Posts Tagged ‘pain’

I have a demon living in my leg. It is nestled deep below my flesh, far below the surface where anyone can see, invisible and out of sight. Yet I can feel it in the razor edges of its shape. I feel it as it pierces deeper toward my skeleton. The intruder roots deep in my hip joint, embedded under the attachment of my leg. Then it entwines its barbed tentacles around my shape, binding and restraining me.

I hear it laugh when I try to stand up quickly. I feel its claws snag and catch my nerves as I struggle to move. It paralyzes me, nullifying my brain’s commands with the garbled static of pain.

I imagine the demon with long, electrified tentacles, which it whips around at random. I feel them coil around my nerves and send flashes of pain over my nervous system. I imagine it has horrendous razor teeth, sharp points that plunge into my soft tissue if I offend it. I see the demon the color of dark, oxygen-deprived blood and misshapen like a tumor.

In short, my hamstring injury continues. The MRI identified it as a tear, but to me, it feels like this relentless demon.

If I am honest with myself, the kind of soul-crushing honest that one maybe should not put on the internet, I invited this demon in. Not with my obsessive exercise. Not with my compulsive over training. Not with my complete disregard for my body’s pain signals and warnings. No, I all but directly conjured it.

When I was younger and lost in my own darkness, I coped through self-mutilation. My pain was so great and my mind was so fractured that I both grounded myself and released myself with minor cutting or burning. The physical pain brought clarity, dredged me up back to the real world from the distorted trap in my mind.

It was a horrible coping device that obviously did more harm than good, and thankfully, I was only entangled in it for a short time. It was a crucial step on my descent to my bottom. At the bottom, I discovered myself and started becoming who I am today. Yet there was an enticing honesty about it. A rawness in the complete embrace of the pain, both mental and physical. The behavior felt pure and unfettered by rules or expectations.

Despite knowing how outlandishly crazy these feelings are and moving well past the behavior, at times I endure a certain nostalgia for it. The kind of delusional fondness one could only feel for something so destructive after over a decade. I have not placed blade to my skin since I was in my latest teens, and that gap has permitted a perverted ideation to blossom.

 

I never thought I wanted to cut myself again. I never had an impulse to injure or hurt myself. I was not even upset or depressed. Ironically, I found myself in a level, balanced, even happy place. Yet, I found strange thoughts bobbing up in my brain. A weird sort of desire to have a minor injury to nurse, some minor physical pain. Perhaps a rebellion to the uncharted territory of sanity and happiness, as fleeting as it ever is.

I am such an idiot.

My body answered. In a dazzling display of self-preservation, it gave me what I wanted.

Instead of granting me a small little physical irritant, a little pacification of my old demons, it went grand.  I cannot say that I blame it; how could I expect any different from MY body? I do nothing a little. To answer me, it ripped my damn hamstring and provided me with more pain than I knew how to cope with. I asked for a cup of water and got a firehouse. My clever body flooded me with pain so that I would never be foolish and moronic enough to wish for it again.

I did this to myself, with my own mental defects and stupidity. I invited this suffering, and for being so foolish, I deserve it. The injury is not the problem. It is not the demon at all. It is me; I am the demon within.

Christina Bergling

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The pain has become a good friend at this point, as the weeks have spiraled seamlessly into months. The burning edge on my nerves has become the peripheral of my normal, the baseline of my perception.

It hurts. It has hurt. It always hurts. Perhaps, it will always hurt.

The pain swallows the time, devouring the days whole spent cringing, wincing, and compensating. I do not even remember what it is like to stand up without a grimace or sneeze without a high-pitched whimper. The injury has become part of me; defeat is an adaptation.

The pain burns so vividly. As if my hamstring is being peeled from my pelvis and out the back of my leg in a long bloody line, the tendon quivering like a strummed guitar string. As if boiling water is pouring down the back of my leg in a terrible waterfall that pools prickling in my foot. The fire encapsulates my entire hip before dripping and flowing down my leg until my toes are tingling and my knee buckles. The intensity washes my nerves so blindingly that my entire body seizes involuntarily around the sensation, igniting more angry points of pain.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe. Strangled breaths shoved from pursed lips. Desperate gasps outside my body.

Until the wave passes. Until the pain recedes back into the injury and the temporary paralysis of it releases.

The pain is always there, always on the edge of the incoming signals to my brain. Any movement can anger the beast. It lies in wait when I sit, exploding upon me when I dare to stand. It coils in my trunk, spiraling out into my limbs when I lean at the wrong angle or look the wrong way. It fractures the world when I sneeze.

