Was pain ever welcome? Did I ever want to be hit?
In all honesty I did quite literally ask for it a few times because pain made me feel alive.
Nothing else seemed to touch me and neither did anyone else for that matter. Pain and blood was my way of confirming that I was there.
I reasoned out what to do and I did it.
It’s easy to pick a fight with someone who is violent and insane. What I did was simple, brutal, and frankly, satisfying. I’d ambush my sister. I’d walk up behind her and punch her hard between the shoulder blades.
I’ll be honest. It felt good. I was causing her pain just like she’d done to me so many times.
Of course she’d return the favor. She’d hit me a few times, maybe scratch or gouge an arm for good measure.
Sure it hurt. That’s the point. Acute physical pain took my mind off the dull ache in my chest that was my constant, nagging companion. It served to remind me that when I wasn’t being hit I was being ignored.
I did this when I was eight or nine. I don’t recall how often I did it. I like to think it was only 2-3 times, but it was likely closer to a dozen.
It wasn’t right, it wasn’t good and it really didn’t help. I felt awake and alive briefly, but the dull ache always came back.