“Soften into pain.” Soften into pain? I’m not sure I know what this means.
Does it mean to imply I’ve not faced my pain?
Because if it does, it’s wrong. I have, and I do.
I face it every morning when I’m greeted by the hideous perfection of unruffled sheets…again. I face it every breakfast when I see the kettle laying dormant, no longer needed to make her morning tea. I face it when my kids come down from bed, unable to sleep because they miss their Mum. I face it when I remember how my 14 year old boy watched his Mum turn blue as she died on our kitchen floor, the very same place where we now have to make school lunches every morning. I face it when I’m asked “What happens if you die Dad?” How do you “soften” into the pain of your nine year old daughter asking that? How do you soften into any of that?
What does it mean?
Does it mean I have to detach from myself and somehow melt into and around the knives that cut me every waking moment.
Because if it does, I’m not sure I can do that. “Just relax, sir, it’ll hurt more if you’re tense.”
I can’t soften into pain. Because I’m already in pain. The worst pain I’ve ever known. And it doesn’t let up. As the layers of disbelief slowly peel off, week by week, reality tears at me afresh with an exceedingly harsh brutality. I’m painfully aware of how exposed I am. I don’t know how I soften into that. Because I have no control.
