There’s a point when the pain is just pleasure. It’s warm, fuzzy and comforting like a blanket.
There’s a point where whatever your orientation (masochist or not), self-preservation wins and begins to resist the pain.
And then there’s the point after that; the point of trauma.
Past the valley of tears, beyond the gardens of screams, across the river of fighting back lies the land of broken wills. Each time I travel back home from there it starts with me viewing it as a concentration camp I cannot get away from fast enough but sure enough, over time, there I am back on the same path again believing I’m on the way to Disneyland.
The first time I took a trip to “Disneyland” was in 2007.
My lover has buttons you do not want to push, it’s not like poking the sadist, it’s like prodding the man-eating tiger. But I hadn’t learnt this yet. I still hadn’t been introduced to his special friend; his temper. He was home working on a project and I was going home after a class when he asked if I’d drop some lunch off at his place. He has very specific tastes and he started to tell me exactly how he wanted his sandwich made. I retorted vehemently and told him I knew exactly what he likes and didn’t need his elaborate instructions.
I didn’t have much time so I told him to come downstairs and take his sandwich from me. He was waiting at the curb when I reached with thewrong sandwich.
Seemed like a little tiny thing to me so I told him to cut out the fuss and just fucking eat what I brought. That was the first time I saw his eyes go dark in the way that makes me pee in my pants even today. He turns from human to unforgiving, insensitive, unrelenting, unempathetic monster in a matter of one wrong statement. When that happens he doesn’t care where we are, he doesn’t care who is watching and he doesn’t care that he might break me.
He punched me in the jaw, I fell, he kicked, I got up and ran, he followed me to my car, he punched a few more times, I begged, he slapped, I opened the car door, he shoved me into the car, I screamed, he stuffed me with his foot, something cracked, I cried, he screamed, I turned on the ignition, he banged my head into the window. All the while explaining exactly why he needed to do this to me. Why? Because I could have just waited for instructions instead of being a smartass.
When I got home I noticed the severity of the bruising and obvious internal damage given that I couldn’t walk, sit or swallow without excruciating pain.
I was sure he would apologize by night, I waited, and he didn’t say anything. I didn’t know why I expected him to apologize, I mean, he beat and bruised me all the time anyway. Yet this felt, apology-worthy.
He sent me a text late at night.
Does it hurt?
“Yes.” I told him
“Good,” he replied.
The next day he made me write an essay detailing why all that had happened to me had been my own fault.
My latest trip to Disneyland was in early 2014. I hadn’t visited in a long time because not only was I watching my reckless behavior (directed at the outside world), he had been watching his temper.
But I’m comfortable saying this now; an angry person will at best become a suppressed angry person. And a reckless person, well, time will tell.
We were staying at his place which is not something we normally do because it so out of the way (and in a neighborhood of especially nosy fucks). When we’re at my place he’s pretty obedient when it comes to my way of doing things because maybe, just maybe, he sees the hidden order in my chaos. At his place, his inner neurotic takes complete control and it’s best to wait until he tells you how he wants things before you start to do them. And I always do, except sometimes his elaborate drawn out methods of accomplishing little tasks annoy me and I do things my way and make sure they look like they’re being done his way.
It works fine, until you either get caught or (god help you) screw up something he gave you specific instructions to do some other way and then stand there and defend yourself. Which is why I should have cleaned his sink exactly the way he said I should and why I shouldn’t have blamed the sink after I somehow managed to not only clog it but cause it to overflow all over the kitchen floor. When he saw me in my predicament fighting the water he laughed, I was so relieved I immediately launched a tirade about how stupid his sink was and how he needed to devise a better strategy to take care of things.
The laughter turned to darkness in one split second. One moment I was standing there fighting with the faucet the next moment I was laying on the floor his shoe crushing my face. I didn’t think I deserved it so I did the one thing you shouldn’t do with an angry person, I fought back. Unthinkingly I slapped him. After that there was only blood and tears. I tried to unlock the door and run out of the house but even before I could get there I had passed out. I woke up still on the floor in more pain than I have been ever before, objectively that’s quite a whole lot of pain.
The next day he told me I didn’t deserve painkillers and then he let me stay in bed until I could move 24 hours later.
Why all this “Disneyland” talk all of a sudden you might wonder?
I’m aching to make my next trip sometime tonight.