Writing about pain is an act of hope for me. It may sound a bit deranged but it’s the absolute truth. Hiding pain is what’s habitual and detrimental. Putting on a good face. Pretending you’re ok when you’re not. Now that’s how you alienate yourself from yourself. And the pain of that is a thousand times worse than the original pain.
The injuries I have suffered weren’t physical. Yet the bruising process is the same on spirit and mind as it is on physical tissue. You get black and blue. It may not be visible to the naked eye, but it is visible to the open eye. I recognize it all the time on so many people. The disconnected wires. The thousand yard stares. The heaviness of every steps. The pain in so many incarnations.
I’ve had a few breakdowns in the last couple of days. The full fledge kind, the ones that take me down to the wailing core of my pain. I wanted to record them, but it wasn’t possible. I couldn’t bring myself to interrupt the process, going there was too important to risk compromising. The only way out is the way through. That used to be my motto. That’s how I got to be what I am now.
It’s immensely scary to go all the way down to where you can go through. It feels like drowning, and your instincts first want to kick you back up. But then somehow you find the inner strength to dive into the whirlpool, or maybe you just let yourself get sucked in. And then you pray, as you shake and sob and feel like you’re going through the wringer, and you’re scaring the neighbors half to death as you’re letting the pain out through screams and tears and sweat. Then at some point you stop, mostly because you’re exhausted. Nothing else takes more energy in my experience. But you did it, you released a layer of pain, a layer of imprisonment, a layer of hell from within yourself. And now you’re this much more free, this much more alive, this much more capable of joy and love. But first you need a nap or piece of chocolate, or ideally both.
When you go through a meltdown like that, you so want to say, and she lived happily ever after. Nothing ever works like that though. So you have to settle for the knowledge that, if you made it through this round, you’ll make it through the next. Even if the next is in a few hours, or tomorrow, or next week. At some point, the next round is unforeseeable, because you’re just doing so well. And it was so worth it, because living like this is so much better. And it will be worth going through again, when the time comes.
It’s hard to describe how much writing this is good for me. I can feel it on a biological level. It’s affecting my cells, like some sort of anti-inflammatory drug. And it’s more than just my body. It’s mending the seams of my soul that feel torn apart.