the swords and monsters of pain

I do not know whether my pain is a sword or a monster.

Perhaps it is both but I can never be too sure and maybe I do not need to be sure, but my anxiety does.

My anxiety creates thought spirals that loop around my mind, thought spirals that seem to replay over and over again like a broken record scratched all upon on its surface, but all I know for certain, is that I am uncertain whether I grip my pain or my pain grips me.

I do not know whether my pain is a sword or a monster, but something within me will not rest until I am certain.

There are days where I look at the palm of my hands and wonder where all that pain went because I woke up feeling fucking invincible and on those days, it’s easier to stomach the sight of myself in the mirror, life seems simpler because the light shining in through the window does not seem as blinding, and the world is still turning, but I feel steady, calm, almost like I can breathe easy.

And so I breathe, inhale and exhale all the air I can manage before realizing I am still staring at the palms of my hands, my eyes are still tracing over the veins and wrinkles on my skin and I am still continually searching, searching, searching, for some sort of sign of bruising or marks.

Some days there are actual scratches, cuts and maybe even the odd bruise that appears.

But then there are days where my eyes find no sign of anything and on those days, I cannot help but smile.

My palms look empty and yet, I still feel the hollowness of my heart, the sharp feeling of loneliness permanently etched into the layers of my skin and the bitterness intertwined in the depths of my heart and soul.

I smile because it does not show, there is no evidence of all this pain to anyone but me and that has always been the goal, hasn’t it?

My palms have no bruises or marks, but I feel the bruise on my ego every day, the gape of the wound so large that spreads over both of my lungs, the bones of my ribcage still cracking from the impact that came from all the nights I spent crying.

My pain is so apparent to me because it never leaves, God, it hurts to breathe still, it hurts to inhale and exhale because with each breath, I remember the times I spent bent over gasping for air, clutching at my stomach as I floundered for some sort of stability, searched for some sort of calmness only to be met with pain, pain and more pain.

The smile eventually fades.

But still, my palms are clean, the skin of my hands remains clear of bruises, scratches or cuts and my hands look nothing but empty.

On those days, I know that my pain is a sword.

My pain is not your average sword and it’s nothing like King Arthurs’ Excalibur, the Staff of Hermes or anything like the other most talked about swords in history.

My pain is a deadly weapon that has been carved out of sharp blades of shame and anger, wielded by despair and tragedy, a weapon so brute and fearsome that the men and women who have ever bear witness to it have quaked in fear.

This pain was born from the ashes of my trauma, it came directly from the source of anguish, and this weapon has parts of my childhood burned into the crevices of it, my sadness seeped into every angle and the entirety of it holds every heartbreak that has ever happened to my existence.

The weapon takes many forms, and despite it not being actually tangible, I still feel like I am gripping it in the palm of my hands with a grip so tight I wonder if my nails are leaving marks on my skin.

I suppose that’s why I can’t stop checking the palms of my hands.

Because my pain is not often tangible, except when it is, and when it is, I see and feel it when I spit up blood after puking my guts out, it’s evident in the tears that splash onto my cheeks and fall onto the ground when I begin to break.

My pain feels real and tangible when it blooms like a flower of pain, blooming right in my lungs when I am trying to go to sleep.

I cannot breathe.

My pain feels bigger than me.

And on these particular days, I break, I break and slowly begin to lose confidence over whether my pain truly is a sword.

On those days, I wake up and do not stare at the palms of my hands because my pain is heavy on my chest, heavy enough that it feels like I don't even want to get out of bed and if I somehow manage to get out of bed, then I avoid looking at myself in the mirror because I cannot face that my fundamental belief that my pain was a sword has so easily morphed into the fear that it is a monster.

My pain has never been anything concrete for me, but even so, it’s ever present.

On those days, I do not stare at the palms of my hands and wonder where all the pain went. I know. I know that it exists inside of me, consuming every breath and thought I create.

On those days, I know that my pain is a monster.

I firmly believe it is not just a monster, but the monster of all monsters. The type that parents warn their children about at bedtime, the one that makes kids everywhere lay awake in fear and contemplate what may lay awake in the dark with them.

We have grown very familiar, this monster and I.

This monster is a shapeshifter, and it knows no bounds.

It is cruel, unforgiving and most importantly, consistent. This monster is pain itself, and it’s my pain, a pain that I have not lived without for years, because I am dependent on it.

This pain is no sword, it is a fucking monster.

And this monster owns my soul.

This monster ensures that I cling to my misery the way I cling to the past.

It’s done in such a way that is crippling, debilitating, and it does not serve me.

Except when it does.

When I am sad and I feel the clink and clank of my heart break inside my chest, I feel most inspired because when my heart breaks, it no longer just shatters, it blooms like a flower of pain.

A flower that is ever growing, constant and eternal.

This flower of darkness and pain, it is all so familiar to me, the way I remember riding a bike felt after scraping my knee so many times to get it right.

This monster knows how to sweet talk me, knows how to lure me in and make me feel like my pain is still the only constant thing that has ever remained in my life.

The funny thing is, I did not ask for this.

I cling to my misery the way I cling to my past but it clings back. The vice grip it has on my heart is cruel and constant.

I did not ask to spend days and nights wondering whether my pain is a sword or a monster.

I did not ask to be hollow within, the fibres of my being ebbing with a type of pain I do not ever remember asking for, in fact, I vaguely remember spending nights asking God to have some mercy and never let me feel that way again.

In theory, I know I have some sort of control of whatever thoughts and feelings I have.

So I do what I do best to gain control.

I read quotes by authors.

I read over varying quotes by varying people, I purge strings of words filled with emotions from an individual who decided to bare themselves thin and I consume, consume, consume.

Most importantly, I let myself fall.

Falling into words spoken by someone who cried, laughed, yearned and just fucking felt what they then decided to vocalize and articulate.

I read somewhere once that writing is an intellect’s way of bleeding, and it resided with me because I know that when I write, I bleed everywhere, spill the depths of my soul onto the tips of pages that I sincerely promise myself I will never let anyone see.

But then I think about how all the writers before poured themselves into their writing, expressed how they felt and most importantly, expressed their pain.

And I wonder if they too battle with the swords and monsters of pain.

I wonder if they lay awake wondering whether their pain was something tangible, useful or whether it was the thing that might just kill them.

My pain feels like a sword when I write, it feels like it equips me on the battlefield that is maneuvering my memories and emotions instead of trying to repress them.

So then I think to myself: yes, my pain is a sword, because I can wield it, use it to my advantage and perhaps create something so fucking beautiful by gripping it forcefully by the end of it, regardless if it makes my hands bleed.

I think to myself: I can utilize this sword, and cut through the vines that are the walls I put up to guard my heart.

But then some nights, I lay awake, and feel like that same little girl peering at the dark and wondering what monster resides in the corner of the bedroom.

On those nights, I wonder if it’s just the monster holding its own chosen weapon, perhaps a sword carved out of my deepest hopes and fear, held to the column of my throat and with one wrong move, one wrong thought, that monster could kill me with that sword.

Some days, I think I might let it, and others, I stare at the palms of my hand and gaze into the emptiness of it all while allowing myself to fantasize about taking the sword of my pain and stabbing into the underbelly of this fucking monster that will not let go of me.

However, on those days, I cannot help but be haunted by the image of the monster morphing into something that resembles myself, and there I am, standing over my dead body watching myself bleed out.

And I cannot help but wonder if it will always be this way, if I will always suffer from both the swords and monsters of pain.

I no longer wonder if my pain is a sword or a monster.

I know it is both.

Oh god, it has always been both.

- m.m