Pain as Souvenir. What You Pick Up Along The Way

It’s all about the pain. My particular brand of pain is not “special”. Pain is what we share. We know it when we feel it, and we know it when we see it. Buddhism is a philosophical construct that evolved out of the recognition of pain, otherwise known as suffering. Jesus died on the cross, literally suffered, so that we could be reborn. The metaphor literally creates meaning out of the meaningless.

The saying, “What does not kill us makes us stronger,” has to do with the annealing power of pain. Annealing is a process "wherein a material is altered, causing changes in its properties such as strength and hardness...that produces conditions by heating to above the re-crystallization temperature and maintaining a suitable temperature, and then cooling...to induce ductility, soften material, relieve internal stresses, refine the structure by making it homogeneous, and improve cold working properties." If we do not allow the pain, other mechanisms arise, like addiction and coaddiction. In some ways, everything we do has to do with the avoidance or sublimation of pain. It is inevitable, yet we reflexively remove ourselves from its grasp. Once it threatens to get a hold of our hearts, minds, and bodies, we deny, and we behave in a way, any way to mitigate its intensity.

The addict has his or her drug of choice, and when the pain continues to surface, more of the DOC is needed, just to get straight, and then hopefully high. The coaddict co-opts the pain of another in order to disregard and forestall the experience of their own pain. Nobody wins because the pain doesn't stop, it persists, and like a force of nature, it will not be ignored. Jane Kenyon, who suffered from depression, wrote a beautiful poem entitled, Let Evening Come: (note the URL source of this poem!)

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

Let it come, as it will, and don't
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

Three things of significance happened to me yesterday (at least). The first was seeing a record of my husband’s, the sex addict and the narcissist/psychopath, out-of-control vindictiveness. His expenditures were not only purposeful, he counted on me to look at the bank statement. He used what he knew about me and how I operate, to ensure that I would be hurt. I got the part about the purposefulness of his trail, vaguely. But what I didn’t get is that it was targeted to inflict maximum harm because of his lethal knowledge of my own weaknesses. You’re going to track my behavior? Well stick this up your binoculars.

So when I first discovered his transgressions, actually his betrayals, I went into a deep, deep funk. Pain started to descend. The hotels really got to me, as he knew they would, because they have in the past, and he has never shied away from letting me know, in whatever devious way, that he had been at this or that hotel. So, there was the pain--my pain, because I have been and I am being betrayed. I am being rendered invisible and insignificant again, as I have so many times throughout my life. Instinctively, I made program calls, and the people I talked to were also in various stages of pain, and we all employ at least a modicum of denial. And like true codependents, we all sought to relieve not only our own pain, but the pain of others. Or maybe mistakenly, I sought to alleviate their pain, but they were all the wiser, and allowed the sting, as if it were simply a fact of life and something I would have to go through. One of the messages was that there will be a lesson learned, our Higher Power would speak to us, and that I (we)could listen and be open to the metaphor and the meaning.

The second thing that happened was the discovery of an interview with Sue William Silverman, which redirected my pain, as she has done with hers, to discovering the metaphor, and quite simply, as Elizabeth Bishop has written, to (Write it!). That was my message from my HPs. In my email to my friends, I said that words were my most powerful tools, and there it was, a way to create from suffering, to dignify and exalt the suffering that had been a result of living with a seriously disordered partner who has lied to me and betrayed me over and over again. The message came in the voice of Ms. Silverman, the author of Fearless Confessions: A Writer's Guide to Memoir, and Love Sick: One Woman's Journey through Sexual Addiction. And, no coincidence, I found the interview on the site Write The Book. If there had been faith and clarity on my part, that might have been enough. The message was to write it, turn it into something meaningful. Make it into a gift.

Then, after what were perhaps annoying but necessary delays in discovery, I came across more painful information. It was still the same behavior, nothing new, but this time, I could feel myself slipping into a dark place. The feeling I have been trying to avoid, of crashing, of being overwhelmed rather than coping with this loss, was making itself known. So I picked up my purse and keys and went out, with the intent to redress the injustice. I lashed out in my own not-so-powerful way. I tried to recreate my own pain-inducing trail: cash to cover the rent check, a new dress, enough food for two at a restaurant, and I happily planned a trip and multiple purchases at Victoria's Secret. The pain was summarily yet only momentarily pushed aside. But what I had done was an oblivious, naïve response that pulled me back into the game, while at the same time, created a deception on my part that I actually could play by his rules and win, even in a small way. But I am not him. I do not think like him, nor do I have the cunning he possesses. Or, what cunning I do possess is not in the service of hurting others. So I can’t win. I can only play along and then lose bigtime. He has to have a player. I went along with the gambit, took the bait. I did his bidding. Welcome to my web, might have been his response. However, I have wise friends and a Wise Mind. This morning, I see the battlefield and the game plan more clearly. No contact means that I cease and desist all possible involvement with his twisted manipulations. I refuse to get caught up in the catastrophe that is his world, and that he would attempt to pass off or project onto others.

Clarity makes it clear to me that he did this, and then I did that, exactly as he had hoped. So that’s done, for now. It is also inevitable that if I quit playing the game, his game, he will devise a new competition, with new rules, and try to catch me unawares. But the card being played, as I said, has to do with pain. His intent is maximum harm. My intent is to not feel the pain, because I fear it will annihilate me. He wants to crush me, like he would any opponent, and all the world is an opponent that he must woo. I want to save my sanity and my soul. I want to live at optimum levels of productivity and creativity. In the end, he has given me that opportunity. He is both the worst and the best thing that has ever happened to me. Because of his machinations, and my own failures, I now live an examined life. And that introspection, and the observation and affinity with the lives of others, will create an awareness and a Voice that can live with and transform the pain that has been the result. His need to hurt and dominate has afforded me the tools to live a deeper, more meaningful life. I almost wrote the words, "end of story," but really it is only the fitting end of the paragraph, yet the beginning of a luminous journey.

What if pain is what makes us genuinely human? The fallow ground of love and compassion? Would we still attempt to numb its impact if we saw it as the souvenir we picked up on our journey? A memory than not only haunts, but humbles and unites our histories?

There are places to go, things to be said. Now you can go forward with The Armies of the Night..."the intellectuals, the students, the Negroes, the academic liberals and the marching women who personify the American opposition. From first to last, this... is about that opposition...limited in everything except courage...'They' have all the power, and 'we' have just imagination! This has been [Norman] Mailer's grievance for many years."

And to end where I began, with the pain. The lack of support if not antagonism, I receive from my parents has its origins in their pain. My husband’s addictions and projections stem from his pain, though experience, as opposed to misplaced compassion, leads me to think he may not experience it in the same way we do. He does know the warning signals. But beware, a wounded animal is a dangerous animal. Through recovery, and with a little help from my friends, I can address, or dress, my wounds, so that I am no longer a danger to myself or to others. Then you, me, and we become Wounded Healers. We can utilize our pain, and a great number are therefore lifted up, and we can follow the gentle path of redemption together.

How's this for a metaphor: I'm not going to VS after all. I'm going to spend the money on new contacts.

For tomorrow, a little bit about recovery and heavy lifting, or weight lifting, where the motto is “no pain, no gain.”