Pain

My physical pain, my psychological pain, these are eased by the many pharmaceutical products I have been prescribed. They dull the pain but not the senses, contrary to popular belief. Chronic pain cannot be explained to those who have never experienced it. It changes so many aspects of life: what you can do and when. If it is severe, it creates psychological manifestations that are equally distressing. The depression, the frustration and the loneliness are isolating. We seek the company of those who understand on message boards and in support groups. We try to present a picture of normalcy to the rest of the world. If that fails, we retreat. Like turtles we pull the vulnerable parts inside a shell of armor and hide.

The most severe damage can occur to the psyche or is I call it, the soul. The constant performing, trying to invoke the power of mind over matter is very draining and impossible to sustain. As limitations increase, the pressure inside builds. I struggle to control the beast. The beast is the totality of pain and the resulting inability to do what I want and need to do. A blind rage simmers under the surface. It struggles to break free, to release some of its power. I struggle to contain it, to find ways to ease its pressure without damaging those around me. It's poison has no boundaries, no words too harsh, no actions unjustifiable. It is a monster and now, it is me.

My Imaginary Hometown

I always wanted to live in Mayberry, where the worst problem could be solved by Sheriff Andy Taylor in the span of 30 minutes, minus commercials.  Where the town drunk was so harmless he locked himself up in a cell.  There was a barber shop where everyone gathered, a cafe and one patrol car.  Where Deputy Fife carried a single bullet and never used it.  Where a person could take their broken items to be repaired by a man who could fix anything.  Where Aunt Bea made breakfast and dinner and occasionally a fool of herself.  My ideal fantasy world, safe and secure.  Everybody knew your name and your business.  The show is still in reruns some 50 years later.  I like to believe it wasn't all fiction.  I like to believe that somewhere there  is or was a place like that.  If I could control my dreams, I would spend them in Mayberry.  I would have several hours of peace and quiet.  I would be a part of a small safe world.  I would forget the fear and the bad news that constantly assaults my conscious mind.  Perhaps that sounds  childish. It probably is.When you are young, you can't wait to grow up.  We think when we're older we'll make our own decisions, make our own rules. Instead, we find that the structure that confines us is even more rigid.  We have responsibilities.  We have knowledge of tragedies and suffering beyond our little world.  We mourn.  We grieve the losses along the way.  And we go on.  We have no choice.

    I don't watch the Andy Griffith show very often now.  Sometimes it is a calm distraction from the frenetic pace of life.  Sometimes, it's just a place that doesn't exist, a phantom, a ghost town.  A place where I can no longer exist, even in my imagination.  I am a grown up now.