Pain Tolerance

One night in November, five years ago, a group of fifteen women hung their snow-drenched coats at the door and gathered on the floor of a tiny apartment. We ate potato soup and everyone told their stories in English, so that I could understand. Knowing little about me other than my nationality, many of the women commented on how strong I was, to journey to one of the darkest places in the world alone.

It was a recurring theme that winter: “You have so much strength,” I was told. I managed to hold it together in class and during social gatherings, but I cried every other moment of the day. There was nothing strong about me, aside from my robust portico – the erroneous structure of my otherwise faulty temple.

After that semester in Finland, I made it my sole purpose in life to be unshakable. Strength, I was convinced, is an ability to suffer silently. Character, I told myself, is something created out of pain. Difficulty, I determined, will be my path. And I became resilient.

This past Tuesday, she raised her glass and assured me of one thing, which she said encompasses all aspects of life: “It does not have to be difficult.”

As a child with an incapacity for physical pain and a disposition for public breakdowns, I was continuously instructed to stop being so sensitive. My mother would comb my long, tangled hair in the mornings, and every time I winced, she would scowl and comb harder.

When life wasn’t fair, I cried. When I couldn’t comprehend subtraction, I faked a stomachache. When it was my sister’s birthday rather than my own, I came down with a mysterious flu. There was no paper cut, no cloudy day, no failed tennis match that would not send me into a deep emotional low, to which my parents would sigh and say, “Stop being a baby.”

As a result, I have spent nearly three decades, trying desperately to convince myself that I don't feel pain: that bad things happen, that I deserve them, that I keep going and don't make a fuss. Fortunately, I have found a way to function, in the midst of crisis. Unfortunately, my refusal to admit to discomfort and my inability to seek help have enabled me to master the art of suppressing things that hurt me.

I walked the two blocks to 7-11 for coffee this morning at a normal pace, so I did not appear handicapped. My knee was in excruciating pain and made a disturbing crunching noise with every extension of my left leg, but I kept going. When I got to the corner of 1st and Orange, I sat on the curb and cried. I cried because I felt pain and I was challenging myself to admit it. I cried because, sometimes, I am completely helpless. I cried because I have nothing left to prove. I cried because I remembered the time I fractured four vertebrae in my back and my dad yelled at me ruining his ski trip. I cried because of the patterns I have created out of a lack of belief in myself. I cried because I never thought I deserved better. I cried because the simple solution is honesty, but I don’t know how to be truthful. I cried because I am terrified of living one more day like this.

The people who passed tried not to look at the weirdo on the curb, crying, and it made me uncomfortable. So I stopped, and then I stood up and continued walking.