With Great Love and Pain

Being comfortable is a discomfiting idea. Being comfortable means being vulnerable, and I don’t know if I’m ready to take that leap. It requires trust. I’m not sure I can find any trust in my heart. My heart, which has been broken too many times before. My heart, which has grown cold from the distance I put between myself and anyone else. My heart, which has grown afraid of love and affection.

How can I feel safe? How can I feel welcomed and wanted? How do I know that I belong somewhere when I can’t even feel comfortable in this world?

What comfort is there for someone who doesn’t have a place to exist? What comfort is there for those who hide themselves away? What is comfort in a life of fear? To think that it would be so easy a thing, to simply describe that which brings comfort to those of us with whom the concept is alien.

I have been used, abused, neglected, betrayed, and discarded. I have been a toy, and I have been a letdown. I have been a disappointment.

My life has been filled with so many thorns that I’ve never noticed the roses.

But, on occasion, a gentle hand has come to me. These hands come at me with love and pain, bringing back the familiar sting of punishment in a context of grace and compassion. Where I had been beaten as a child for my inability to perform, my lack of social functionality, as an adult I am beaten out of love. I am beaten; but never broken. Despite the pain; I am not hurt.

I have found a sweet and gentle tranquility in restraint. In having my wrists and ankles bound, and knowing that I cannot stop what is coming, I feel at peace. In knowing that my arrogance and playfulness will bring pain, it is an encouragement to truly be myself. For, I want the pain.

When a hand caresses my skin tenderly before digging the nails in, I am elated. To feel that touch, so ready to strike, makes me know I am vulnerable. I am ready and willing, and my love will never cross my lines. My boundaries remain safe and protected, and I am safe within them.

The blows are but sweet kisses, reminding me of what I may gain. If I can be good, I shall be rewarded. What is my reward? The untouchable treasure. The one that calls to my soul, shattered and broken as it is, with hope that I may be remade in its presence.

Where I was damaged, I may be strengthened. Where I was broken, I may be reformed. Where I was lost, I find myself.

When the pain fades from the last blow, when my traumas lay shattered and defeated about me, I am left as nothing more than a helpless puddle of myself. A faint echo of what once was a broken person but is now only a soul in need of healing.

It is in these moments that I stumble into comfort. Not mere satisfaction or satiation; I have truly been comforted. In that moment, when I am held and my partner lets me know how safe and loved I am, I know that I can relax. I can be my most vulnerable self and know that there is no judgment.

I am allowed to exist, with no need to excuse my presence. I am no longer an exception to expectations; I am merely present. Gone are the anticipations and pressures of meeting social standards. Gone are the traumas and emotional scars. I am washed, stripped of my insecurities, and left bare.

It is in this blank and empty space that I am remade. Held in the arms that brought me to this point, soothed by the balm of love and affection from one I trust, I am comfortable. I am safe. I am wanted.

I belong.

What is this? How can I deserve this? Surely, something must go wrong. I do not deserve to be safe. I do not deserve to be happy. I am not allowed to enjoy comfort. It’s not safe. Feeling this way is just a trap. Just a disaster waiting to happen. Being this open and this relaxed is a surefire way to get hurt.

And then, a hand strokes my hair. And I remember where I am. I remember I am loved. I am allowed this. It has been afforded to me, unconditionally and uncompromisingly, it is mine. This is my reward.

I snuggle deeper into it, knowing that it’s for me.

This is mine. My comfort.