The Strange Phenomenon of Taking Pleasure From Pain
There is a particular pleasure that we seem to garner from a painful experience, a certain beauty and revelation, and everyone does it.
I get it when I run hard, or when I do a strenuous workout. It hits me hard, so much so that I seem to disappear. All there is is the experience of pain in my body, and the personality of me seems to recede. I expel every ounce of my physical self, pushing the prowler or pressing the bar overhead that my central nervous system bursts its banks. Cells in my legs, torso, arms and head are exploding like popping candy under my skin — I can feel them.
I can’t speak. My eyes are closed tight, and my lungs are heaving so hard it feels like my chest will explode. Eventually, it subsides, and the recovery begins. Afterwards, my capacity has increased. I have more to give the next time around.
It feels the equivalent of a forest fire, and for days after the workout, I’m walking like I have two short planks shoved down my jeans. I can barely touch my own nose; such is the tightness in my triceps.
And I love to talk about it, especially with people who share my pain.
