Pain
I have not been able to articulate the pain I’ve been in. But today, I’m going to try.
Someone asked me last week how I was feeling... if I felt like I was “getting better.”
To clarify, I don’t know what the hell “getting better” is supposed to mean, but I felt like I could be honest with this person. “I’m surviving,” I said.
My heart is broken, my brain is in 87 different places all the time, and I have no idea what I need. How do you articulate that to people when they ask what’s wrong? Can you?
Today, I decided I wanted to try and articulate pain. Or at least my pain.
So, to start, pain is retelling the story of your rape over and over again in the hopes that people will understand how we cannot nominate a sexual predator to the highest court in the country.
Pain is watching that man be appointed to the Supreme Court anyway.
Pain is not knowing the status of your relationship with your partner.
Pain is missing someone so badly that there is a persistent knot in your stomach and your throat is continuously constricted.
Pain is meeting beautiful new people and learning about them and their stories while knowing you cannot offer them any of you because there is nothing left to give.
Pain is waking up in the middle of the night every night for four months straight.
Pain is taking crying breaks in the bathroom and back room at your job because it’s the only thing that will stop a full blown panic attack.
Pain is wanting to reach out and knowing you can’t.
Pain is realizing your email account password is the name of the person you love the most, but they’re no longer in your life.
Pain is a deep hopelessness that I cannot adequately articulate in a blog post.
Pain is a fickle friend.
Pain is hearing a song that reminds you of someone you love on the radio at work and bursting into tears.
Pain is sobbing at your favorite band’s concert and wanting to hand over every lyric to the person who comes to mind and not being able to.
Pain is waking up to texts from friends checking to be sure you’re alive.
Pain is heartbreak and grief and loss.
Pain is losing a dream.
Pain is losing a person.
Pain is sitting in silence at your friend’s grave hoping for an answer to the problems you’re facing.
Pain is driving cross country to deliver an apology to the person you love the most and having that apology go unaccepted.
Pain is dissecting your faults and flaws of the last five years.
Pain is relentless. Pain cuddles up to you at night before bed and greets you upon waking. And sometimes, pain follows you into your dreams for good measure.
But.
Pain is also information.
And without pain, I wouldn’t know the value of listening to George Ezra’s “Shotgun” while driving with the windows down and a smile on my face.
Without pain, I wouldn’t know how lucky I am to be alive.
Without pain, I wouldn’t know how lucky I was to love so big and so deeply.
Without it, I wouldn’t feel alive.
And without my own pain, I wouldn’t be able to understand other people’s pain.
Pain is also hope.
Pain let’s me know that there’s something, or someone, worth fighting for. And that someone is probably me.
Someone asked me last week how I was feeling... if I felt like I was “getting better.”
To clarify, I don’t know what the hell “getting better” is supposed to mean, but I felt like I could be honest with this person. “I’m surviving,” I said.
My heart is broken, my brain is in 87 different places all the time, and I have no idea what I need. How do you articulate that to people when they ask what’s wrong? Can you?
Today, I decided I wanted to try and articulate pain. Or at least my pain.
So, to start, pain is retelling the story of your rape over and over again in the hopes that people will understand how we cannot nominate a sexual predator to the highest court in the country.
Pain is watching that man be appointed to the Supreme Court anyway.
Pain is not knowing the status of your relationship with your partner.
Pain is missing someone so badly that there is a persistent knot in your stomach and your throat is continuously constricted.
Pain is meeting beautiful new people and learning about them and their stories while knowing you cannot offer them any of you because there is nothing left to give.
Pain is waking up in the middle of the night every night for four months straight.
Pain is taking crying breaks in the bathroom and back room at your job because it’s the only thing that will stop a full blown panic attack.
Pain is wanting to reach out and knowing you can’t.
Pain is realizing your email account password is the name of the person you love the most, but they’re no longer in your life.
Pain is a deep hopelessness that I cannot adequately articulate in a blog post.
Pain is a fickle friend.
Pain is hearing a song that reminds you of someone you love on the radio at work and bursting into tears.
Pain is sobbing at your favorite band’s concert and wanting to hand over every lyric to the person who comes to mind and not being able to.
Pain is waking up to texts from friends checking to be sure you’re alive.
Pain is heartbreak and grief and loss.
Pain is losing a dream.
Pain is losing a person.
Pain is sitting in silence at your friend’s grave hoping for an answer to the problems you’re facing.
Pain is driving cross country to deliver an apology to the person you love the most and having that apology go unaccepted.
Pain is dissecting your faults and flaws of the last five years.
Pain is relentless. Pain cuddles up to you at night before bed and greets you upon waking. And sometimes, pain follows you into your dreams for good measure.
But.
Pain is also information.
And without pain, I wouldn’t know the value of listening to George Ezra’s “Shotgun” while driving with the windows down and a smile on my face.
Without pain, I wouldn’t know how lucky I am to be alive.
Without pain, I wouldn’t know how lucky I was to love so big and so deeply.
Without it, I wouldn’t feel alive.
And without my own pain, I wouldn’t be able to understand other people’s pain.
Pain is also hope.
Pain let’s me know that there’s something, or someone, worth fighting for. And that someone is probably me.
That someone worth fighting for is definitely YOU! Pain sucks. There is no easy answer and there is no easy remedy. I can promise you that things WILL get better. It will take longer than you want it to, but it will happen. I also want you to try to remember that the thoughts and feelings and judgments of other people are not your fault. People are flawed. Sometimes they are so wrapped up in their own stuff that they cannot see the value of what is right in front of them. One of the most important lessons you can learn in life is to not judge yourself by another's standards. That means not beating yourself up when you are rejected. Or when you come in second. Or when your dreams don't come true. The earlier in life that you learn that lesson, the more joy and peace and contentment you will find in life. At 55, I am just figuring this out. I don't speak from some place of silver-spoon rosy life experience. I speak to you as a mother, a woman, a victim-a survivor. I have felt pain, too. I feel pain for you right now. But, I want you to know that there are good things to come. You will have scars, but they will give you character. Your experiences have shaped you into the wonderful person you are today. They have given you a perspective that allows you to reach out and comfort and inspire others. It may not be what you would have chosen, if you'd had a choice, but it has value. Incredible value. You will find it useful as you navigate a world of hurting souls. Please know that you are loved and cherished and respected and admired by so many. More than you know. It may not get you the results that you long for, but, in time, you will see that the love and respect and admiration you have is worth so much more than the things you have lost. It will be okay.
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