That which yields

Sometimes that sharp sting brings me home.

Once upon a time, there was a girl that could not cry. Not anatomically, no, she was fully capable. It was in her mind; that seed planted by decades of conditioning that to be weak was unacceptable. Pride was in a stoic facade and grace. She learned, in that point, that to be weak brought pain. Weakness was pain. To show pain was weakness.

But it's funny how time and wisdom can warp even the most devout things.

Once upon a time, she ran. Not because she enjoyed the physical exertion or the camaraderie, although there was some amount of it involved. No, it began as a command and evolved into the endurance. The pain held onto a body not meant or built for the seven plus mile haul she forced upon it. She found the fog there - the moments when the mind doesn't recognize anything because the body over reached what it think it can do. She found the sting of muscles there. She learned how to endure broken bones and sprains to keep going; to overcome pain and weakness. By dropping into a fog, she didn't have to feel the pain. She didn't have to be weak. She didn't have to be.

Even then, the fog warped and took over. She lost a lot to it, and over the years she had lost even the memory of how cleansing pain was. It was then that she became truly weak.

As things have a tenancy to, everything comes full circle. In the land of whips and chains, where weakness is not really weakness but a given gift and a strength of itself, she found the sting of memory, time, and emotions. The sharp crack of rejection and the ache of want. It erodes away at the blank control of everything. It reminds her that she is, indeed, human. That she does, indeed, feel something sometimes. Instead of a firm grasp and a tight hand, she sometimes has no control over how she will face the unknown sensations, or people, or events. That in order to feel, she needs to yield. But to yield, she is not weak.

Every time I feel the sharp crack against my skin, I'm reminded that I am home. home is where the pain is...

and the joy. The ache and the want. The desire. Sometimes, even sometimes, in the feeling. And for that, I think, I'm no longer weak.