"Something Haunting Me a Bit"

A short segment from A Brain Wider than the Sky stuck with me today. The author's son thinks that the author is acting silly when attempting to stop the pain from a headache by surrounding his head with three pillow. In response to his son's laughter, the author has a troubling thought:

... there's something else, too, something haunting me a bit, something buried in genetics, in the sleeping history of family.

You might be one, too, pal, I say, both hoping and not hoping it's true (6).

I like how honest the author, who I should probably call by his family name, Levy, is in his writing. It takes a lot of guts to admit that part of you wants the people around you, those you love, to be in pain as well. The desire for empathy, which seems only possible through a shared experience of extreme pain.

Reactions to pain do look ridiculous sometimes. If I do get migraines, I put on sunglasses and earphones with no music playing. I have no problem doing this in my tiny cubicle but I always, always take them off before venturing to get printings or leaving my safe space for some other reason. Wearing sunglasses indoors is attention-grabbing and makes one look like they just want to appear "cool." At least, that's how I feel when I wear them-- though I like to think I'm less judgmental when I see others wearing sunglasses indoors now.

Part of me wants the pain to be "seeable"-- I think about wearing my neck brace in public, even though I don't need it. I use sticky heat pads sometimes but cover them up with shirt. I've thought about wearing a shirt that shows them. Thought about wearing my sunglasses in public. But I don't want to seem like I'm screaming for attention.

It isn't really attention I want, but empathy. When I tell people I have chronic pain, I don't want them to think "well, it can't be that bad, or I would've noticed." It is that bad, but I don't WANT people to notice. If I tell people, there's generally a reason, and it usually means I either (a) really trust them or (b) feel it is necessary that they are aware.

There is such joy when I talk to others who are in pain all the time. It is a sadistic joy, one about which I feel terribly guilty. I shouldn't wish pain on anyone and I don't, but if they happen to have pain, I can't help but allow a tiny part of me to rejoice in our new camaraderie. "Finally!" I think, "Someone to talk (bitch) to!" Nobody wants to hear me gripe and moan, but if I'm willing to listen to someone else's pain then they'll listen to mine. There's just such comfort in this shared experience.

I'm sure someone's done some lovely research on shared trauma, and I'll write something up about it if it happens to cross my path. Otherwise, I'm too exhausted to look much into it. Mentally, I mean-- am a grad student after all!