The People Behind My Eyes

Control Is A Handicap

What would it be like for me to express pain, to express simple pains like stubbing my toe or getting a paper cut? One question lead to a conversation that had me running from the therapy office to the restroom to toss my cookies. For me, expressing pain means losing control and letting the pain or giver of pain have the satisfaction of knowing they can hurt me. I stifle all groans and rarely flinch or grimace even when something really hurts. I can be in an extraordinary amount of pain and not drop a tear and never hint that I’m suffering. I saw that as a strength when I was younger, now I see it as a handicap. I can’t express a physical ouch let alone severe, should be doubled over in pain type reactions. That reaction was warranted today when I went to cross my legs in therapy. My knee cracked and sent a pain shooting up the left leg, right where the degeneration is the worst. He said that was the first time he’s ever seen me grimace, as he called it. I didn’t realize I did. I felt rather stupid, embarrassed that he saw it. Through everything we’ve talked about and all the times I’ve shown up hurting so badly, today was the first time he saw any sign at all that I was physically uncomfortable.

He asked what it would be like if I were to express pain as others do. The question confused me but then I asked him, Don’t people usually feel embarrassed when they’re in pain? He said not really, no. I started to think about how embarrassed I was to cry because it meant being laughed at, being mocked, scolded and told how shocked they were because they knew I didn’t have a heart so where were the tears coming from? And of course I recall how horribly my sister was made fun of for crying. My goodness they laughed at her, right in her face and told her she was making a circus clown out of herself. They mocked her, jumped up and down like she was doing and did the “oh this hurts” dance. They told her she could win an Oscar for such a performance. How could I break down, lose control that way and subject myself to that? No sign of pain meant no satisfaction for giving it and no scolding or mocking for expressing it. It also meant I’d carry that lesson with me into my adult years and apply it to situations where it’s not warranted.

I use to think I was really something for being able to take needles in the roof of my mouth and not flinch or scream out. You know why my mother stopped doing, that I asked Dr. D? She stopped because I taught myself to like it and that’s why I no longer screamed out. A few minutes later my head went down, I got up in a hurry to leave the room and give an offering at the porcelain throne. I taught myself to like it and that upset the mother to the point that she no longer found use for it.

I just didn’t want her to have the satisfaction of seeing me lose my mind over the pain of toothpicks or sewing machine needles in the roof of my mouth or the souls of my feet. I could have lost it like my sister did but I figured why give her the satisfaction? I wanted control over a situation clearly out of my control. I may not be able to make you stop hurting me but I can control my reaction to you hurting me. You’ll have to find another way to excite yourself because I refuse to take part in feeding your sicknesses. That’s what I figured I was doing when I refused to scream out no matter how much it hurt. That’s what I figured I was doing when I sat and thought about how to handle the pain. I also used a technique she gave me. She told me to fantasize about being tortured and raped and it would make the experience more tolerable. What would I do? How would I react during and afterwards? I thought about it as best I could and the only thing I could come up with at the time was, “enjoy it”. During times when I couldn’t go far enough away in my head to not feel the full extent of the torture I leaned on the new plan to make it tolerable, to make sure I didn’t fully lose my mind. I think my sister lost her mind.

I thought I had so much control back then. I thought I was the reason for the downfall of my family. I thought I was the reason she had to hurt me. I thought I was the cause of all our problems and I thought I could handle whatever came my way in pain or sexual abuse. I thought I had it all under control. The only thing I had was the body and mind of a child that lived with a sexual sadist. That’s all I had. I had no manual on how to deal with a sexual sadist, what to say, what not to say, what reactions are normal and which one’s are not. I had no one to tell me it wasn’t my fault or that in later years all my efforts to survive her would be put to use in unrelated circumstances and stifle my ability to thrive as a normal adult. No manual, no real way to understand what was happening. It was just me and that woman.

All those days and nights I spent with her are with me every day and every night. The same lessons I learned back then, save the enjoyment of pain, are still with me. I still feel like I need total control of my physical and emotional reactions as well as my living space. Always having control is a handicap and its an illusion, one I’m so very afraid of breaking. Admitting I don’t have total control of myself feels like I’ve given myself up to anyone who might want to hurt me for their own pleasure. Somehow I have to find a way to not see my mother’s reflection in every face I cross on the street. Somehow I have to find a way to not assume pain will be mocked or scolded. At least this time I have a manual and someone to tell me it wasn’t my fault. At least this time I have an adult mind, an adult body and help.

Joan of Arc inside Morton’s Pride

Control Is A Handicap-Wednesday, May 07, 2008- 6:38PM EST

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