Sometimes I wish there was a volume dial for physical pain. To be able to turn it down when it is most inconvenient, most disruptive, most visible to others… when there is no place for me to hide. I think that’s the worst part—wanting to shield others from my pain and the fullness of its wrath. Wanting to wince a little more inconspicuously. Wanting to adjust my body with the slightest bit of grace. What a relief that would be. I’d promise to turn the dial back up later when I’m by myself, where I can bear it all alone.
To some degree, my body already knows how to do a version of this since the bulk of my pain is usually at night. The time of day when I can hear J’s breathing slow and feel him twitch into a fast and easy sleep all while the volume is blaring for me. While I’m stirring in the sheets, holding my breath, muffling a groan and kicking myself when a whimper escapes.
When it becomes unbearable, I’ll slide out from beneath the covers and find my way in the dark to the bathroom— a prison I lock myself in to keep people out, keep them away. From there, I can still hear the hum of the fan in the bedroom where he sleeps undisturbed, so long as I’m not there him.
Most days, the guilt of witnessing my pain seep into those I love is too much. It drowns me. The spiral of my self-pity goes around and around and around. The thought of fairness is laughable.
Not all days feel like this though, and I’ll let out a loud sigh before I jot that point down on my ~gratitude list~. Some days having company feels okay, it may even feel helpful. Imagine that! I can allow myself to be seen in full (*mostly*). I permit the proximity (*mostly*).
I tell myself I’m learning—perhaps against my will, out of sheer necessity, or because some part of me accepts it—how to practice allowing myself to be seen. To expose my unraveled self to someone elicits a visceral reaction out of me. I still don’t have the full understanding as to why, but perhaps admitting that is a way to show up unpolished, too.
Recognizing what I need from myself and what I need from others requires a degree of clarity that’s hard to come by when the pain is ricocheting within my body and mind. Laying shattered in a million broken pieces are the coping mechanisms and mantras I tell myself I’ll use during these exact times. And when it all goes to shit, what I’m beginning to believe is that sometimes the only possible relief I can get is from someone else holding my hand and looking me in the eyes, and really seeing me.
I tell myself I’m learning that I may as well befriend Pain, too, so that it can keep me company. So that together somehow we can build a bridge between my mind and body. And if I can muster enough up courage in those trying times, I’ll talk to Pain.
What is it that you need?
Where are you not being heard?
What is it that you are trying to say?
And then I’ll swap “you” with “we” for all those questions when I’m ready to acknowledge our interconnectedness, the intimacy we share.