Gateway

Part 1

mas·och·ism /ˈmasəˌkizəm,ˈmazəˌkizəm

noun: masochism

1. the tendency to derive pleasure, especially sexual gratification, from one's own pain or humiliation.

I have no doubt that the Covid-19 induced quarantine will have lasting psychological impacts for years, possibly decades or generations, depending on the age of the individual and their unique quarantine environment.

The third hour of my third session in which E's needle bit into my flesh may just have kicked off a series of events that will determine the imprint covid has on me. I had been attempting to approach the one- to three-thousand jabs per minute as I imagined chronic pain sufferers do. The cycle of relief measured in seconds. I moved through the stings by taking a deep breath, exhaling and relaxing into the pain (I believed that tension makes it worse), and focused on the music piping through my headphones. The stabbing returned to the forefront after a few bars of music, and the cycle started again. Is this what it's like to live like a goldfish, experiencing the world again with each lap around its jar? E moves further along my left ribs and the agony is all consuming...like someone dropped an electrical current into my little goldfish world.

The body offers the gift of not truly being able to imagine or remember pain. I had looked at charts that map the sensitivity of the body. If I had the capacity to imagine the intensity, would I have done it? This must rival the misery of torture. Who voluntarily submits themselves to torture?

The remainder of the session I successfully stifled my pitiful moans but failed to still my body that shrunk away from E as an act of self-preservation, like my skin and muscles were repelled from a negatively charged magnet.

That night as I drifted to sleep I felt the phantom caresses of E's administration of the after care. I was attuned to her feathery touch as she cleansed and bandaged my back and ribs. I understood that she could have been firm and quick without being rough and hurried, but she took extra caution to be tender with my raw skin and taxed nerves. I fell asleep asking myself, "Have I gone about this the wrong way? Maybe I should be thinking about how masochists find pleasure in the pain."

Part 2

I suppose I could have researched what exactly masochists find pleasurable about pain, but that didn't occur to me until nearly a month after my curiosity was peeked. In the meantime, about an hour into session four I became aware of E's left hand for the first time. The juxtaposition of the needle jack-hammering into my ribs under the direction of her right hand converted the touch of her left, charged to keep my skin taught and stable, into a warm caress. As soon as my brain registered this new sensation, it chased it like Narcissus chases a glimpse of his reflection. Even if the tenderness couldn't eclipse the attention demanded from the torturous jabs, it was the first time the blinding light of agony didn't obscure the subtle glow of comfort.

I regularly marvel at what the brain does when you aren't consciously thinking. Like the times I am on the cusp of sleep when jolted awake because my gas bill is due before midnight, or when the name of an actor pops in my head three hours after I tried to recall it. If I were to anthropomorphize my brain, he would be a little old man named Henry, tinkering with a broken watch while contemplating questions I long forgot I had asked...who -without tact or timing- provides an answer the moment he finds it. Henry was looking for answers to how I could feel pleasure despite the current sensation of a razor blade running across my flesh, and bless his heart, he found an answer even without the aid of google.

I had been aware of E's left hand previously, but only in the pauses. Her left hand swooped in to clear the blood and ink like a wiper clears mud splashed on the car's windshield rendering the driver blind. In those pauses her left hand dragged across swaths of raw flesh. I expected discomfort, so that's what I felt. But once Henry set out, he didn't rest until the mission was accomplished. Despite only expecting suffering, I encountered gentleness.

The discovery was like sinking my teeth into gooey sea salted caramel when I only expected salt. For the second time that day tears came to my eyes. The first set of tears leaked out of me on my walk to E's studio. A three mile walk that bridges my desolate home to the only regular human interaction during the Covid-19-induced quarantine. It's the only human touch since March, and its sole purpose is to employ a device that makes me bleed and leaves me bruised, raw, and itchy for weeks. This second set was from relief...like savoring the sweetness of caramel intensified by the salt.

Part 3

I was pleasantly surprised that McAfee didn't alert me against visiting half of the links pulled in response to my query, "How do masochists cope with pain?" Anyone part of the BDSM scene (bondage, discipline, domination, submission, sadism and masochism) would probably be insulted by my assumption that posing such a question would require safer surfing, but I'm a little less ignorant now and effortlessly computer virus free.

On the spectrum of delight, Session 5 would rank with mosquitoes buzzing in your ears on a sleepless sweltering night and the wannabe school yard bully who lobs inane insults. It brought me no closer to my inner-masochist. The first link I followed took me to an article in Psychology Today which helped me understand why, despite low levels of soreness and a plethora of kind touches, I did not experience the same effect as the aftercare of Session 3. If sadomasochism is a conduit that brings the masochist to catharsis similar to the runner's high, then the Session 5 -ranking between a 2 or 3 on the 10 point pain scale- was the equivalent of running 25 miles short of a marathon.