The problem is at my root, reaching diseased branches up through my body before forming a sharp nest in my brain. The barbs and edges interfere with the neural firing, deform my reactions and perceptions, warp my personality as it has to arch and bend around the intruder. I would recognize my words and actions as foreign, if I can see anything but the pain. I only know that everything incoming stimuli is now an irritation. It all just adds to the cut of the pain.

I feel trapped within my own damaged body. My bones, wrapped in frayed nerves, form my cage, bind me in the ever-whining flesh. Each flare of pain, each restriction of movement is another barred door between me and functionality. I crave the freedom to move without thought and consequence. I want to just exist, able to do the things I want. I find myself obsessed with healing, with the idea of the other side of this injury. I fantasize about when I am all back to normal again, yet every day without improvement is just a punch in that fixation.

The confined and claustrophobic feeling in my chest tangles and dances with the physical experience of the pain. The two marry and breed into something larger and something darker, something with teeth and fangs that sets upon my mind.  I feel the hot and angry tears escape from my eyes as all the sharp points sink into the soft parts of me. I ugly cry with abandon and despair.

So I run. Literally. And I dance. And I workout like nothing is wrong, adapting and compensating around the injury. Flinching silently, breathing through it, adjusting the movement. It hurts less when I move, or so I tell myself as the endorphins reduce the size of my assailant. I take any escape when my body is quiet and my mind can process any other sensation.

Yet the pain does not relent. When the movement stops, it flares back into place.

Overnight, it changed. Consistently uncomfortable had become tolerable; flashes of pain at movement had become normal. I had packed my life up around the problem and made it work. Then I went to sleep.

With each restless turn, it felt worse. The pain spread deeper over my lethargic muscles. More angles had sharp edges or ignited the fire under my flesh. I found the one neutral position, face down with straight and immobile legs, and I sheltered in it for sleep.

When I did wake, I floundered in the pain. It overwhelmed me, blinded me, surged up over me until I could not move. I struggled to roll over to slam into my limitation. I clawed to sit up and discovered the pain formed a wall to prevent me. I could not move, and when that realization broke upon my mind, I felt the panic bloom in my chest and spread like wildfire over my nerves.

Through a flurry of whimpering and straining, I wrangled myself up from the bed, even to standing unsteadily. Yet when my body unfolded completely upright, there was the pain again. At its highest peak. I clawed at the texture of the paint on the walls as I started to collapse under its weight. My leg was too weak to stand against it.

My husband gathered me, sobbing panicked and disheartened. He dressed me and iced my leg and consoled me until I could move again. Then he mocked me mercilessly to make me smile.

The pain recedes and leaves me washed up on the original shore, still holding my hand like that constant friend.

horror

When you tell people that you are an author, the inevitable first question is always, “Well, what do you write?” To which I nonchalantly answer, “horror.” I love seeing the reactions. Usually, it is either shock with an awkward stumbling or fascination. In any case, the reaction generally provides a pretty solid gauge on how the remainder of our interaction on the subject will play out.

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If the questioner remains interested, the follow up question is naturally, “Why horror?” Especially if we start discussing The Waning. Everyone seems to have a strong reaction to that book, one way or another. Most people can get behind zombies and the apocalypse like in Savages with how mainstream those themes have become. Not everyone can take captivity and seemingly endless (and some might say, pointless) torture, however. I have family members who could not even finish The Waning; it was too “dark.”

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It is not an easy question to answer: why horror? With most things, you can get away with the canned response that you just like it. With horror, however, being so centered around darkness, pain, suffering, and all undesirable facets of life, people have a harder time understanding why someone would be drawn to it, would willing sign up to be disturbed. A common assumption is that you are damanged, broken in some way. Being not just a voyeur but a creator of such content makes you all the more suspect.

For multiple reasons, I have been ruminating on my own attraction to pain, damage, and even horror as well as introspecting on the patterns of my own mind. It is an easy assumption to correlate a comfort and enjoyment of negative things with damage or defect. Even just in my own personal instance, the preference seems innate rather than acquired. Cultivated, perhaps, yet it seems to have been a part of me as long as I can remember.

I have always felt the allure of horror. It resonated with my mind, spoke to something inside me. A darkness, maybe. Even in the youngest, happiest, most sheltered parts of my childhood, I found myself drawn to things like Halloween, fascinated by all the morbidity that surrounded them. Innocuous though the start, it grew into something else. A symptom of something deeper. I was always fixated and intrigued by pain, my own and that of others.

