My lower back––specifically the left side near my hip, known as the sacroiliac joint––has given me trouble ever since I was a teenager. And while you can suspect me when I claims various psychic inheritances from my father, this one is pretty physical and genetic: "long waisted" guys like us tend to have more than our share of back problems. I got mine from hockey, mostly, and he got his from his back-breaking work pouring hot tar on the roofs of Paterson, NJ and its enrivons. 

Despite the fact that I hurt my back playing a macho sport, my father's back injury was decidedly more manly. He earned it from work, which in the proletarian scheme of things brings more honor than a mere game (and a rich man's game at that). And he injured it––regularly––in the act of providing for his family, which renders his injury even more macho. 

So my father's injured back was more righteous than mine. I will not contest this judgment, nor attempt to assert that my pain is greater. I will merely assert that my bad back has, through its genetic and psychic connection to his bad back, become metaphorical. Almost more metaphorical than real, in fact, because

my back = my betrayer = where my pain lives = my resentment = my ancestral animosities = my fear = my father's burden = my greatest self-failure = my seat of stress = what I worry about = my limitation = my learned helplessness

It is the epicenter of my breakdowns, both bodily and metaphorically. It will take all the effort I can muster for the rest of my life to keep my back from completely falling apart––as much effort as keeping my emotional shit together and not falling into a pit of endless self-pity and self-desecration. The two activities are one in the same, with dual manifestations, because. 

my back = my willingness to change = my self-acceptance = my flexibility (physical and emotional) = my openness to the new = my hope = my need = my desire = my foremost challenge