By: Allison Theresa
I often feel trapped underwater in a sea of myself, sinking in the ecstasy of my pain. I drown in two years shy of three decades worth of pain and die, but I am reborn to undergo the same death over and over again. A self-inflicted samsara; my own hand-made cycle of fear, memories, and novel romances.
There is something electrifying about a painful memory. It’s what it does to my brain, the sting that cannot be soothed, the feeling that unnerves every cell in my being. It is how it makes me feel, as if I can do anything like control the wind; as if I can do nothing except to close my eyes and disappear.
It is a collective sensation of euphoria and torment, and I find myself chasing that contradiction by any means necessary, stalking the numbness until it gives in and has nowhere to run. Backed into a hollow corner, it submits to me in the same way that I have submitted to it.I interrogate them before I make my kill, just as they have chastised me so many times before. The charming thing about killing something is the awareness of what you’ve done and why. You are hypnotized by its last breath, and haunted by its final declarations.
Consequently, I don't know what is worse; the moment that I think I will never be okay, or the moment that I actually am. Because I become addicted to my suffering.
It is something that both weakens and strengthens me, but I know eventually I must let go. That fateful moment is liberating, but also a bit sad; to relinquish the power it has given me, the power to make excuses for myself, to cry and scream, to retreat, and to lash out. That all becomes a part of me, but I learn to let go. I am allowed to, I remind myself, so I do.
Not a moment too soon do I find ecstasy in the pain of another beautiful, wandering soul, a soul other than my own, perhaps in need of a lesson on the ecstasy of their pain.
Allison Theresa is a native New York writer devoting herself in the social services and non-profit professions. Experience more of her work on Instagram and Twitter @TheKotaLane.
