How Can I Metabolize Pain?
{The foundation for this piece is found in a form of therapy called “Internal Family Systems.” It is widely used, trusted and effective. Find links to an explanation by practitioners in the “Here I Am” Journal Entry below.}
I have a metabolic disorder.
I have a problem metabolizing pain–the type of pain that injures my soul.
At my core, I am a sensitive being who, around the age of eight, learned that rejection hurts way more than falling off the jungle gym onto hot Missouri concrete.
Others seem to walk through life like Batman. They wear a suit molded of steel. Mean words, passive aggressive comments written online, the whispered criticisms in closed offices hit their hardened chests and fall to the ground crumpled and powerless.
I wish I was Bruce Wayne–a billionaire with enough money to design a suit that encases my soft core. Instead, I ruminate like a penniless cow. I chew on pain for days, and just when it’s destroyed enough to swallow and make a home in my stomach below, it pops back into my tired mouth and I chew it some more.
I metabolize pain slowly.
But, at least there is one side of me that’s similar to Batman! I project a bright symbol of my pain in the night sky, and a whole army runs to my aid. There is an entire city inside of me that works to keep the sensitive, eight-year-old Olivia safe–as if she is not made for the real world.
Protectors rise like paid bodyguards, following me around. They warn me to not go near that person concealing a knife. The protectors whisper to each other through their coiled earpieces and guide me down roads that avoid any chance of pain–out of reach of certain jobs, conversations, friendships, or dangerous dreams.
On really terrible no-good days, a new form of protector arises. They blare the sirens, slide down poles to board long, red trucks. My firefighters storm through traffic, and situations, to save the real Olivia from the heat of someone’s spewed hatred or anger.
Wrapping me in a blanket, they bow down close to my soot-covered face and whisper all will be okay. Then, once safe and behind closed doors, we speed away. These sort of protectors remind me to never allow myself to be naked in a fire again.
Most of you reading don’t want to be like me. You believe that you’re a superhero–able to brush off hurt like specks of dandruff on your magical, primary-colored cape.
Your protectors whisper a different rescue plan.
They join your team of avengers and help you to fight back–get angry, write hurtful things, control those around you until they fear getting hurt by YOU.
Protectors advise a plan to help you to quickly disassociate–erase people out of your mind and heart; pretend that they, or the pain they induced, never existed.
After a long day of battle, firefighters surround you on your comfy couch. Late at night, sitting in their red long john pjs and munching on a bowl of communal popcorn, they tell you to numb the pain. Drink too much, eat more, binge Netflix, shop online, watch porn! Find safety in a prostitute, an affair or at a gambling table.
Or, when no one’s looking, they whisper the unimaginable–the only way to stop this pain forever is to leave this twisted city; abandon this life.
I no longer want to be whisked away to a safe corner of the city, far away from hurt. It always finds me, and always keeps me running. I want to stand in front of evil as my true self–both soft and powerful; to reclaim my neighborhood as my own.
But my protectors have years of training and know the well-worn roads of my mind. Instead of listening to the radio chatter of my protectors, I’ve started to dwell on the words of my therapist.
How do we finally tell our protectors and fire fighters to stand down?
We must realize that even the most sensitive and injured parts of us are safe.
We can be wounded, but will never be destroyed. The core of who we are is powerful, made in the image of God, and immortal. Although what I just wrote is true, it is also shocking and difficult to believe. If you are not convinced, you can read my essay about that here.
We must name our protectors.
Pay attention to their whispered communications, the internal dialogue they give, to protect you. A real-life example:
For three years, I planned to write. While I had the discipline, I could not find the motivation. Then I started to listen, and heard my protectors’ secret communique.
One, who has stood by my side since elementary school, pipes in:
“I know her. If she writes, the real Olivia will be exposed. Undoubtedly, some people will not like what she writes. They will say mean things; they will reject her. It will hurt too much.”
