Jilly D.

Pain speaks to me

In Anniversary and memorials, Grief on January 7, 2011 at 2:09 am

I am a crab apple today

Pain speaks to me. But I haven’t been listening. Trying to put mind over matter only works if your mind is right. My head is pounding in pain. My physical being shakes uncontrollably. I choke down the sobs and feel the tears stream down my face.

My knees are swollen and I feel like someone knocked me over, cut me off at the knees, pushed me backwards and I am mangled, twisted, and broken. The pain pounds loud in my ears.

What is it saying? I am hurt. I can’t take the stress anymore. Stop please. Just stop this unbearable force weighing me down, pushing me under. I’m torn, ripped, wounded, bleeding, weak, crippled, old, and dying. I don’t want to hear what it tells me about myself.

The pain is inside of me, a part of me. Ignoring the pain doesn’t make it go away. Doesn’t make it any better. So today I sit with pain.

Rumi, the great Sufi poet, wrote something about when the demons are at the door, invite them in for tea.

On the 14th anniversary of Sam and I, Pain came a knockin’ today. Didn’t want to invite Pain in, but Pain was being a pain. So I’ve been sitting with Pain today. I’ve listened with tea and sympathy, in pain, with pain.

Took Pain with me to the health club and took a Jacuzzi this evening. Pain started to quiet down. Steam bath and sauna and a swim and Pain stopped screaming at me. Still talking, but now I’m listening better. Pain almost used a whisper voice when I got home and made some supper; but pain is more patient than I am. Pain is still talking at me, trying to tell me something important.

I’ve lost my center. I cannot find balance. No matter what move I make, pain speaks up. Pain’s mumbling keeps me awake, tossing and turning.  I want to kick Pain out of the bed so I can get some rest. But this pain isn’t going anywhere. It found its home in my heart. It’s my pain. I have to take ownership of it.

Standing with my feet shoulder width apart I take a deep breath. Slowly I shift my weight onto my right leg. I can feel the weightedness of myself and my right foot firmly on the ground. I feel the tense muscles running up and down my leg. My knee cracks, my ankle cracks. Then I slowly shift my weight from my right to my left leg. Pain sings to me. From my ankle to my hip and into my lower back, pain tells me exactly where he is. I shift my weight from right to left again.

I rock forward and backwards on my feet. The muscles in my thighs spasm as pain yodels down my Achilles heel. In between left and right I rock back and forth, forward and backwards, but nowhere in between is a place where I can stand firmly on the ground and feel myself centered. Pain is in the way.


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