I stopped believing in miracles when I became an expert on pain. But I didn't know pain.
Pain wasn't the metaphorical shattering into pieces when I misjudged and mistrusted and misstepped. It wasn't belting out the words to a song that meant nothing to me days before, but now summed up my entire existence, screaming the lyrics till my throat was raw and my nails cut half-moon indents into the palms of my hands and my eyes were puffy beyond repair and there weren't words left to tell myself that things will be okay. Pain wasn't the delusions of depression or the emptiness that ebbed in and out of my consciousness as I waited for the days to pass without event or distraction, hoping in my stupor that there would be an end eventually.
Pain wasn't the way my mind shrank back at his harsh words, the way his eyes narrowed when I stepped one foot out of line. It wasn't my eyes desperately looking toward the liquor cabinet behind the bar, wondering, wondering, what would happen if... Pain wasn't throwing myself into bed each evening, waiting for morning when he would have left already, hoping that I hadn't miscounted the days, desperate to be free from the stranglehold he had on every. single. action. No, that wasn't pain at all.
Pain was watching you, walled in by white and chemical and the stench of sick and sterile and the windows forever closed, your eyes constantly laced with stupor, your limbs stiff with atrophy and your jaw clenched in agony. Pain was singing to you and never knowing whether you could hear me or not, never really sure you remembered who I was. Pain was watching the life slowly fade from your face, your hands gently releasing their grasp.
Pain was hearing the news on Christmas Day and having nobody to turn to, no one to cry on the shoulder of, no one to protect me from life as it inexplicably continued on around me.
And pain is watching a face you knew by heart and could only ever imagine smiling turn to wide eyes and anxiety and fear and agony as another life slowly drifts away before your eyes. Pain is looking into once-smiling eyes and seeing a blankness that only death can bestow, and knowing that there's nothing you can do to fight back these demons and there's no hope to save her and the only thing you can do is watch and wait as the warm arms that once held you so close fall away, limp and cold.
Pain is having questions that nobody can answer and all the rage of the sea and nowhere to turn with it, because nothing you do can make a difference.
Pain is loving a heart that can no longer beat.
