Pain

Each muscle twitch, each breath, each fine hair moved was painful. Not in the traditional way of pain, but in the way that the shell of my body was the only thing protecting my soul, and it was doing a poor job of it. Some pain radiates from the inside out, like a microwave cooking you in reverse. It goes in waves of a constant dull ache of something empty and hollow, to stabs of pain that feel like pointy fingers indiscriminately poking your insides. The pokey pains often predict the sobs – not just tears, but sobs. Sobs where your body aches and you can’t breathe, where you want to physically expel everything inside you at once. You’d puke if you thought it would help, and sometimes it does; the welcome distraction of a different kind of pain. And then you wonder if you should try that – a different kind of pain. Would a thinly sharpened blade make your skin feel alive again? Would bloodied knuckles grant you some relief? You consider driving with less care, not really caring what the outcome is, but not specifically seeking death. Though sometimes death sounds like the sweetest option. I don’t fear suicide, don’t fear an afterlife. But no, that will never be – I have people who depend on me for food, housing, everything. I am the only thing protecting them and giving them some room for sanity. Though, I don’t have that same luxury. I am utterly alone. Unloved. Unloveable. There it is – that pain again. Many years ago I had a husband who told me how unlovable I was, so lucky to have him, someone to love such a damaged person as me. I see now how right he was. I should just accept it. Fighting is too hard. The proof is in the pudding. And my pudding is moldy and vanilla at that.