The newest and most of a quandary of a pain is one that embodies a certain dichotomy between physical and emotional discomfort. It hurts both physiologically and psychologically, and the autonomic function of its origin is commonly taken for granted and/or overlooked altogether. A surprise to me at first when I was last accompanied by the arrival of it, the latter of the former and the cure of the cause. Suddenly I thought of the word that I had long expunged from my vocabulary all over again.
I see and hear the word Schmerz in advertisements and commercials and I am slightly tinged by the memories this particular vocabulary evokes. The glinting pangs do not envelope me in the way that they did before I grew a second and then a third skin against the impervious tradition of cold cultured Germany and its bastard child Berlin – both seemingly a part of a dysfunctional family at large with the ironic aptitude for luring illegitimate brethren to temporary trysts.
My language has gotten better over the past six months, in accordance to the shift in power and the seeping gentrification. I no longer get translation headaches thanks to my persistence, and the thoughtful dialect does not harm my ears the way it used to. Despite the lack of patience for my patient methodology of describing descriptions as suggested in deutsch, I am no longer scathed by the scolding.
Perhaps I was gracious for the schmerz that popped up like a darting and curious prairie dog, unexpected and welcomed at the same time. It was (as aforementioned) not the kind of schmerz resulting from extraordinary or experiential experience. It was not an ache in the head or the elbow or the ankle – these are qualms I’ve learned to withstand through my tribulations as an athlete and dancer, those joyous gained pains and trophies of progress. It was not the sting from a parasite, a marginal inconvenience that can sometimes go unnoticed until the arrival of a minute bump. It was not the stab of a foreign object, for I am over-aware of my surroundings these days so much so that I feel like I have developed a seventh sense.
This harm in particular came by way of nature and nurture and when it struck me I felt sick and healthy, miserable and happy, angry and pleased, helpless and helped, foolish and thankful…
I was full.
I am no stranger to starvation…
I have declared a very succinct proclamation that I will heed only to value things that I need rather than what I want. It is of the most import to me that I withstand the luxuries of excess now that I have had the opportunity to succumb to destitution. Having a long history of this matter, it is not so much a daunting trial – and somehow I always knew that sleeping on piss stained mattresses on the floors of attics shared with multi-colored rodents and eating sugar sandwiches in intervals normally positioned for actual meals would be a blessing for me. These lack thereof times would provide me with appreciation for the future and allow me to be thankful that I have transcended.
This unaccustomed pain came to me in my gut in large droves of agony, it was that regretfully glutton feeling that I used to get in my youth when we went to those all-you-can-eat places or those church dinner buffets or those family reunions or holidays where the bounty was aplenty and we feasted like we were going to or coming from war. The battle was of course, not knowing when we would eat again.
I’ve always hated the feeling of full. There is not much you can do about the pain. You can touch your belly and rub it but the sourness of it all does not go away. It is not so glamourous feeling fattened up, especially when you have so well acclimated yourself with emaciation.
That harsh and abrupt jolt of cramping was, despite all, nostalgic and something I missed. Thanks to an insisting friend who nearly wept at the heavy dimple cracks that once were my cheeks and couldn’t help but to ponder the feebleness in my stature – I was greeted with this abominable schmerz.
It is the most frequent subject of this coerced curse. I see and hear and smell it everywhere. I want it just as much as I need it, if not more – and the guilt that proceeds therein becomes a haunting crutch of self-loathing. I fear that my stomach has shrunken so small that an iota of anything will bring back the sore burning no matter the rations I provide or deny myself. It is funny and sad that out of all of the harm I face, the truest and purest and most unbearable schmerz comes from food.