Pain.
By: Shawm, Shomprakash Sinha Roy
Tags: Pain, Abstract, Writing, Therapy, Spirituality

Pain.

Photo by Krystal Ng on Unsplash

I have no memory of the very first time I ever saw blood. I don’t remember if it was mine, or someone else’s. The scientific doctrine of Democritus would have me believe that the very first instance of pain ever recorded within my (at the time underdeveloped) reticular activation system, belonged to my mother. There was blood. There was screaming. Morphine was conspicuously absent from the scene. First, there was pain. Then, there was me. I remember none of it, but according to witnesses, this is the best description of how I came to be.

Photo by Gabriel Tovar on Unsplash

I find that notion interesting — the idea that it took an incredible amount of pain to “bring me to life” — in the literal sense of the phrase. And I believe I speak for an entire species, when I say that we’re all ultimately born out of pain. And it is pain that we are taught to fight every living breathing minute, because we are programmed to believe that it is this “pain” that will ultimately kill us. How strange indeed. Pain gave me life. Life is going to kill me. But I choose only to fight the pain (?).

For if I am the shredded evidence of stars brought forth by pain, and if being alive is my superpower, then surely, pain is my kryptonite. A feeble reminder of how I was brought here, shadowing me around like the haughty remnant of a glorious past. Through misery and mockery, it makes its presence felt, and in moments of objective insanity, it tries to make me “come alive” forevermore. Pain & I could (and in all likelihood, do) exchange places happily, switching between the roles of the tormentor and the tormented — the vehicle and the fuel.

In the thirty years of my existence, I’ve met many people, who, through acts of both intellect and goodwill have proven time and again that they are in fact, smarter than me. These people have often remarked that “pain fuels creativity”, and I have often admired these people, not knowing how to feel when vaguely addressing the parts of me that could recognize my own pain. Late into my teens or early into my adulthood, I can’t remember (hormones will do that to you), I was a silent participant in the criticism of Mother Teresa’s existential policies on pain.

But very recently, when confronted with the kind of pain that absolutely cannot be remedied through human measures, the kind that is absolute, the kind that John Michael Green calls “demanding”, the kind that will be felt but shan’t be described at all by itself, I began wondering if it was worth indulging myself in. It’s a peculiar feeling. I’ve never felt this way before. This doesn’t reek of the light of masochism, nor does it feel self-inflicted. Unless you take into consideration the idea that almost everything we experience and endure is ultimately self-inflicted.

I’m now trying to figure out what to do with my pain (as opposed to try and do something about it), and something seems to have very strong faith in me. This is an ode to that thing, whatever it is. I know this doesn’t do justice, hardly comes close, but it’s a start.

Please accept my offering, kryptonite. There’s more to come.