For a long time now I have been planning to write about our addiction to pain.
I don't really know how to approach the subject, because as addicted as we are to pain, it is also painful to talk about it. Some sensitive triggers are being pressed. It's hard for us to admit it to ourselves.
And I agree that it's not easy to talk about. So I apologize head on, I truly am.
But, you cannot not-address this subject.
And it's surprising and amazing to me every time, to realize.
How much there's a sizable portion of pleasure in pain.
How much pain is the biggest thing that we are addicted to.
But, it is very, very uneasy to acknowledge.
I see it during sessions. How much people don't like to realize when their physical pain is gone. How much it kind of 'sucks' when they suddenly feel better. How much grief and sadness we have to go through when the pain leaves us. How much we miss it.
I see it in relationships. How much we Love, sado-masochisticly, to find and identify the painful "triggers" in the other person, and show it to him/her in a pleasurable hurting manner.
We see this pain everywhere, confusing it so many times with Love. We use mutual pain to get closer to each other. You ever notice how in movies the main characters have their first kiss "moment" only after she cries?
So many songs have been written about broken "Love". We Love fantasizing about him/her so much, the one who didn't want us. Even the sayings – falling in Love, having a crush on someone, falling head over heels, describes how Love is something you fall or crush into.
It is not.
Love is not something you fall into.
Love is something you rise up to.
And it is important to distinguish between the Love and pain. Love and pain are *not* the same thing. It is easy to confuse the two, because they both trigger a deep, hidden, hazy spot inside of us. We get confused, because we feel someone pressing that button inside of us, that huge, overwhelming emotion in us, and so we call it "Love". It is not. But that is pain, only feeding our need for drama.
The breath being taken away, the tears, they are not a symptom of Love. In the presence of real Love the waves are serene, the breath is quiet.
But we don't feel that simple Love is interesting enough. We just love the thrill too damn much.
We confuse pain with Love so often because when someone touches that sensitive spot inside us we feel exposed and therefore get attached to that person. We confuse the sensation of fear from abandonment and our reaction to Love. We can't seem to tell the two apart, we can't seem to notice exactly which kind of deep, subtle, spot is being touched in us.
Pain gives us a great excuse. When we are in pain, we finally "feel". I am in pain – therefore I exist, now it's real. Only then do we finally allow ourselves to ask for sympathy from our surrounding, pity, warmth and empathy. Only in times of grief we allow ourselves to let go of all differences and just Love. Pain is an excuse us to open that channel where it's OK to finally express and feel our authenticity. Supposedly.
It's so hard for us to admit to ourselves that we enjoy pain. That there's something thrilling about it. But it is a very important distinguish to make. We must face this fact. The path of pain is a path that we have learned to master so well over the years, that we almost don’t even know how to march another path. In order to get used to simple, infinite Love we have to learn how to let go of the need for drama.
Because Love is not pain.
Love is not pain.
Love is that amorphous, Universal abstract energy that surrounds us all, anytime and anywhere, and we only need to raise our head above the water, over that collective bubble of pain we are addicted to, and see It.
There's Love, and then there's all the rest.
In order for us to rise towards it, we must agree to lay down our swords. We must agree to stop fighting. We must agree to stop bickering. We must stop trying to defend ourselves. We must stop, stop, stop playing this game of longing for drama, for finding pleasure in the negative. To stop this bizarre enjoyment of wanting only him, only her, the one who didn’t want us, that bizarre pleasantness we have when we suffer.
And I know, it's not that easy.
Or maybe it is?
To drop our swords, means, to simply sit back and rest. Rest. Rest. Love surrounds us all, always and in every given moment. It is always around us. We just need to give It some room, to move aside that chunk of pain that surrounds us and let It enter instead. To stop hurting, almost out of laziness, like this muscle that we can't be bothered with activating anymore –
And just rest.
To Love myself, to feel self-compassion (not pity, but compassion), to ease into Love. To take a deep breath, and realize that I am OK. I am always, always, surrounded by Love.