Let it stay as pain

Let it stay as pain

Samuel Bird

My older sister, younger sister, and I ran threw the yard as cowboys and indians. It was my turn to be the Indian if I remember right. My little sister with her copper red hair was the cowboy and my older sister and I were chasing her back to her fort. This went on for many hours unsupervised as we climbed trees, under bushes, and yelled all the way. We finally caught her where she was hiding and she began to run away from us. My sister held up an old rusty scythe she found in the cinderblock shed. “Here, throw this at her!” She urged me as I took it and threw it at her. It spun many times in the air as the tip lined up with her back hitting right in the middle of it. Immediately, she fell to the ground and did not move. My older sister ran inside and retrieved my father. She stayed there lying on the ground as my six-year-old mind couldn’t believe what was happening. A merciful brain doesn’t allow me to remember what happened next. When he left my room, I sat there crying. “Is she okay?” I yelled out, not worrying about the repercussions. “Did she live?” I yelled out. I sat on my bed and began to rock back and forth. I wanted to love people, but my failings seemed to keep hurting people. I had finally hurt someone so badly, that they may have died. A knock on the door and my grandparents came in. I heard them tell my parents how horrible I was. They opened the door and glared at me. “Did she live? Did I kill her?” They shook their heads and closed the door. I knew there would be no dinner and possibly another visit from my father. That was the least of my concerns. I felt overprotective of my siblings. When my father would begin to be violent to them, I would act out to take their lashings. I loved her. Now, she was gone and it was all my fault. I sat there with my arms around my knees, rocking back and forth. What would life hold for me, prison, scary people, and a removal from everything I knew? But the real punishment was the one I was confined to in my mind. I would live the rest of my life knowing what I did. “Please!” I shrieked like my father did. “Please tell me she is okay.”

I rocked myself to sleep as I cried. The next morning started like all the rest. It seemed to have this ironic contrast from my nightmares. I opened my door to see everyone bustling like normal. I walked outside knowing the consequence but needing to know. “Where is she?” Just then, she ran past. She was okay. The rusty blade was so dull, that it only bruised her. The deep and wretched pain I had felt all night welled up and began to morph. This pain became anger. I was furious that she was totally fine, and I was left to believe that I had killed her. I became bitterly loathful to my father like I never had managed to do. This anger then manifested itself in open defiance of everything he said. As the years washed over me, I found this same anger come up. The pain of a hand across the fist became its own violence. The sharpness in the stomach from a missed meal became a rage-filled excuse to steal food. A lack of love and breaking of trust became me destroying what little was left. This program I ran for responding to suffering became more and more prominent until it became primary. As it got worse, my poor mother tried her best to help me with it. I knew the basic tenets of self-control, but I simply didn’t want to. Anger was how I responded to this world that hurt me so. As authority figures and rules became a part of my life, I would fight against them for their own sake. 

When I was fourteen, I lived in a barn. The cold wind from missing sides and drenching rain from a missing roof left me shivering up late into the night. This pain was not left without its equal. The anger came from me and seemed to keep me warm. I would walk up and down country roads, just trying not to be home. Police officers would harass me, pedophiles would try to lure me, and many drunk people would try to attack me. I was tired of being weak. My gently loving demeanor had been pitted against me for too long. It was high time that I showed the world I could fight back. I would argue with law enforcement, talk back to people who crossed me, and respond to the elements with this same rage. When I was seventeen, I was homeless and staying in abandoned houses in sub-freezing temperatures. Late into the night, rage kept me warm. I had a friend there with me. I had something to fight back against the violent random chaos I had seen. I tried not to hurt people without a cause, but I found myself starting arguments for no reason. I have found that the method that people use to respond to their pain often becomes that which causes them the most pain. Hurting people who deserved better led me to feel immense guilt. Arguing with women left me without romantic prospects. This anger seemed to flow all around me. I tried to not let it hurt others, but I failed as you may assume. As I began to change my life and raise myself from my circumstances, I was aided by this heat that I felt on the back of my neck when I was angry. It helped me work longer and more precisely. I became successful at achieving goals. I found along the way that I had missed out on one of my biggest objectives; the people around me. Even if I hadn’t been too harsh to them, I had missed out on chances to be tender and loving. I realized that I could get away with it. No one could expect me to change to be gentle and loving from my background. However, I found that I wanted to be. I felt people deserved it, and I wanted to give it to them. 

