I resist my emotional pain. I resent its existence and treat it with frustration and annoyance. I hurt my emotional pain further with this behaviour and it retreats to hide in the nooks and crannies of my mind. And when I accidentally uncover its hiding place I get upset with it and behave as though it is the problem.
But maybe pain is a healer; a self-fulfilling being that lives with me, like a pet, and like a pet it needs food and shelter and comfort and love, and it needs to be treasured the way I’d treasure a living pet, because pain, like a living pet, will eventually die. I am responsible for them while they are alive and so it rests on me to give them the best experience I can manage.
I’m no longer icing my emotional wounds – feeling the pain is like allowing a healing balm to work on a graze; at first it burns but soon it feels numb and warm and I allow myself to feel better and enjoy life again.
I’m trying now not to throw a tantrum when I stumble across pain cowering somewhere in myself. I approach it with gentleness and kindness; the way I approach the park cats, always aware that I might get scratched or chewed on when we do finally interact because some of my pain has gone feral and will need a lot of reassurance before trusting me enough to become a functional part of my life; able to contribute and participate instead of hissing and running away.