I have a hard time articulating pain, like that low down, punched in the proverbial gut while the rug is yanked out from under me kind of pain. The kind of pain that is tinged with shame or embarrassment. The kind that would send me to bed with the covers over my head for five days straight if I indulged in that sort of wallowing.
Instead, I tend to suck it all up. Say nothing. No comment. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m FINE. Let’s focus on the task at hand because I am fucking fine.
And for a while, I will be fine. I can fake fine until the cows come home. Stoic. Solid. Determined. Work long hours. Keep myself busy. I am fine.
Eventually, I’ll snap. Sometimes I snap in baby steps: I get suddenly sick and can’t shake it no matter how much Emergen-C I consume. Or I blow up at the drop of hat, a screaming banshee straight from the mouth of hell to make damn sure everyone in a three mile radius is well aware I’ve had enough enough ENOUGH of this.
I’m working on coming to terms with all of this. I am a work in progress. I’m fine.