Sessions 3 & 4, on the other-hand, filled with Levels 6-8 pain were severe enough that the cessation of pain was a relief and gentle caresses amplified the powerful flood of endorphins. What seems to differentiate me from someone in the BDSM scene, is not necessarily that they cope better with the pain, but for them the pain is consensual, limits are established in advance, and when the pain gets unbearable the masochist can bring the scene to end or renegotiate how to proceed. And while the relationship between E and I and the pain she subjects me to are consensual, where that breaks down is when I get to Levels 7 & 8. I want to remain stubbornly silent, determined that I can tolerate the pain others can. I want to remain silent so that I do not interrupt her artistic process...remaining a compliant canvass.

The buzz of the needle's motor will not in the foreseeable future fill the air with sexual tension, but part of finding my inner-masochist and inviting her out to play starts with talking with E to set boundaries. I need to stop trying to run a marathon when I can barely run around the block. In the 1980's the American Psychiatric Association shifted its opinion about Sadomasochism, conceding that it as part of the normal and healthy sexual spectrum rather than a mental illness. It is healthy to find catharsis after subjection to pain. Not being able to set and respect boundaries is not.

The "You're a Viking!" mantra I heard throughout childhood whenever I faced a physical hardship echoes through my mind and leaves me with pride when I stoically suffer in silence. Session 6 is mere hours away...between now and then will I find a different type of courage...one that requires me to be vulnerable with E and express my limits and wishes as to how E proceeds with work on my ribs that balances producing the art without trauma?

Part 4

I met my inner-masochist. Her name is Chloe!

I followed through with my commitment. After leaping over the hurdles posed by the decorum of greetings and salutations, I asked E what body parts she was going to work on and declared- out loud-that I was going to take 2 to 4 Advil depending on whether or not she was going to work on my ribs. She did not object to my plan to consume prophylactic pain management and affirmed that my ribs would go unmarked that round. Boundaries set. Anxieties eliminated. Next, on to our standard rhythm of instruction, conversation, and silence throughout the process of making, placing, and adjusting the stencils for the day's work.

On my back, headphones in, buzz of the needle humming, left hand on my shoulder, deep breath in and braced for the unknown, I reassured myself it will be worse than I hoped but better than I feared and exhaled as the needle made contact. The bite triggered a mantra, "left hand, left hand, left hand." And I did feel the warmth of her left hand, but after fifteen minutes I realized that the words in my head telling me to feel her left hand were detracting from feeling it.

Words melted and morphed into mental imagery. I saw a rabbit (whose heart rate can be as high as 300 beats per minute under stress vs. a max of 180 for humans) as my heart raced in anticipation of the needle making contact with my collar bone. Like a dreamscape, the rabbit transmuted into a teen, heart beating double time while contemplating a running leap over a cliff's edge with a trajectory down to a crystal blue lake. Despite the sting they'll experience when they plunge into the water below, the exhilaration of free falling and submerging into the cool liquid on a hot day is worth it. Bare feet crashing through the surface tension transforms the image again. Stage left, Chloe makes an entrance dressed in a red and white A-line dress like she stepped out of a 1950s Vogue.

If the evolution of my coping mechanisms could be compared to medical advancement, the early goldfish-esque experience of 3-second cycles of pain-distraction-pain would be bloodletting. The breakthrough in Sessions 6 was radical, bringing me forward 100+ years. An hour into Session 6, I no longer needed to hone in on E's left hand. I felt both the warm soft touch in concert with the sharp jabs, accentuated by the tingling rush of adrenaline and endorphins in the needle's absence.

Enjoying a piece of music does not occur in the dissection and analysis of the components. The discomfort, just like the silence that enables notes to make their entrance and delight the ear, is part of a larger piece. By the close of the session, experiencing the full spectrum of sensations was like listening to Beethoven's 9th symphony...enjoying it without inspecting why the harmonies worked and how the notes and pauses created tension and built excitement.

Once Chloe brought my dissection of the music to an end so I could simply listen and enjoy, I learned that she regretted not experiencing the thrill of flying off the edge of a cliff, not breaking any bones while attempting to master a skateboarding trick, not amassing any interesting scars from an adventurous young life. Chloe the masochist is chasing the fear induced heart rate, the awe and exhilaration of the moments just before the pain strikes, and the relief and satisfaction of taking a risk well worth the damage. Chloe engrossed me with her stories told to the soundtrack of my physical sensations, and with that, time passed quickly. Unlike the 15 minutes on my ribs that felt like hours, the hours passed like minutes.

