Fort

I’m tired, and I don’t want to be here.

 If I had work to go to, or a meeting to attend, or a mountain to climb with someone, or a haircut to go get, or literally anything that involved anyone else but only me, there wouldn’t be a problem. I wouldn’t feel tired, and I wouldn’t be griping about being here, about showing up, showing up for myself. But that’s what I’m doing, and it’s bothering me, because I feel like I’m wasting my time, because I’m spending my time honouring myself when what I could be, is comfortable.

 Sometimes when I use a single word to describe a concept, which, I suppose, all words do, I look it up to see if it checks out, and this time it doesn’t. The modern conceptualisation of comfort seems to be pretty skewed. We get told all the time that the comfort zone is where you stagnate and eventually die, because comfort = apathy. If you are comfortable, you’re not grinding. If you ask me, that sounds pretty good, but I know where the misconception comes from, or I think I do, but I think a lot of things.

 Here is my favourite definition of comfort: a state of ease and satisfaction of bodily wants, with freedom from pain and anxiety. That sounds like something I want very badly. I can’t remember the last time I was free from pain, or made anxious by the fear of it’s inevitable return. I understand why people, mostly men for sure, say “No pain, no gain”, but as a sufferer of chronic pain, owner of a body where nerves are losing the war against encroaching bone in my spine, it seems a little trite. The thing is, though, that it’s not wrong either, but that is the way of things when you take a good look at them.

 So what’s the problem with comfort? Nothing. What’s the problem with pain? Also nothing. You can’t even have one without the other. From their roots in Latin, pain, poena, means penalty, and grief, while comfort derives from con(intensive)+ fortis, which means strength. Obsolete definitions of comfort are: support, strengthening aid, assistance, to encourage.

Penalties are what we incur when we cease learning; they are indicators that we need to get back on the path so that we can live without them. Comfort is where we get to prepare to return to the path as quickly as possible the next time we fall off.

 I was in pain for many years before I sought comfort in anything other than more pain; ie substance abuse, and dysfunctional relationships, and by the time the physical pain was so extreme that I became suicidal, comfort was a concept that I couldn’t even wrap my head around, much less seek, but there it was, reduced to it’s most brutal clarity, the question that really is not a question, “Well, if not this, then that?”

 It’s a bummer that I strayed so far from comfort that comfort now means less pain than before, but I have to accept that it’s a win, because I’m feeling much better now, because I let my pain teach me something. One of those things is that pain wins. You learn or you die, and you get to take all the time you need, because pain won’t relent. It’s a good idea to just do yourself a favour and stop making things worse.

 Another thing I learned is that comfort is ease, not easy, and ease has a lot more to do with the acceptance of truth than it does with the lightness of the load. Something else is that you’ve really got to strive for balance. Sure, you’ve got to make a living, but it’s not a good idea to drink yourself to sleep every night and take drugs all day so that you can endure years of agony working through an injury. I mean, that’s not even about physical pain anymore; that’s pathos, and it’s seed is emotional pain.

 I got caught in a lie because I misunderstood the lesson of “No pain, No gain”, which I think a lot of people do. The pain is not the point. Duh. It’s so strange to be addicted to suffering, but it makes a lot more sense when you realise that addiction is just a hole that you fall into when you’re flinching away from something that, before you fall in, seems a lot worse, or quite possibly is. It’s hard to get out. It’s like the old adage, “Out of the frying pan, and into the fire.”, or maybe it’s not.

 I like fortresses. They’re strong, and safe, and they look really cool. At least the fortresses in my mind do. You can stand on the walls and observe what’s around you, and take your time making well considered decisions, unless you have plague inside the walls. If you do, you have to deal with it, even if there is pressure on your walls from outside. Especially if there is, because your responsibility is to heal, not spread disease. Maybe the pressure from outside isn’t inimical, maybe they’re even there to help. Maybe they have brought something you desperately need, and you can let it in. Maybe you betrayed yourself, maybe it was sabotage, maybe you just have poor hygiene. All you can do is better, because right now you’re fucked. I prefer fortresses that aren’t fucked. Hold the walls, clean the streets, have compassion for the sick, and temperance for the rest. Fly a cool flag.

 I showed up for myself today.