Offering Pain and Fear some toast

They are lousy houseguests but good traveling companions.

Pain and Fear are lousy houseguests. I didn’t invite them, and I don’t enjoy them.

They slipped in when the Darkness appeared, which is my term for the aftermath of the Perimenopausal-Midlife-Relocation-Category-Five Hurricane that hit me last year. I’ve been hunkered down ever since, waiting for a rescue team.

And Pain and Fear have been hunkered down with me.

They eat my food, leave dirty dishes in the sink, sit in the comfy chairs, and use all the hot water. The minute I’m awake, they are in my face. If I try to sneak away, they are on my heels.

I’ve come to realize there is no rescue team, and I’m running out of supplies. I’ve attempted several times to dash through the center of the Darkness – new job, old job, new way, old way – but Pain and Fear are always at the gate. They don’t want me to pass, and I don’t want to pass them.

Who can blame me?

It’s logical to heed Fear and avoid Pain. That is why I don’t take shortcuts through dark alleys or handle 450-degree pans with my bare hands. But that’s the physical world. This Darkness is metaphysical, which makes logic about as useful as a rotary phone.

Then it dawned on me. These two idiots might be my traveling companions.

So, I invited Pain and Fear to breakfast. I toasted some toast, set out two chairs, and called them by name.

Let me tell you, that spooked them.

Fear sat down first. I took a good look at the monster.

Eyes that don’t blink. Hands so clammy I could see the moisture on their broad palms, the sheen on their long nails. I noticed a rhythmic click when they breathed, like a too-loud clock in an otherwise silent room. I felt my heart pound and my mind race.

I realized Fear doesn’t speak because they don’t have to. My imagination interpreted far more cruelly. The message was doom. No details, just doom. I stifled my desire to run.

Instead, I offered Fear some toast.

Pain slunk into the room, tools rattling. I felt my spine straighten, my body tense. Pain always has tools – sharp spikey instruments, blunt objects, chemicals.

Pain turned the chair around and sat. I could see the knife strapped to their bone-thin forearms, the billy club under their cloak, the garrot around their wrist, the pliers in their hip pocket. Pain never asks me any questions.

To be fair, I never asked Pain any questions, either. But I’m asking now.

Do you two want to come with me into the Darkness? I’m going, whether you are coming or not.

They rose, tall and terrible, but I didn’t flinch. I took Fear’s clammy hand and Pain’s dry one. They did not speak, nor did they pull away. Together, we walked into the Darkness of feeling old, lost, and broken until I couldn’t see anything.

I noticed something peculiar almost immediately. Fear’s hand was no longer clammy but steady and calm. I felt safe. Pain’s hand was no longer dry but warm and gentle. I felt understood.

In the dark, Fear is Bravery.

In the dark, Pain is Empathy.

Who knew?

They may be rotten houseguests but they’re good traveling companions.