I was thrilled Chloe guided me through this session and relieved to discover that she was seeking catharsis through the pain, not an orgasm. Early in the session, following a long pause in conversation while E adjusted the stencils, she expounded on her response to a question I posed just prior to the silence about how she manages clients who made her uncomfortable. She shared that not only has she never had a creepy client in the 6+ years of working in independent space (some of which was her home), but she's only had one client ask her out. Trends in the industry and horror stories shared by friends and colleagues accentuate how unusual her experience has been. I had been thinking about the role of E's consent in this little experiment for several weeks, really not wanting my inner-masochist to be a bro named Brad, who totally deserved punishment because he fantasized brushing his erection up against an unsuspecting woman on a crowded bus.

At the close of Session 6 I felt some trepidation, wondering how effective Chloe's coaching would be once we escalate from distress to excruciation. In typical Henry style, he secretly got to work and continued to contemplate the question E posed as I dressed to go. Without realizing at the time, E was opening negotiations for the terms and limits of our next scene when she asked if I wanted to spend the next session filling in the lines already set or continue laying the perimeter of my jacket with the final set of stencils. The next morning, Henry offered a counter-proposal which I fired off via email while I brewed my coffee. One way or another, the tools Chloe provided and Henry's indefatigable search for solutions will help me make it through the large swaths of Level 8 territory that remain.

FIN

In Session 8 I thought Chloe had abandoned me. I summoned her while I lay in wait for the hum of the needle's motor, ready to curse her name for failing to heed my call. But when the stainless-steel barb didn't rip into the soft flesh of my breast like a skewer impaling a marshmallow, I realized I am Chloe. She was a vanishing twin post-utero... my dissociated personality reabsorbed. I applied the skills gifted by Chloe to hear the fugue like arrangement unfolded across Sessions 8-11. Each four-hour block tied together by the same contrapuntal voices of the needle and the soft strokes of E's left hand, enriched by the harmonizing warmth from her right forearm, stationed across multiple points of my body to stabilize her machine baring hand. Enthralled in the fog of the fugue, all the suffering from those sessions is long forgotten.

My heart palpitated with dread and awe as I inspected the progress made in Session 11 before dressing to go. The mirror displayed what were once the jacket's disparate pattern pieces beautifully joining together. Contrary to predictions, though, Session 12 would not be the last. The fugal fog lifted. I was sobered by the recognition that 4 more hours would not be sufficient to fill the outlines on my left ribs and complete the detail work along my clavicle and pectorals. Forty-four hours in E's studio left me with enough insight to know that a minimum of 10 hours remained.

Session 12 laid evident that I am, in fact, not a masochist. The assault on my ribs catapulted me back to Session 3. I transformed once again into a goldfish engulfed by electrically charged water. Stunned by the all-consuming pain, I desperately sought to employ any technique or strategy to reestablish the equilibrium Chloe had taught me to harness. As I floundered under the torture, I was grateful that the day's focus on black work meant there were no straight lines or delicate details my movements would mar.

Crescive evidence that I am not a masochist howled at me in the void of the pacifying effects from endorphins and E's soothing aftercare. The usual cocktail of calming hormones was contaminated and turned bitter by an irrational panic that these sessions would never end. There would always be more work to be done. More details to fix. Finally, the inconsolable distress of Session 12 was punctuated with anxiety dreams preceding each of the final three sessions. Despite pain levels fluctuating in the previously acceptable 4-6 range, I could no longer find peace. I dreaded the jabs, punctures, and stabs more than I anticipated E's camaraderie and consoling touches. I wanted to be done, even if it meant losing the sole source of human contact I had in the prior 8 months, and no replacement in the foreseeable future. If I were a masochist, would I not have reveled in the possibility of indefinite sessions with E?

Had E and I worked together outside of the constrains of Covid-19, this would have been a vastly different journey, physically and emotionally. I am gifted with an imperfect, but stunning bespoken bolero jacket. Like a letter-man jacket to a varsity athlete, sentiment is seeped into every stitch. The physical endurance to earn the jacket, the epic adventures through which it served as armor, and the emotional bonds with those who accompanied you on the journey is ineffable. Patience and compassion, knowing none of us are at our best, enables me to see the blemishes through a wabi-sabi (侘寂) lens. A Japanese term I learned in ceramics, which I understand to mean that some beauty is only found it its imperfections. Beauty because of, not in spite of the impurity. And maybe this means I can accept that I am scarred, tarnished and warn, and I am beautiful. I am coping beautifully.

Month 12 of circling in my isolated goldfish-esque environment, and the news that there are Covid-19 variants that may not respond to the vaccine brings me to the brink of inconsolable distress. Panic that this isolation is the "new norm" reminds me that just as I survived Sessions 12-15, I will survive months 12-15. Month 15 will bring us to to June, when Chicago's plan for vaccine distribution is estimated to be rolled out to the general public. And if not, I have the tools and resources to survive and thrive, even if at times I want to leap out of the fish bowl. My boundaries were pushed too hard, but I will find my equilibrium again. After all, I have more skin to decorate with ink.