House of Pain

First of all, I’m not in pain. Not because I’m perfectly fine, but because of the semantics of the phrase. 

In pain? In… pain? What… what are people even talking about?

Pain, I think, isn’t a location.

It’s not a place.

It isn’t this false refuge where I can get tricked into getting in. It may seem like a quasi-demolished building with an “I promise you’re safe with me, don’t worry” sign out in front, and an “I’ll treat you how you deserve to be treated” sign on the back. 

It could very well be. The implications are explicit enough, that’s for certain. 

However, it isn’t. 

It may seem like a pool of sorrow without the letters “No Diving” surrounding its borders. 

It sounds accurate, but it isn’t that either. 

It may seem like this structure, this downtrodden chamber, this deteriorating cavity that I can just casually enter and exit. 

It isn’t that simple. It never is, and it never will be.

I’m obviously not in pain. I… can’t even be IN pain. I’m as healthy physically as I’ve ever been in my life. 

But something isn’t right. Something is plaguing my core, my soul, my being. It’s not death. It’s not an illness, and it’s not an injury. It may not even be as severe as I make it out to be, but it’s plaguing my spirit.

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I, am, cold. 

No, I’m not shivering, and no, I don’t need a sweater. I’m not sick, and I’m not leaning against a block of ice. But I am cold. Every time I take a deep breath, I feel as if my stream of blood is nearly frozen. The walls of my veins are numb. They are completely and utterly numb, asleep and lifeless.

Have you ever gotten hit in one place, over and over, and over, and over… and over, and over again, only to lose feeling in that particular place?

… what would your reaction be if the numbness spread throughout the rest of your body?

My heart… my heart seems to be an agent for this. 

It’s no longer focusing on making sure that my red blood cells get a sufficient amount of oxygen. That’s a secondary goal now. No no no, its primary function is to spread this numbing blood through every single vein in my body, to contract each one of my muscles, to clip, snip, and slowly torture my other organs while I’m numb.

So, I try to focus on other issues that plague me, like my back, or my ankles. Do I honestly think that a small, physical pain can wage a war against my emotional surplus of troops? How naïve can I get? I’m using something as small as a handkerchief to cover a mammoth, a huge, towering, menacing mammoth.

So… where’s the help coming from? Where’s my doctor, my helping hand, the savior of this numbness? Who else is going to heal me, but Time? Time, in a white, spotless lab coat, with 3 pens in His front pocket, and a clipboard with my full diagnosis and prognosis, is going to heal me.

But… where IS he? Where is my savior? Why isn’t he here?

I’ve been so patient… my character has become synonymous with patience, synonymous with hope and optimism, because I had a reason. I had the prospect of Time, coming to my rescue.

He’s disappeared.

… how am I supposed to act? And, in a hypothetical situation, what if Time DOES come around? How can I expect Him to help me? When he asks, “What seems to be the problem?” what am I supposed to say? “I can’t feel pain… and I’m in pain as a result.”

He’ll mull it over. He won’t know how to respond.

“You can’t feel pain… and you’re in pain as a result… hm…”

And he’ll repeat Himself again.

“You can’t feel PAIN… and you’re IN PAIN as a result… hmm…”

And we’re both frustrated now, because… where’s the help? I don’t understand this paradox; I don’t understand why anyone would want to go through the concept of something as horrid as pain. He doesn’t understand the paradox, and how helping me… would even really help.

“YOU CAN’T FEEL PAIN? SO YOU’RE FEELING PAIN? WHAT IS… WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? ARE YOU AN IDIOT?!”

…so he leaves. He leaves, and I’m all alone, all over again.

I shouldn’t be. But, at this point, I am.

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I think, and I think, and I think as I fight back tears, and I ask myself, “Is… this a disease?” I mean, I give it thought, and realize that I haven’t done anything to deserve this. Karma isn’t a proponent of my lack of emotion. It’s a disease that sneaks up on you and ensnares you until the very essence of your being is reduced to a pinch of soil in a rainforest that’s being demolished.

I sincerely believe that I don’t deserve this. Cancer victims usually smoke. AIDS victims may have unprotected sex, or they may share needles. I haven’t earned my numbness. I haven’t earned this disease, this nausea. So why is this happening to me?

And if I can’t feel pain… why am I even bothering myself about it? Why am I complaining about it?

“Hey, you can’t feel pain? That’s awesome, I hate getting hurt.”

No.

First, the pain is there. It’s definitely there, whether I feel it or not.

But that’s not the important part.

It’s that the one person other than Time, who can make all of the pain go away, doesn’t realize that the pain is real, and that the pain is affecting me.

This is the one person who can make the pain go away with a bat of her eyelashes.

She refuses to blink.

This is the one person who can make the pain go away with a giggle.

She refuses to smile.

This is the one and only person who can make the pain go away by just being there for me.

She refuses. She’s preoccupied with Time, the other agent of abandon.

And sadly, it seems that all I can hang on to are my beautiful, wonderful memories. But they’re growing dimmer, and dimmer, and dimmer.

And dimmer…

… and dimmer.

I cannot stroll through memory lane without watching it get destroyed before my very eyes. The sidewalks that I’ve walked with her hand-in-hand are cracking. The corners where I’ve played with her hair are eliminated every time that a stoplight goes from green to red, without a yellow. And the roads where I’ve hugged her, kissed her, and have told her that I loved her are being shattered, smashed, and wrecked. 

It’s the eminent domain of her wandering soul.

It’s innocent carelessness. But innocence is not always harmless.

But how can anyone truly determine that, when anger negotiates with the heart before reason has a chance to make its case?

The answer would be through love.

But… do love and reason ever truly correlate in a harmonious fashion?

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I guess it boils down to pain.

Pain isn’t an area that one can go to. To many, it seems like one can be shrouded in pain. Some may even believe that pain can take the form of a fiery tornado that engulfs you in the doldrums.

Pain is not a cyclone of embers.

Pain, if I had to define it, is an agent. Pain is an actor, a player on the stage of a beating heart. Pain is a little, tiny, spiteful seed that is planted inside of you when you’re vulnerable enough. And pain is irrational and stubborn; once it takes refuge inside of you, it will be nearly impossible to escort it out without replacing it with a distinct type of pain.

Sure, you can never be IN pain…

… but pain can be found inside of us.

But no matter how much pain is ever present in your heart, no matter how much sorrow is assaulting your soul, you will always have a guardian. Love will keep you safe, as long as you trust it to not betray you for pain. It’s ultimately better to harbor love over resent.

I may be cold. I may be numb. I may be waiting for Time. I may be hurting. I may be craving appreciation. And I may be housing pain.

But I trust my heart. I trust her so much. And I know she can shoo the pain away.

Permanently. 

… and I’m hoping that she will.