PAIN

I am in love with Pain.

The other day I was reading back an old diary of mine. How old was I? Six? Seven? Eight? Nine? Ten? Yes, and even Eleven-- the year that broke me.

That little girl was angry at God. She cried herself to sleep every night. She struggled with the concept of justice in the world. She wanted someone to hear her, but no one did.

In my family, when we talk about childhood, it all sounds good. Summers at the lake, dress up, laughter. That was all there. But what about the rest? Why am I the only one who seems to remember it at all? The darkness, the chaos, the fear, the violence, the unpredictability, anxiety and pain, pain, pain of it all!

We can't say those things. We never talk about my father. My mom and my sisters and I are so close, aren't we? We are survivors. "Mommy and the Miracles." We never lie to each other. No, we don't! We are there for each other no matter what happens. We love each other, yes we do.

But what if I feel far away? What if I've always felt far away?

No... I never could say so.

Distance is not allowed-- not acknowledged. Nor is pain.

"Why didn't you notice mom?" I asked. "I fucking cried myself to sleep every night! Why didn't you help me?"

"You were happy," she said.

And I suppose I still am?

I didn't deserve to be unhappy. "Unhappy" is for kids who were starving, brutally beaten, sexually molested. Not me. I wasn't allowed to be unhappy.

But I was. And I am.

And it's all been sitting here.

I used to repress everything. In high school, I cleaned up the trash after the other kids, because I was more "mature" and I wanted the teachers to like me. I never trusted a best friend to tell her what boy I liked and I certainly never trusted a boy to tell him that I liked him! I never drank. I never smoked. I read a lot of history books and listened to music and pretended that I was from another time and place... that I was in another time and place.

But I was alone.
Loneliness hurts.
And there was no way out.

I used to cut myself.

I loved doing it. I wish I could still do it, but I'm supposed to be over it. I still have urges all the time, though. It was clean. It was there. It was pain that I could see and that I could point to and that no one could deny. The scars were reminders. But even that "validation" of my pain had to stay my secret. There was no room for it in my family.

I got very good with makeup. I covered carefully. But I wanted my face to be punched in. I wanted to be bruised everywhere. I settled for scratches.

I found other ways to get bruised. They are beautiful to me because they are mine. I fucked up my life the best that I could without letting go and disappointing everyone. (That tension-- THAT, right THERE, is the greatest tension in my life. I am so fucking exhausted from the juggling!)

But who can deny my pain now? I'm an alcoholic, an addict, in an abusive relationship. I've been mistreated; I've woken up "in the gutter," I've fucked up my health, my finances, my education. I had an abortion and it hurt me. Who can deny all that pain?

I'll tell you who-- I can. I deny it vehemently to my family. I am not a pained person when I teach, when I take voice lessons or go to choir or when I go to the doctor or to the grocery store. I have so many stories... so many lies for everyone. I hide things. My secrets are all that I have. I don't trust anyone. I don't even fully disclose to my therapist.

But I broadcast as much as I can, as loudly as I can in the darkness-- when night falls... when I drink. I am in pain. It hurts. It hurts right now. Yes, I am used to boxes and I am used to masks.

I pretend that I like pain because it's exciting... because it's dramatic. I tell you all every last detail of it right here on this blog. But I don't like it because it is exciting. I like it because it hurts. And making a mess of my life in order to have an excuse to hurt seems to be the only way I know how to come to terms with what I've always felt inside.

I like to drink and I miss drinking desperately.

It lets me own my pain, but numbs the worst of it.

Yesterday, I was on the phone with my mom for a while. She told me that "everything would be okay" and that "it's only going to get easier." I was mad at her. How does she know it's going to get easier? I didn't want her to tell me it would get easier. I wanted her to fucking acknowledge that I am doing something difficult right now and that I must be in PAIN!!!

She could not. She would not. She doesn't want to.

I don't know where I'm going with all this. "Health" scares me. I want my bruises. I want the burn. I can feel it every day-- the slide of Jack Daniels down my throat. The choke marks on my neck. I want to be hysterical and have Narc yell at me cruelly. I want to have pink puffy bags under my eyes. I want to smoke Marlboro Reds and have people laugh that I'm so "hard living."

I want to be in pain because I AM in pain.

Everyone at AA talks about wanting to be "happy, joyous and free." I don't want that. I want the hurt.

But, then again, I want my career, my education, my singing. I want to feel at home with my family. I want to feel safe. I want to feel peaceful. I want to feel productive. I want my self-esteem back. I want to find someone to love who loves me. I want to be able to be honest. I want to stop the lies and the covering up. I want to be able to be myself. To finally stop being so alone.

So, I've stopped drinking. But I haven't figured out how to deal with any of this. Am I angry? I don't know. I don't know what to do with myself.

Brick and I have slept together every night since Thursday. Thank God for him, because I feel like a little girl right now and I'm scared and his company helps me in a way that no one else can right now.

I want to WANT to stop drinking. Everyone talks about the "willingness to surrender," to give up addiction. I can't feel it yet. I can't get there because I still WANT my pain. I want someone to hit me. I want to hit myself. (Why am I so fucking crazy?) I just need to see myself physically validated. And that's what I am on the inside.

If I can't drink and if I have to get healthy, I don't know how to BE.

I will never go back to being that repressed girl that I was before drinking. I would rather drink myself to death ten times over than go back to that. At least when I was drinking, I was DOING, even if I was numbing.

Like I said-- I don't know how to be right now. I just don't know how to be. I feel strange writing this here, but I am working on being honest. And I want to start to own my own feelings.

Anyway, I've posted this song here before, but it's back in my head now.

(My illusions... the crazy paradise I built. Yes... I am in love with pain.)

As for the continuation of my "Monster Post," it's coming soon...

-h-

Want to buy some illusions
Slightly used, second-hand?
They were lovely illusions,
Reaching high, built on sand.
They had a touch of paradise,
A spell you can't explain,
For in this crazy paradise
You are in love with pain.

Want to buy some illusions
Slightly used, just like new?
Such romantic illusions,
And they're all about you.
Too bad they all fell apart
Like dreams often do.
They were lovely illusions,
But they just wouldn't come true.

Want to buy some illusions
Slightly used, just like new,
Such romantic illusions
And they're all about you.

I'd sell them all for a penny,
They make pretty souvenirs.
Take my lovely illusions,
Some for laughs, some for tears