my leg, where I’ve felt radiculopathy before—but in my arms, my chest, everywhere. It felt like an internal shiver I couldn’t stop. I had to ask the therapist to shut it down.

Getting off the table and walking to my car was a struggle. My legs were numb, trembling. I was in intense pain. When I got home, I collapsed into bed—completely depleted. My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might break through my chest. It took days before I could trust my legs again.

After that, I fought hard not to be put on the table again. We compromised—I could lie on my stomach instead. But even that was brutal. I tried a few more times, until I finally said no more.

Since that first decompression trauma, my resting heart rate has been elevated. It spikes with even minimal movement—sometimes just walking to the bathroom. My blood pressure is erratic. I get strange headaches that start as nose pressure and move up the left side of my face. These symptoms used to be occasional. Now they’re frequent.

I experience lightheadedness, weakness, and those same electrical currents throughout each day. The pain in my back makes it nearly impossible to sit upright in a restricted manner for long. And the “extra symptoms” make even basic functioning feel like a battle.

Most days, I go to appointments, come home, and collapse. I don’t sleep well—lying on my right side is the only tolerable position, and even that’s limited. I lie there exhausted, frustrated, unable to do anything productive. Even using my computer is out of reach.

It’s a cycle: appointments that leave me depleted, pain that escalates, symptoms that worsen. And yet I have no choice. If I want any hope of compensation for the documented work injury I sustained after 20+ years of physical labor, I have to keep showing up.

The treatment I actually need keeps getting denied. So I go to these antithetical appointments—ones that hurt me more than help me—just to keep the process moving. I don’t know how long this will last. I just hope something shifts soon. Maybe one of these upcoming specialist visits will finally bring clarity, or at least a step toward real recovery.

This has been going on for over a year. My life is on pause. I can’t do the things I love. People don’t know how to respond to me—and honestly, neither do I.

Still, I hold onto hope. Because God is in control. Even if nothing improves while I’m here on earth, I know that healing will come in eternity.

I’ll end this post with the question and inspiration that’s been on my heart as I wrote:

**If you’ve walked a similar path—or are walking it now—what have you learned from it? What hope guides you?**