Drowning the Life-Sucking Bastard (for a Moment)

Meeting new pain management physicians is always… a sort of interesting, unease-fueled experience. You just don’t know what kind of person you’re going to get. And when it comes to the doctor who is supposed to help you deal with the not-cool-at-all monster that eternally threatens to shatter your bones (and sanity), the personality attached to the medical wisdom matters.

I think I got lucky… again. The doctor I’ve seen for the last few years was excellent, so I was anxious about someone new. My apprehension was put at ease, when after discussing all the physical and administrative aspects of my treatment, the new doctor asked, “Why do you think that writing helps you manage pain?” I began to snarl—anyone who tries to get between me and writing will end up seeing the sharper side of my teeth—but the doctor raised a hand, smiled, and said, “Don’t kill me yet. I just want to know.”

My explanation was quite extensive, it went on and on and on and on… but it can be summarized like this: “I’m not mad enough, in that sense, to think that writing can rid me of pain. But it can certainly distract me enough not to spend my days screaming while agony steals my life away.” Also, words make the coolest of weapons, so it’s a win-win situation—my doctor agrees.

I know ink
can’t kill pain, but
heart-fed torrents of words will
drown the life-sucking bastard
for a sweet, sweet moment.

So… what’s your weapon of choice, when trying to drown what ails you?

Welcome to the Pain Circus

I crashed into the Pain Circus when a rock cracked my skin and flashed a shinbone the color of blood-shrouded teeth in a ragged mouth crimsoned by rouge pumped out of my heart. I screamed for the audience, believing my pain to be unique in its wrath.

Innocence and ignorance are kissing cousins. Reality’s an unwanted child that shits all over your best suit while giggling at you. But you accept the little bastard because you (and the rest of us) can’t thrive without its crap.

I live in my Pain Circus, collecting screams, ripping art out of agony’s gut, spelling hurts, using rage and will to feed the fire fueling my ink.

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the wee notes…
– inspired by my first memory of excruciating physical pain. Before that, I had suffered a burn or 3, and had lived with a skin disease that could’ve probably won me a shambling role in The Walking Dead, but… the shock of seeing my tibia exposed has made this incident one of my most vivid memories of physical pain. I’ve suffered more serious injuries since, but for some reason this one always bleeds brighter than the rest. No idea why…
– for the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads.

these deliciously creepy postcards, by Mizna Wada,
are a gift from my sweetest and dearest, Mistress Emma,
of Groovy Gothic. Thanks a bunch, Emma love.