The firefighter, awakened from his warm bed by the chatter in the station, agrees:
“Some will not like her background; her God; who she is; what she stands for. It’s just a matter of time before they cancel her. She’s not strong enough to handle that. It will destroy her.”
Listen to the words of your protectors and study their tactics; call them by name.
3. Give your protectors a medal for their heroic work, and let them know that they can finally rest.
These protectors have served you well. They are not evil, but good. They’ve put on the heavy uniform and worked to keep you safe from the very first moment you called them to the crime scene. Were you eight years old? Fourteen?
To them, you are frozen in time–no wrinkles, college degrees or life experience. They are still working to protect the young version of you. And after all these years, they’re so tired.
Look them in the eye, smile, pin their uniform with a medallion of gold, and gently tell them: “Thank you for your service. You have kept me safe for a very long time. You were so busy, you didn’t even notice that I’ve grown and am strong. From here on out, the real Olivia can handle the emergencies.”
Hand them a key to a condo somewhere in Florida, and usher them into a well-deserved retirement.
4. Hand the pain over to…
It’s not easy to send your life-long defenders off to enjoy frozen margaritas and chess games on the beach while you still walk in a danger zone. Some days I stand in the shower, frozen beneath rays of warm water on my back. I am tempted to call the firefighters back into their station with the warm beds and fun fire pole.
But instead, I choose to be the kind of superhero money can’t create (sorry, Batman).
In the great lore of heroes, there is a common thread. Reaching their limit—alone, beaten and with superpowers stripped away—heroes choose to stay in the war zone; to stand. In their weakness, another arrives on the scene and takes the burden–the falling building or collapsing bridge; the train filled with passengers about to fall to their deaths.
I stand in the shower, and the real Olivia gathers up a ball of my current pain–the person who hurt me last week; the fear of all the pain I will encounter as I chase dreams. I give that heavy wad to someone else to carry, and keep standing–soft and powerful.
I imagine myself handing the ugly boulder over to God. It plops in his lap, and with a smile of ease, he dissolves it in his goodness.
A friend said she chooses to think of pain as a pile of brown she releases into the toilet and flushes away. {We all know that even superheroes have to poo, so the analogy works!}
Your protectors, still donning their shiny medals on Hawaiian shirts, wave from their lawn chairs.
You step into your city and, with each step, the ground rumbles with strength. No doubt, there are still monsters lurking and painful slashes will come.
You are neither running or hardened.
Despite your lack of superhero garb, some citizens proclaim you’re compassionate–even noble.
You are free.
***Look below the video for the “I Am Here” Journal Entry question for this week. Healing takes work, but we all need the real you.***
Find a quiet place, grab a cup of warm coffee or tea. Grab your journal, light a fire in the fireplace or burn a candle.
Take a moment and think back to the very first time you remember being deeply hurt.
From that moment on, does it feel like there is a part of you that is fighting to keep that wounded person safe?
Is it a manager that works hard to keep you out of harm’s way?
A firefighter who tries to numb you from pain with an addiction or an escape plan?
A protector that tells you not to move forward with certain dreams or relationships because there is a risk of deep pain?
Is it some sort of warrior that obliterates any threat? Some mind-trick guru who says a spell and makes you think it’s all forgotten?
Although it may feel weird, I guarantee you are not schizophrenic.
We all have said before, “There is a part of me that really wants to do that, but another part of me says it’s too risky.” Deep down, we know we have a core and voices that battle with it. Take power, and name the parts of you that protect you from pain.
You can learn more about this process by watching therapists discuss the method {see below}.
But, it is time to thank those protectors for their service, and let them know that you can handle this unpredictable world from here on out.
With the pain that remains or will greet you in the future, imagine forming it into a ball {name those pains as well} and physically plop it into the lap of God (or for those who have a different faith—cleanse it from your system with a mighty flush).
You will undeniably try to grab that sphere of pain back into your hands, but keep releasing it, walk into any pain that may come, and live freely.
Here are some videos you can watch about Internal Family Systems therapy:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f80xs3MN9mY&t=0s
A Christian perspective on this therapy: