I’ve had a hate-love relationship with pain over the years in that I used to hate it, and I suspect that someday I will love it. As it stands right now, I respect it, but I readily challenge it. There is no more fear. Pain is experience and I crave experience. The only pain I refuse to embrace is that which I cannot chart, that which creeps in, seemingly for no reason, and leaves of its own accord, with no lesson learned. For instance, I would much rather stare down the headlights of a car and wake up in the hospital than have a migraine. I don’t know why. I think it has something to do with my fascination of scars.
Before we go any further, let’s establish one important fact: I do not have an addiction to pain. However, I truly believe that pain has an addiction to me. And I believe that he likes to make a fool of me. I mean, there were dozens of other people in the church basement – why did the enormous jumble of keys have to hit me in the testicles? And I could ask the same question about the skateboard. And the puck. And the wooden dance shoe. I sure hope my kids don’t come out bruised. But seriously, pain seems to have it in for me, so I like to overcome him as often as I can. So how do you thwart a bully that you can’t hit back? Well, for starters, you keep getting up.
In preparation for this article, I stripped naked, shaved my entire body, and highlighted every one of my scars with a Sharpie marker. This undertaking was incredibly nostalgic, as I pored over physical reminders of my folly. I have entitled the end product The Diary of a Fool:
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