I hate pain. I hate it, and as I lay down on the hospital bed, curved onto my side, waiting for the lidocaine shots to numb my chest, I tried to breathe. I hate pain, even the pain I know is tolerable, like lidocaine shots.
I have post-traumatic stress disorder; I have lived most of my life in a hypervigilant state, terrified the worst will happen because the worst has happened. I long for comfort and the pain to end, but it doesn’t.
I want to feel the love of God rush over me. I want to know, for certain, I am safe with Him, known by Him, and adored. I’ve prayed, “God, please, just fill me with love and comfort, I want to feel safe,” yet the rush of warmth I long for, the tingling sensation of peace, does not come.
I’ve been angry at God, how could He do this to me, why doesn’t He listen to me, why can’t He answer my prayers? It would be so easy for Him to heal my pain or take the pain away, so why doesn’t He? Doesn’t God care?
As I lay on that hospital bed, feeling the pain of the needle piercing the skin and entering deep into my breast, my hand clenched around the warm blanket draped over me as the radiologist distracted me with questions about my daughter. I hate pain. I’d rather be numb. Or would I?
PTSD makes it difficult for me to live in my body. Childhood trauma makes it difficult for me to trust others in relationships. I want to be isolated and alone, running from conflict and distress in hopes of peace within the isolation, but it isn’t there either.
I was going to drive myself to my breast biopsy. I didn’t want to bother anyone; it was probably nothing anyway, but the fear nagged at me, and the prayers didn’t ease it, so I reached out to people I trusted and asked for company. I expected them to be too busy, but they weren’t. I expected them not to care, but they did.
Then I wondered if pain has a purpose. Not in the way I was often taught, that pain and suffering would make me stronger, that pain and suffering were how God made me holy. Maybe pain has a purpose—maybe it exposes need, it exposes desire, it exposes longings.
God could take my pain away; He could fill me with comfort so grand I’d never need anyone, but would that miracle be enough for me, or would it fuel the isolation I’m already prone to seek? As I pray for God to take away my pain, to comfort me while I’m alone in my bed, what I’m asking God to do is take away my need for human comfort and relationships. I’m asking Him to leave me alone.
Physical pain and emotional pain are informative; they tell me something is wrong and that I am hurt, and the fear, anger, and grief associated with that pain can guide me into the arms of trustworthy people around me . . . if I let it.
I don’t have cancer, and the worst didn’t happen, but I did ask for help, and I did receive comfort. I want God to take my pain away in one miraculous moment, to ease the chaos inside my soul, to take the grief and remove it, but would that be enough for me? I would not feel pain, but I would lose connection.
It is courage that I should pray for: the courage to need people, the courage to want people, and the courage to be vulnerable. I know the cost of relationships and the pain they can cause, but isolation is worse because it deadens the soul. God cares, and He isn’t taking my pain away because He loves, and He knows that if he took away feeling, He would take away living. God’s miraculous healing would not be enough for me.
by Jessica Grillo 
by Kelli Bachara 
