Not Feeling Pain

I learned early on in life that I was supposed to be independent and stoic. At age three, my mother told me I was too old for goodnight hugs. I put myself to bed after that and snuggled a blanket and sucked my thumb. But by age five, I was constantly harassed by my father and brothers about sucking my thumb. That, too, was not allowed. I eventually bowed to the pressure and accepted a bribe of twenty dollars to stop the “nasty” habit, which I spent on a sibling’s Christmas gift. And after that, my identity as the good child, the giver, the peacemaker, was born. I tried hard to fix all the problems in the family and to never think of myself, because that was selfish.

As a kid, I cried and hurt as much as any other child, I think. I hated P.E., where I was taunted and teased for my lack of coordination and lack of understanding teamwork. Part of this is the fault of my very nerdy parents and siblings. We didn’t do any kind of physical activity other than housework and yardwork at home. And I didn’t make friends easily, so I didn’t have them to teach me physical skills, either. But something happened when I hit high school. I joined the swim team and began to push myself harder and harder. I almost never missed a workout, sick or not, and I suspect if not for the messaging to keep trying to lose weight, I would have been more successful.

My first marathon was at age 33. I don’t at all recommend doing what I did, but instead of training for it for months, I decided that 6 miles of running three times a week and a lot of yoga qualified me to compete. My focus and determination got me through the day, and if they also made it so that I couldn’t walk for days afterward, well, I got used to the consequences of doing crazy things. I learned to stop feeling pain, and I think it wasn’t just physical pain I had learned to ignore.

As an adult woman, I think my children have only seen me cry twice, both times around my youngest daughter’s death at birth. I cried more than twice in grief, but almost always in my bathroom with the door locked. I had learned well the lesson that I didn’t deserve comfort, that I didn’t get to ask for help, that I was supposed to be independent and stoic at all times, that my value as a human being was in continuing to soldier on always—always. Do for others, don’t think of yourself.

It's a useful trick to be able to do long races without noticing pain. Sometimes my close family and friends get a little freaked out when I return from a workout bleeding profusely—and don’t remember how I hurt myself. Because I was too focused on my pedal count or step count, or because I fell off my bike, but had to finish the workout, so I just gritted my teeth and got through it. For me, crossing the finish line is always the worst part of any race because it’s the part where the pain hits me. When I stop, that’s the problem. And here again is another metaphor.

Stopping is the problem, not continuing to go on past human endurance. Stopping is not allowed, just as crying is not allowed. Not in front of other people, and eventually, your body learns it’s not allowed in front of yourself, either. Yes, there are times when my senses are overwhelmed and the tears bubble out, but that is maybe once a year. Maybe. People talk about “having a good cry” and after years of having no idea what that might mean, I think I’ve figured it out. I find myself often wishing I could let myself have a good cry, but I don’t know how anymore. I haven’t practiced it. But give me a long race where I can ignore my pain and it does almost the same thing. At the finish line is the only time I can cry.