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As a young child, I remember feeling so much. It was a perpetual and unmanageable swell of emotions, constant and unrelenting. I experienced the most intense happiness and infatuations, yet more than that, I had a well of pain and unhappiness. I felt such strong dark and negative feelings without seeming cause. And, in an attempt to figure myself out, I remember trying to find excuses for how I felt, trying to classify my emotions into the boxes I understood. Boxes, I would learn, that would never fit me.

Yet, as I grew older, it became more clear that the darkness was in me, not infecting from outside circumstance but inherent. The pain inflicted by external stimuli, though traumatic at times, never seemed to be as black or as consuming as the kind that blossomed from my center. Instead, I sought out excuses for how I felt; I manufactured circumstance to confirm what originated somewhere beneath and behind my consciousness. It took a lot of time and severing endless strings of denial to make peace with that part of me, to identify myself as the culprit under all the layers I created.

I lost my mind, dissolved into the darkness in my teenaged years. When I think back to the way the pain devoured and distorted my mind in those darkest days, I do not know how I made it to the other side. I do not know how I functioned. I do not know how I graduated high school early, how I held down jobs, how I kept my parents at bay, how I maintained any kind of interpersonal relationships, how I went to college. I cannot remember either. Every fragment and remnant of that period in my mind is a flicker in a blur of so many substances and unchecked moods.

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I was a mess. Yet, in that mess, I was pure. I was honest. I was unrefined. And because of that, I am still irresitably drawn to that darkness. And anything that speaks to that caged and sedated part of me.

Like horror.

I am not saying one needs to be damaged and defective to enjoy horror. Nor am I saying that is the reason I respond to it on such an instinctual level. Horror, for me, is an outlet to part of myself. It confronts realities in our world and in our culture (and myself) that may not be pleasant but remain just as real. Personally, I enjoy the experience of that confrontation.

I can write a version of myself on the page who does not have her shit together, who relents to her broken mind, who is so inescapably damaged. I can empathize with a character on the screen in their worst and most tormented hour. I can toy with the darkness inside of me, letting my fingers play in the edge of the flame, without burning down my entire life.

I enjoy the flirtation with the dangerous part of me, my undesirable yet pervasive center. It is like having an affair behind the back of my sanity. Exciting and wild.

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Horror speaks to me in the language my base self understands. I am attracted to the pain the same way I used to actively seek my own, whether through self-destructive behavior or abject self-mutilation. All that is still inside of me, and my indulgence of horror is my safe, neutered way to still interact with it.

Ultimately, despite all my therapy and self-examination and understanding, I do not know why the darkness comforts me, why the pain seems native. I do not like that I find a grotesque familiarity in suffering. Could it be the damage of deformed neurotransmitters? Could it be the absense of adequate neurochemicals? Is it some association forged in experience that tumbled out of my memory? Is it something wrong with me, or is it simply me?

I spend a disproportionate amount of my life in depression. Not because my life is unsatisfactory but because that is half of the symptomology of my brain. Perhaps my affinity for horror is merely an adaptation to this. It does substantially decrease the burden to feel at home in my own sadness; it does help to surrender and wrap myself up in the black rather than fight or resist it. Maybe it’s my survival mechanism that I never knew I would need until bipolar blossomed across the wrinkles of my mind.

Regardless of causality and circumstance, independant of reasoning, I accepted myself long ago. I have embraced and actively cultivate all of these tendancies and preferences bubbling inside my head. I find joy in the darkest places and experience the breadth of a full spectrum of emotions. I live in extremes, for the better and worse.

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I am not sure if this post is ultimately about horror or bipolar or just some rambling about weird musings I have had lately. I know I’ve written about my attraction to horror before and our cultural attraction to it. To keep the answer simple, I write horror to get it out of my brain. For whatever reason, it breeds between my cells, and I express it. I feel better letting it out and indulging in it. It is just who I am.

 

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Christina Bergling

christinabergling.com
facebook.com/chrstnabergling
@ChrstnaBergling
chrstnaberglingfierypen.wordpress.com
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SavagesCoverChristinaSavages

Two survivors search the ruins of America for the last strain of humanity. Marcus believes they are still human; Parker knows her own darkness. Until one discovery changes everything.

Available now on Amazon!
savagesnovella.com

TheWaning_CoverThe Waning

Beatrix woke up in a cage. Can she survive long enough to escape, or will he succeed at breaking her down into a possession?

Available now on Amazon!
thewaning.com