On Pain

III. Appreciation

I love to complain about how Pain fucks with my life. (And lately it sure has done so.) But in rare, shining moments, I appreciate certain things about it.

I resent the Pain 96% of the time. It makes me dull, tired & stupefied. It makes my dreams seem beyond reach, because you can't reach for shit when you're lying on the floor. And Pain is self-centered, demanding you forget Wellness.

That 4% though. Moments when I appreciate the teachings of Pain make me feel calm and wise. If I can imagine that Pain gives me something worthwhile my perception of the Pain experience changes. Hardship can enrich your soul if you look at it right.

In those 4% moments I don't feel desperate to escape difficulty. And that's a useful kind of peace, because, hey, life is hard. Sometimes it's nice to stop resisting and just sink into the sucking. Suffering well is an art, one I'd like to learn. Seems a smarter bet than trying to sneak through life without letting suffering find me.

Pain slows me down. The pace of life changes when you can't do many things and can only do others with difficulty. When Pain really hits there can be no flitting from one activity to the next, no scurrying to fulfill obligations. I move deliberately. On a bad day I fix my hot cereal, then rest, shower, then rest, stretch, fix a sandwich, then rest, take a little walk, then rest. (Which might make a lovely day if it weren't for the disc-nerve vortex, and my nagging awareness of obligations unfulfilled.)

Being forced to a slower pace during Paintimes has taught me the value of slow-moving in any times. I hate zooming through days. Rush erodes my awareness of the world around me, other people, my own body, own soul. In slower motion I see kinglets in the fig tree, and how long my nails have gotten, and the troubles in the eyes of someone I love. And Pain necessitates awareness. I have to notice when I am about to overdo activity, or which muscles need stretching or what mistakes I made leading up to a setback.

When you go slow, you have to deliberate and choose. You can't just pack it all in. You have to decide what is worth the use of limited energies. The choosing reminds me what matters and makes me rejoice in small delights. A pool of butter in my oat bran makes me happy. A short walk on a creek path is magical. 

Pain taught me to avoid overlords. The only way to win against so cunning an enemy as Pain is to be fully in charge of my own life. Controlling friends, family, employers, doctors cannot be tolerated. This is great, since overlords suck regardless.

Pain makes me spend a whole lot of time with myself. I can watch dwarf goat videos and read Wendell Berry and re-watch Wire episodes by the dozen, but distraction must sometimes cease. And there I am, just me, motionless on the floor. It's excruciating to have to face my raw self, but valuable too. If I can face my neuroses, my limitations, everything about myself that irritates me, well then I feel like I am okay. I can befriend myself, however annoying a friend I may be. Pain shows me how much I can endure. Every now and then someone says, I don't know how you stand it, and I feel like a badass.

And sometimes, maybe only 1% of the time, I appreciate the state of just being, and the many ways I am healthy--the fact that my heart is beating and my brain can make my limbs move and I am alive. And when I can drive to the store and get my own groceries, damn, I sure appreciate that.

This is the third essay in the series On Pain. The first two are here and here.

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