There is no hiding from the pain. Sometimes, it’s the perfect attacker, hiding behind closed doors and sharp corners, pouncing on its prey at random intervals. There is no telling when the attack will come; there is no time to prepare. The pain follows wherever I go. It comes into the shower, guards the back door, rides the waves in music, even penetrates my dreams. Other times, it creeps up slowly, taking over the whole place, the whole body, the whole mind. It cuts right through the core like a razor, or a knife, or a fucking machete. It brings back the past that I long to leave behind. There is nowhere to go where it can’t enter. It can’t be escaped because it lives buried inside, with the world around only reflecting its existence. I have come to know the many faces of pain, the unbearable footprint of emptiness it often leaves behind. But I have also learned to welcome the pain as it makes me feel in times when the everything around seems dull. The pain makes sense of love. The pain shows that I am human. While my heart weeps, I get stronger. The pain has shown me what it’s like to be a warrior.
It’s getting harder and harder to think in a linear way, to think logically, to think beyond this experience. I’ve been advised to write, but how can I write when I can’t think? How can I try to make sense of thoughts that are following the body? Not just the body that has passed through and on, but the body that is still here, recovering slowly, dripping at the edges with wasted nutrition, now only absorbed by starry hemp pads. How can I allow words to be written down and follow the body down the rabbit hole, where sadness and grief reside? The body doesn’t know it. The body is oblivious. The body believes it has just given birth, whole and breathing, and now expects closeness of both bodies, closure of something that has been opened. The mind follows this body, my body, that follows the scent of his body, still residing on my body. The seams are popping at the edges, craving touch, wanting to hold what is no longer here, he with bright red lips and feet too big for his body. The thoughts are confused, riding the roller coaster of emotions that come and go, and come again unexpected, like waves, like tsunamis, of tears, of sweat, of breast milk. They don’t understand; reason cannot back them up. There is nothing. There is only a void that gets filled with visions no more exciting, not sufficient to keep the mind alert and active. The drive for life has died along with him – my little hummingbird.
The uterus is closing, the pores are drying up, the body is slowly healing and shrinking to fulfill the space once occupied, to bring the space back to its original state, before the seed was planted. The only miracle remaining open is the heart where emotions go and dwell. This space of love painfully expands, stretches to dimensions not yet comprehended. It beats, steadily, and in that beat, echoes and sounds reverberate that used to represent Life itself, growing and becoming. Now that Life has passed on to a place that the mind with its thoughts cannot perceive as real, cannot digest as food, cannot rationalize within this body. The body is human, it knows only of what it’s been programmed to understand. There is a glitch in the system that seemed so perfect, that has kept me in awe over the past seven months. It is a virus, contaminating thoughts which have no mind of their own, which follow the naivety of the body. How can I think when all appears irrational? How can I free my thoughts from the grips of error, in life, in the system, in the body? How can I write?