The Rack.

I often have painful nights, I want to try to communicate this pain as a way to come to terms with it. Somehow giving symptoms a name helps me to accept them.

I lie down in bed, tired and ready for sleep that can not come, I imagine I am tied on to a medieval torture rack, with some invisible demon turning and tightening the wheel. My joints and muscles both feel they are being pulled, torn away from me. My joints open up, dislocate, come out of their sockets, the pain is white hot and so intense. I can not move.

Literally the muscles stretch, I feel this, thinking the pain can not continue but then it gets worse. I lie like a star fish as my limbs are twisted, bending out of shape. Each turn of the rack intensifies the agony.

I know I am not moving, I know there is no rack, but I see it in my mind, it is the only way to explain the pain. I wonder what I did to cause this and know there was nothing, no extra exertion, no activity that warrants this. Gentle stretching exercise helps this I know, but I wonder if my pilates earlier has resulted in this? I know that periods of inertia make the pain worse, using my muscles and joints keeps them working and pain at a distance. This is just a symptom I live with. I have been advised medically to use strong pain relief at bedtime, but I often refuse to do this. A dependency to Tramadol is not what I want. At times I must give in and take the drugs that dull the sensations, but the wrack turns on.

I see myself dragged apart, ripped from my core, the flesh exploding from my tortured joints, my bones splintered and broken. I visualise myself whole and well, seek comfort from my mattress, squeeze the pillows between my arms and legs, propping them to shoulder and hip height, keeping myself aligned. I try to sleep, I meditate, I relax and breathe through the struggle.

Meanwhile in the medieval dungeon, a cloaked figure tightens the ropes around my hands and feet, digging them into my skin, burning; and turns the wooden handle to stretch and crack me all over again. At some point I succumb to sleep only to be flung out of it by a sudden shock of torment. When will it stop? ‘Stop please’ I beg, the scream inside bellows out from me but falls on deaf ears; the rack turns, the torture endures.

If I confess my sins, will it end?

Chris. xx