I sat down and cleared my mind. I was about to make a big choice. I was planning to act differently every day after this one. I wanted to be clear that this was what I chose. I cleared my mind and filled my lungs. I had an old friend to say goodbye to. This anger had been with me when no one else was. It kept me strong when I felt weak. It stopped more pain from coming my way. It was hard to say it was evil or I was a fool for having it in my life. What seemed more appropriate was a thank you. I thanked anger. I thanked it for keeping me alive and safe when I had no other option. I thanked it for the life it gave me. I ran through our memories together. I then gently and firmly said that where I was going, it could not come. I simply did not need it anymore. It was a relic of an age passed, and the people around me now needed the gentleness that I started out with. I let it know there could be a rare time here or there that I needed them, but I would be in control. I said one last thank you, and then said goodbye. It seemed to fade away from me. Since then, I went from constantly fighting and being rageful, to not raising my voice once or acting in anger. I still have hard conversations with people, but I am able to keep peace in my mind and not allow this more primitive side of me to take control. Anger is like anxiety or trauma. It has a vital evolutionary role. The issue comes when we live in a world that doesn’t see that role. 

Since then, there has certainly been pain. Some of that pain seemed to be more than I could bear. In that moment the pain mounted, I was left with options. I could let it explode onto those that caused it. If I didn’t do that, the pain would ask to be treated another way. A broken heart tends to want a poisoned liver and damaged brain to go along with it. When the woman I loved so deeply left, here I was with pain as strong as I ever felt. This pain craved a place to go. I felt a pressure to pass that pain on to her. Whether it was to cause her pain, or aggressively tell her mine, there was a temptation to share that pain. I knew all too well what the result of not dealing with pain appropriately. I kept my pain and did not share. I sat with it. I observed it. This pain didn’t morph into anger or self-pity, and when it did, I would revert it. This left me to sit with this pain for years. However, I decided that my pain would not go on to others. 

This is the classical demarcation between a hero and a villain. When they suffer, where does their suffering go? Does the hurt burst from them and harm those that hurt them, or perhaps innocent people in their path? I didn’t know it at the time, but this was my father. I had not earned my suffering at his hand, but his anger stemming from his pain, pushed him to send it somewhere. The hero on the other hand sits with the pain and doesn’t let it hurt others. When the time is right, they might even be great enough to let it drive them toward easing the suffering of others. This was what I tried to do during this trying time. This tragedy became beautiful as I made it something redemptively altruistic. During the worst day of this when my body ached from the fracturing of my weary heart, this same heart turned to others. I wondered and worried that others felt this pain. I wanted them to know that this experience was one walked before by one of their kind. I had no solution to take the pain away, but I knew what got me through each day. An idea came to mind of a story. It was a hopeful one. It was one I would later be teased for being too optimistic and idealistic. This idea came from the longings I had for others to have a better life during the worst day of mine. This book became the first book I finished. I have since grown as a writer as I was barely literate just before starting it. However, I can’t help but love this simple little story. It is not high-brow fine literature, but it is a lovingly earnest effort toward the reader. I took my broken heart and spread it between the pages hoping to uplift someone else’s. While no one reads my books yet, the thought of one person feeling what I meant made all of it worth it. This meaning then applies to my pain. 

I have no resolution to suffering here. In fact, I don’t think it would do you any good if I had my way and stole all your pains away. I do have real and powerful tools to combat suffering, but today, that is not my point. Today, I need you to know that this pain you feel can go wherever you want. You are free to choose. I hope from the example I shared and set, that you will try to be a hero. I hope your pain will become the conflicts of a hero and not the trials of a villain. If you harbor great anger and hate in your heart, I invite you to deeply consider it. What pain caused it and to whom is it directed? Then, when you understand it, I then ask something of you that I struggle to ground. I ask you to not turn to bottle, sword, or pen with this rage, but let it stay as pain.