Fissured
Several of my bones have splintered or
separated and been left to heal incorrectly
on their own, mostly in childhood. Of course
the analyst believes this to be symbolic
of my habitual denial of pain or, indeed,
vulnerability, but she cannot admit this directly.
She asks me leading questions like, am I truly
feeling the feeling of suffering, which I
find difficult to imagine. If I’m not feeling
my pain, then who or what is the me in my?
Instead, I announce that my partner comments
often that I never complain and rarely experience
side effects of a medication or symptoms
of an illness. By providing evidence for her
claim, I hope to lead her to accidentally provide
some reasoning. I know she believes this hope
for narrative arrangement, too, reflects repression
of some deep ache. Still, I imagine physical pain
as an intellectual relief, whereby thought stops
being a primary expression. I read that Asian
patients require less analgesic than the European
ones and wonder about what I want, my Asian
patience, against what I require. My nose broken
twice created a sort of suffocating zigzag,
permanent purple band along my bridge, so
light it is imperceptible to almost everyone.
An elbow to my face in front of a group made
them suddenly concerned, so I smiled to render
such disquiet unnecessary. I could not assume
their concern was real, which is to say lasting,
and I held, as I hold now, pain as ultimately
shallow, never indicative of anything but itself.
