Pain is such a fickle thing. There is no standard, no universal scale. Never precisely a yard nor a meter, but a cubit. It is approximate and individual, the problem being that we are all in a singular form and through a series of idiosyncratic choices and circumstances that have made us each exactly as we are, we have constructed quite varied barricades and fortifications against pain. Some have picket fences, others wrought iron. We each craft what we must.
Because the body endures.
This coalescence of isolation and resilience makes it such that we have no real way of measuring our own pain and from it, often assume that the pain we have grown to endure is normal. How could something we can’t compare to anything else be normal? From the Greek gignosko, to know. It is ironic. We know nothing other than what we have come to know as true in our bodies—these echo chambers, these vacuums of existence. Our truth may not be normal, but it becomes the norm.
Because the body endures.
This body I have come to know, one I deeply love despite our strained relationship these almost forty years together, has endured pain I never knew was not experienced by most others. And in my body’s endurance, she grew distressed. But we thought it was normal so we carried on.
Because the body endures.
But a body is not meant to be in a constant state of distress. A body wants balance: homeostasis. Near constant dysregulation makes a body fearful. Like a scared stray dog, she barks at any disturbance: a phone call, an email, a “could we chat?” or a “I need to talk to you about something.” She is forever on guard, forever alert. She cannot thrive, but she survives.
Because the body endures.
This pain, this distress, this survival—these sources of trauma—forever alter her, touching every part of her: nervous, digestive, cardiovascular, endocrine, immune. These alterations bring new pain, new distress, new things to survive, which she does.
Because the body endures.
She does it so well that real, deep, profound pain to others comes to feel like nothing more than a dull ache—a minor inconvenience. To her, it is manageable. I’ve had worse, she declares.
“On a 1-10 scale, what would you say is your baseline for your anxiety?” the therapist asks.
“A five, maybe,” I answer.
Has it always been a five? Surely not. But I couldn’t tell you when it surpassed two, let alone four. Time heals all wounds, but boils frogs. I know now that what goes on inside this body isn’t normal, and that there are others who feel this same not-normal, and that many of those many others are just as blind as I once was. So I cast aside the isolation as best I can. “Does this ever happen to you?” I ask my friends. I am desperate for validation and community, just as I am desperate to help guide others out of the darkness of their normal.
Because while the body can endure, she needn’t suffer, and most especially not alone.
We’re so glad “Because the Body Endures” has found a home at Eckleburg. Thank you, Georgia.