The best thing about experiencing Pain is experiencing relief. 

When your Pain is so bad you can't breathe, or you can't stand, or you can't walk, that first wave of relief is euphoric. A yellow light of warmth spreading over a dark cave. Oh my god.

Relief makes you feel invincible. Memories of The Pain become abruptly unwelcome. Who wants to think about that when you feel like yourself again? Relief creates a temporary delusion. You think, "I'm fine. It's not that bad. We'll deal with it later." 

But, relief betrayed me. It stopped coming to erase the Pain. I shouldn't have allowed relief to let things get this bad. 

Relief destroyed me. 

You all have either read or are going to read the (boring) details of my life with Pain later,  so I'll give you a quick overview. I don't remember the exact date The Pain started in me. I do know that it started around the time I got my period - so around middle school. It was hard to distinguish My Pain from the period stuff because no one gives a shit about that pain. Take something for it. Shut up about it. Hide it. Don't talk about it. Don't think about it. I went years assuming that The Pain was just a part of the "natural way of things." 

By the time I realized that my Pain was a different monster, one that had settled into my guts and eaten away at me for years, it was too late. I blame myself. I allowed things to get bad.

And that's where we begin. (Sorry if you were interested in hearing about the origins of my Pain from the horse's mouth. I was instructed to keep that brief.) 

For years The Pain would come, followed by relief, and then a bout of amnesia that erased The Pain's intensity from my memory. I'd mention The Pain during my annual checkups but I could never seem to remember how bad The Pain had been. 

"Oh, it's like a 7 out of 10," I'd tell the overworked nurses. I knew somewhere deep down that I should tell the doctors that my Pain was consistently a 10 out of 10, but that felt like a lie. My brain said: You're just being dramatic. Relax. 

The Pain/Relief cycle came to a crashing halt after about 16 years of downplaying my health. 

The relief stopped coming. 

I waited, oh, I waited for relief. But it never came. The Pain lasted weeks. Then months. A stabbing, jabbing, hot poker that seared my insides every time I breathed too hard. 

"It's fucking 14 out of 10!" I yelled when I finally got myself to the doctor. Actually, wait, sorry guys, I didn't yell. I don't know why I just said that. I would never yell. I could cut my arm off and still do my best to talk in a normal tone. "Don't be dramatic."

Anyway, fourteen's the magic number because after I declared The Pain a 14 out of 10, the doctor suddenly decided The Pain was an urgent matter - after over 15 years of it not being urgent. 

I was swept into testing, IV drips, and ultrasounds. The nurses spoke to me in hushed, gentle tones. I was treated like a fragile royalty. All I had to do was say my Pain was a 14. All I had to do was cry in front of the doctors instead of pretending to be okay. 

Eventually, the doctors figured out where The Pain was coming from and why it was coming. But it was too late. There was nothing they could do. We'd waited too long to solve the mystery. The Pain would linger until it ate me alive. And that could be sooner or later. I'd have to live with it until it killed me or I took myself out. 

I should've said "14 out of 10" long ago. 

I was given medication for The Pain but it didn't work. I am -- I was in a constant state of agony.

After about a year of the nonstop pain I decided I was through.  

I decided to cut out my Pain with a carving knife. 

It didn't take much thought. I'd woken up from another sleepless night, dreading the day. That was normal. Every morning I stared at the wall and imagined crawling inside of it and decomposing within the walls. Anything would be better than this. I was barely able to function but forced to operate enough that people didn't mistreat me. People had grown tired of hearing about The Pain. I'd grown tired of pretending not to have it. 

It was a beautiful day outside and I heard my neighbors heading out with their friends. I'd grown to hate beautiful days because I couldn't experience them the way I used to. 

I climbed out of bed. The world felt hazy and uneven. I'd taken too many painkillers to get myself to sleep last night and now I felt a bit lightheaded. As I made my way to the bathroom, careful not to trigger more Pain by breathing too hard, I considered what I'd have for breakfast. Nothing. No appetite. As usual. 

I washed my face in the sink. Usually, I avoided making eye contact with myself but that day I dared myself to look. I saw me. I saw me. I saw me. I realized no one was coming to save me. I had to save myself.

I went to the cooking store and got one of those fancy Japanese knives. I was careful to cover my face and eyes so that no one saw me or looked at me. The most annoying thing in the world is having people stare at you while in Pain. The knife cost me more than I expected but I deserved the best. This was going to require precision. 

By the time I returned home I felt a bit delirious. Lack of food, too many pills, and the rush of excitement over what was coming all contributed to this dizzy, foggy state. 

I wanted to do it in my bedroom but I needed a floor-length mirror, and the only one I had was nailed to the wall in the living room. 

I put on some music for a final touch. Unfortunately, there isn't a Spotify playlist that can capture the feeling of cutting through your flesh, so I went with my favorite song playlist. Because, I thought, this is a joyous occasion. I'm saving myself.

I stuffed a dish towel in my mouth to stifle any screaming. I'm usually very good at keeping a straight face while in Pain, but I didn't want to chance this one.

Outside, I could hear one of my neighbors having a barbecue. His music was so loud it was distracting and overlapped mine. I turned my music up to full volume. Fuck you.

