And Something I Need to Discuss with the Bartender

This is kind of weird. Or not.

I don’t go out of my way to bruise myself. It hurts when you do it, of course, and I really don’t like pain first created. After all, my father managed to create a lot of it back when I was at home or at college, allowing them to visit.

But if I do (or if I get a Tdap shot that makes my arm sore, apparently), the pain that follows thereafter is… comforting. This probably dates from the days when my father would hurt me, but when the first-created pain translated later into secondary pain (aches, I think, to everyone else), by then his attentions had stopped, and a peaceful lull would settle as I healed. (Mind you, not that he always gave me time to heal completely.)

Secondary pain to me, means peace on the other side of the rapids. ((Cramps, nausea, and headaches never become pleasant for me, though. I think that’s because they always feel like first-created pain throughout their duration.))

Is that not kind of sick? Yet there it is. I’m not a masochist in terms of willingly hurting myself, but what can I say?

Probably interesting grist for any writers out there. I don’t think I’ve ever seen this kind of reaction covered in a book.

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