What is Phantom Limb Pain? (a.k.a. My Brain Gaslighting Me)

Let me break this down for you, because I did not sign up to become a walking neuroscience TED Talk, but here we are. Phantom limb pain is a condition where a person feels sensations—often painful—in a limb that is no longer functioning or no longer exists. Yes. You read that correctly. The body says, “Gone.” The brain says, “LOL, no.” This is due to the fact that your brain has a representation of your body. Imagine your brain as Google Maps, except that instead of tracking traffic jams, it keeps track of your limbs. From your finger, toe, even those itches you can’t resist scratching in public—they’re all represented in your brain. The location where such representations exist is referred to as the “somatosensory cortex,” which is located in the parietal lobe of your brain. Each body part has its own little VIP section.

Now here’s the punchline: when a limb stops functioning—whether from amputation or brain injury—the brain’s map doesn’t just vanish; Nope.

It lingers. It persists, lingering in the mind’s landscape. Like that one ex who still thinks you’re “just on a break.”

My Stroke: The Day My Brain Rage-Quitted

I didn’t have a stroke; I had a hemorrhagic stroke. This was the crazy relative of strokes, in which a blood vessel in the brain exploded dramatically, sending blood into places it should never go. Blood went to areas it shouldn’t have been at all. It’s like spilling bubble tea on your computer—only your computer is your brain, and not only do you lose documents, but also…well, everything else.

I coded blue. Multiple times. I died. Briefly. Came back. Rinse and repeat. Honestly, if reincarnation is real, I speedran it.

When the brain is injured like this, it’s not just one neat, isolated problem. It can cause frustration and helplessness, affecting every part of life. Different parts of the brain control different functions:

• The right hemisphere controls the left side of the body.
• The left hemisphere controls the right side.

Guess which side got hit? Of course. The right hemisphere. Meaning: my left side—my dominant side, because yes, I am left-handed— and the day I had my stroke was the day my left hand was downgraded from “main character” to “background extra.”

Hemiparesis: When Half Your Body Decides to Clock Out

Hemiparesis is defined as weakness in one half of the body. In my case, it’s the left half, and that’s just precious, because that’s the side that needs the strength. My left hand once wrote poetry, lined my eyes with eyeliner with a precision deadly enough to kill egos, and even played piano. Now, Pinokio is merely…ornamental.

Daily Life with Pinokio (A Tragic Comedy)

Let me walk you through my day:

Scene 1: The Mug Massacre

I pick up the cup: Basic, Common, Regular. But then my brain tells the left hand to do so, and the left hand says, “Understood. Processing… processing… Error.” The cup drops. The cup shatters. I examine its shattered pieces, as though watching a pottery divorce before my eyes. What makes it even more terrible is that I thought I had a hold of it. That Pinokio had fulfilled his responsibility. Only, he hadn’t.

Scene 2: The Garbage Bag Olympics

Changing a garbage bag is now an extreme sport: I am wrestling with plastic like it owes me money. The bag collapses in on itself like my emotional stability. My right hand is doing everything, while Pinokio stands there like a moral support intern. I try to involve him: “Come on, Pinokio. Grip something. Do anything.” He responds with the enthusiasm of a teenager asked to do chores: Nothing. But I feel him trying. And that’s the cruelty.

Scene 3: The Shampoo Incident

Shampooing my hair becomes a complete production. On one hand, there’s the bottle. On the other hand, what is supposed to be an aid? No, that’s where the problem comes in. The shampoo finds its way into parts where it should not have been at all: my eyes, my nose, and maybe even my soul.

The Science of Why This Happens

After a brain injury, communication between the brain and the body is disrupted. Neurons—those tiny electrical messengers—either die or misfire. But the brain is plastic (not literally, calm down). It can reorganize itself. This is called neuroplasticity.

Here’s the catch:

Sometimes, when the brain rewires, it does a terrible job. It’s like hiring a contractor who decides your bathroom should connect to your kitchen for “efficiency.” What area of the brain is used to control your arm? It might start receiving signals from neighbouring regions. So when I try to move my arm, the brain sends signals… But they go nowhere. Or worse—they go somewhere weird. Like the many times my physical therapist teaches me a new hand exercise. I follow, except I end up assaulting her private parts. And my brain goes: “Well, I sent the correct signals. The rest is ‘out of my hands (pun intended)’, leaving me standing there, completely feeling like I should go to prison.

Psychological Torture (But Make It Invisible)

The physical hurdles are bearable. Frustrating, but bearable. Psychological ones? That’s where it gets more… poetic. Not only because I am losing my ability, but because I am losing myself. I am a southpaw. This is who I am. Yet now I have to be another person – an impostor, right-handed. Everything feels alien, from writing with my left hand to writing with my toes. Like speaking in a language that does not quite sound right. Every action feels wrong, like writing with your foot, like speaking in a language you barely understand, like being yourself—but slightly off, like a badly dubbed movie.

Real Voices: Phantom Limb Pain

Let me list case studies of others who are haunted like me:

Kelly, Toronto, 24 years old: “I sense my fingers forming into a fist, which I am unable to open again. It is almost like I am grasping at something I don’t want to release.”

Marcus, London, 39 years old: “Sometimes, the pain is not necessarily physical. It is more like a feeling which is present but not always sharp.”

Aisha, Dubai, 31 years old: “I find myself scratching myself due to an imaginary itch.” And I cry, because I can’t reach it.”

Daniel, Sydney, 46 y/o: “It’s not the pain that breaks me. It’s the reminder.”

Plot Twist: The Real Phantom

Now here’s where it gets interesting. Because you think this post is about my arm. You think Pinokio is the tragedy. You think this is a story about loss of movement, of function, of independence. But you’re wrong. Pinokio is just the metaphor. The real phantom? Is him:

My Ex-Fiancé: The Original Ghost

He leaves his hometown—Hong Kong—for me. He drops his business, moves to Canada to be with me. He Spends four years building a life I might say yes to. He finds a place, Proposes, and buys me a diamond ring from Cartier because I made it very clear: if I see anything else, I am walking (I am nothing if not consistent). He tries to sell me on pink diamonds. I say no. He laughs. We are in love. Or so I think.

The Day Everything Breaks

The day I have my stroke— The day I am literally dying— The day machines are screaming, and doctors are running, and I am bargaining with whatever god is currently on shift— He leaves. Not metaphorically, not emotionally. Physically: Leaves the country. Gone. Like my left arm.

Phantom Love

And now I understand. The pain I feel from Pinokio? It’s familiar. It’s the same confusion. The same disbelief. The same: “I feel you. Why aren’t you here?” My brain insists my arm exists. My heart insists he does too.

The Final Realization

I am not grieving a limb. I am grieving a life I built around someone else. I am grieving a version of me that only existed with him. I am grieving the person who lived for others, who sacrificed everything, who thought love meant disappearing.

Pinokio isn’t just my arm. He is every part of me I gave away.

And Now?

It’s been a decade. I am standing here now: One functional hand, One ghost arm, One shattered illusion. Learning—painfully, awkwardly, hilariously— How to live for myself for the first time. And it is terrifying. And it is inconvenient. And it is the hardest thing I have ever done. Harder than dying. Harder than coming back. Because at least when I died, I didn’t have to learn how to open a jar on my own. Or how to live— Without ghosts.

phantom limb pain