I ran the knife's edge over the outline of The Pain, right over my hip bones. I felt the knife's blade graze the top layer of my skin. It felt like a light tickle. When I started to apply pressure I felt the first prick of the knife breaking the top layer of my skin.

It took a second for my body to realize what was happening. Blood started to bead up in a trail behind the knife's edge. And the more pressure I applied to the blade, the more sting. That's when it started to feel like I was doing something terrible. I bit down on the towel. This felt worse than I thought. Relax. Don't be dramatic. Keep Going. 

I felt mad at myself for wanting to scream. I'd survived the horrors of my IUD insertion with nothing more than a "good luck." The gyno told me, "It'll just feel like a cramp," forgetting that I'd come in complaining about how suicidal I feel when I cramp. The doctor used a tool to manually force my undiluted cervix open to insert the IUD. I remember the nurse grabbing my hand. As the doctor thrust the copper thing up into my cervix — which was currently being held open by god knows what— she said, "Stay relaxed." Because if I moved too much, I'd probably damage my cervix. Stay relaxed. Don't scream. It's just a cramp.

Anyway — 

My hand shook. I couldn't keep it steady anymore. I hadn't even cut through tissue but I felt faint. The fun playlist felt like a bad idea now. Why are so many songs about "partying through the bad times?" 

Finally, I'd gotten to the white meat. My skin looked like the top of a fresh piece of bread. Split open, puffy, and full of layers. I tried my best to ignore the blood streaming down my pants but my socks were soaked. I wanted to take them off but bending over meant excruciating Pain from the incision. 

But I said, fuck it and I bent over to remove my socks. I deserved a tiny bit of pleasure.

For a while, I had a partner that helped me feel pleasure when I could. We'd navigate pleasure through The Pain with tools, sounds, and mutual understanding. But when The Pain didn't stop I became too tired and cranky to feel pleasure. My partner assured me they would stick it out with me until I felt better, but I pushed them away. 

I heard something hit the ground with a THUD. My eyes were closed now and I was afraid to open them. A tugging sensation told me something was wrong. 

I looked in the mirror.

My entrails (intestines - for those of you who don't know) had spilled out and tumbled onto the ground. 

And then - I screamed. Fuck, I screamed. 

Sorry, one more quick detour -- When I was a kid, I sliced my finger open in class. I think it was from one of the disposable razors my mom had. She had a bunch of replacement razors and I had one in my pocket for some reason. I'd forgotten and reached my hand in my pocket and slashed my fingers open. I can't even remember what That Pain felt like but I remember the sensation of flesh and muscle torn open. I kept my mouth shut. I was embarrassed to show Pain. Everyone would look at me. Everyone would laugh — it was middle school and kids were cruel, especially to people like me. I sat there for as long as I could. Finally, I looked down and saw that the classroom carpet beneath me was stained with blood.

I realized that I couldn't hide and that, eventually, everyone would see the bloodstain beneath my seat. So, I went up to the teacher and showed her my fingers. I lied and said, "I think I cut myself on my desk." Or maybe I said. "I have a bad paper cut." The last thing I remember was the horror on my teacher's face. The following year, the carpet in that classroom had to be pulled up. But I never screamed. 

Okay sorry. Back to it. 

My intensities continued to slide out of me like a sausage factory. I tried to hold in my own guts, but they were slippery in blood and goo, and I couldn't get a grip. Why couldn't I get a solid grip? 



Black tar. Black tar. Black tar. b̵̢̢͉̖̜̳͉͈̼̮̲̙͖̺̞͚̟̘͓͙͕͕̗̖͈̗͉̦̼͕̖͙̝̰̔̌͜͜ͅͅļ̴͖̪͇̘̥̭̻͖̭̘̦̺͙̤̯̗̖̟̼̩͉͉̖̖̱̟̩̹̣́̀̃́̇̓̾͒̒̽͗̓̒̓͒͒̊̈́̇͗̈́̂̄̕͜͝͝ͅͅͅą̸̢̡̧̨̯̫̣͙͖͕̫̙̰̼̻̲̮̫̘̲̖̪͈͓̹̝̩̐̾̎̓̾̒̐͂̔̽̾̎͆̓̈̇̒͌͒͒̌̅̅̂͛̀̈́͐̌̇̈́́̍̅̈́̈̕̕͝͝ḉ̷̨̼̭̮͓͈͎̥͚̣͖̝̫̟̏̽̿̀͛̀̒̋̇͐̌̍̓̃̅͒͑̏̉̌̍͗̄̓̔̿̏͘̕͝͝͝͠ķ̴̨̧̢̧̢̨̝̟͔̘͕̖̮̬͕̲͇͖̰̜͖̳̫̭̖̦̯̠̪̼̘̝̖͍̞̻̱̰͔͒͆͋̇͒́̉̅̓̆͊̑̃̀͊̉͂̒́͛̒̈̎̈́̈́̿͐͐͗̈́̓̆͗̒̊̾̆͌̾̍͂͑͐͐̌͛̏̚̕̕̚̚͜͜͠͠ ̵̨̛̛̞̭͕͕̦̣̤̗̻̘͓͙͓̹̱͕̬̜̱̈́̈́̇͊͐̓́̌́̓̓̈́̏́̾̆̍͗̇̈́̅̓̎̈́̍̀̄̏̌͐̎͗͋͆̉̂̒́̄͛̏̓̋̒͂̇̎̈͒͛̂̈̕̕̚̕͠͠͝ͅt̷̛̛̲̙̝̺̩̭̆̌̍̏̈́̎͂̏̆͛̔͑̇̓̀̈́͗͒͌̾̎̃̅̓̈́͐̀͋̈̈̽̀̿̿͘̚͠ą̷̢̨͎͓̻̳̰̜̹̼̰̯̞̼͕̣̖̟̠̝̱̙̯̖͙̘̜̩̰̩̲̼̱̮̮̼̘̻̤̯͈̰̪̝̞̮̝̝͕͖̲̻̱̿́̊͊͊͊͂͆́͋̾̀̎̒̉͘͘͜͜͠ͅr̵̢̡̧̢̡̢̛̛̙̦̝̳͖̱̘͇͈͖̠̲̮͖̫͈̬͓̭͚̟͔̙̪̩̞͈̪͚͉͖̳̼̞̟̺̊͆͊̌͌̓̈́̒͐̀̎́̍͊͒̀̈͋̄̇̋͊̈́̓̿͊̂͊̐̽͂̐̈͋̑̀͒̎̕̚͘͘̕͜͜͜͜͜͝͠ͅ



My intestines are covered in it. My floors were drenched with it. The vile spilled out of me. "It's The Pain." I grunt out. I couldn't talk loud or more globs of tar pushed out of me like toothpaste. 

I look back into the mirror. I can see more of my insides. It's all black. All of it. Everything is covered in Black Tar. The Pain has spread to everything.

It smelled like a rotted corpse in my living room. An olfactic cocktail so thick I could taste it -- imagine rotting pig fat swirled with strawberry syrup.

This was just my luck. I tried so hard not to be dramatic that I would die in the most dramatic way anyways. 

I knew this would be how it would end and in a way, I loved it. I was so ready to die — 

"But you're all better now, right?" 

I pause my story. Shit. The audience's staring back at me right now. Horrified. 

I'd gotten so caught up that I hadn't noticed how uncomfortable the show host had become. Before the show, she told me to keep my story light and entertaining. 

Talk a little about The Pain, a quick summary of the Incident, and an inspiring finale.  I've gone too far. 

"You're standing here now, so things obviously worked out!" The host insists. She's reeling me back in. 

I smile and nod. The audience claps, undoubtedly grateful that the host brought us back to the here and now. My story's made things uncomfortable. The audience wants a show. They don't want a guilt trip. 

The host's smile is hollow. She doesn't give a fuck. 

"Yes," I say, "You'll have to read the funny details about my neighbors calling the cops on me and being restrained and blah blah. But the incident inspired me to write my book. To share with folks that you too can make it! I'm so much better and happy that everyone can benefit from my crazy story!" 

More audience clapping. The host seems relieved that I've gone back to the script. 

The host nods to a nearby table on the stage. It's stacked with Glass Jars. They're full of the Black Tar from my "moment of madness," as they're calling it. It's a novelty.

"I needed something to do with the Tar," I continue, "When I realized I wasn't dead, I began scooping up the Tar, intestines swinging and all — I wanted to make sure I got my security deposit back!" 

I laugh and that gives the audience permission to laugh. 
The host holds up my book. The one where I took my moment of Pain and made it into an absurd novelette. 

Truthfully I don't remember writing it. I do remember deciding to post a snippet of it online and spending the rest of the evening craving the sedatives I was given at the hospital. The Pain was gone but it had been replaced with something worse. And here I am, a few months later. Some publisher found my book sample online and now I'm on stage -

"We're so lucky that we had the opportunity to hear from such a creative writer with such a fantastic imagination that speaks to all of us." It doesn't. It's a very specific experience that I'm speaking about, not of the imagination. 

"And because this is her book launch, her team has decided to give a jar of 'black tar' with every purchase. A promised 'authentic' collector's piece. Our author has warned everyone not to open it."

The audience cheers. They can't wait to get their hands on my tar. I hope they open it. I hope the rot infests their houses. 

The host stands and motions for me to stand up. I take too long -- the incision's not fully healed. Impatient, the host yanks me up. I pretend not to notice. 

Back in the green room, the host told me she believed my story, but as she pulls me towards the table — where I'll be signing copies of my book and passing out jars of my insides for hours to come — I have a feeling that she doesn't. I have a feeling that no one does. 

I sit down to sell my story, my:
"Fantastical!
"Imaginative!
"Absurdist Tale About a Bad Stomachache!" 

I sold all the copies of my book today. I made three hundred bucks. For my Pain. For my jars of tar.

The world breaks everyone and afterward many are strong at the broken places. But those that will not break it kills. It kills the very good and the very gentle and the very brave impartially. If you are none of these you can be sure it will kill you too but there will be no special hurry.

 Ernest Hemingwaym to Arms