Chapter 1: The Call That Echoed in Darkness

The night was still, interrupted only by the buzzing of my phone, casting a harsh blue light into the room. It was Rhea, my sole remaining friend, reaching out. Her name blinked insistently, urging me to answer, to share my burdens. Yet, I remained motionless, fixated on the screen, allowing the moment to slip away.

As the light faded and silence enveloped me, a sense of disappointment crept in. She was the last person who still cared enough to call. Part of me longed for the comfort of her voice, to cling to it as a lifeline. But that urge quickly fizzled out, plunging me deeper into my sadness. I reassured myself that solitude was preferable; I didn't need anyone.

The distraction of her call dissipated, and I felt the weight of despair tighten around me. Hope flickered weakly, and I felt myself sinking into an endless void. Just then, my phone illuminated once more, and this time, I picked up.

“You’re not okay,” she stated matter-of-factly.

When I tried to dodge her question, she gently interrupted, “Your voice sounds weary. It’s as if you’ve been bearing a heavy weight for too long, and now even speaking feels burdensome.”

I responded with vague murmurs, offering half-hearted reassurances.

“You can confide in me. You know that,” she pressed, concern creeping into her voice. “How do you truly feel?”

Temptation stirred within me to dismantle my emotional defenses and reveal my feelings, but the thought felt insurmountable, like a mountain I could never conquer.

“I’m fine,” I fibbed. “Just a bit busy.” I knew she saw through my facade.

This exchange continued until I finally cut it short. “I’ll share when I’m ready.”

She sighed, promising to reach out again and reminding me to take care. After hanging up, I felt a swirl of relief and regret, akin to oil merging with water. I silently thanked her for her concern.

Her question lingered in my mind for hours as I finally dragged myself out of bed and shuffled to the kitchen. Opening the fridge revealed emptiness.

I threw on a light jacket and stepped outside, wandering down the empty street bathed in afternoon sunlight toward a supermarket. I mindlessly navigated the aisles, filling my cart with the usual items, paid at the register, and retraced my steps back to my flat. Without consuming anything, I returned to my bed, collapsing onto the mattress.

That’s when the answer to “How do I feel?” struck me.

I felt as though I were at the bottom of a deep, dry well, trapped within solid rock. The oppressive darkness enveloped me, and no walls were visible—only an infinite void. A distant circle of light above hinted at a blue sky, with faint sounds drifting down, rising and falling.

This small patch of blue was my only connection to the outside world. It tethered me to life and sparked a flicker of hope within my heart. Yet, an unfathomable chasm separated me from that life above. Here, in this eternal abyss, I felt neither alive nor dead—just stranded in a chilling, silent darkness, existing in a state of living death.

As I lay in bed, the vivid image of the well loomed in my mind. I could feel the cold stone beneath me, the oppressive darkness surrounding me, the musty scent of emptiness. A part of me took a perverse satisfaction in having captured my anguish through this metaphor.

Could I have conveyed my suffering had I described it in this way back then? Would it have revealed the overwhelming despair that consumed me, which felt infinitely darker when I was with you?

You often claimed I didn’t try hard enough, that I didn’t fight for our relationship, but I was fighting with every ounce of strength I had. If only you could have seen the hungry wolves I battled, the bloodthirsty monsters closing in from all directions.

If only you could have witnessed my bloodied fingers clawing at the rough walls of this well, my bruised skin from falling again and again against the rocky floor. If only you could have seen the tears I shed, the pain I screamed—for us, for you.

I picked up my phone and scrolled through my messages. Could I help her understand now? Would my metaphors of pain allow her to see me in a different light? Would it change anything?

My thumb hovered over her name. I envisioned her answering, her voice calm and soothing. She would assure me she understood, and this would not be a falsehood, as she often grasped concepts but never truly felt them.

I set the phone down.

Pain has its own language. Only those who have endured suffering can truly appreciate its meaning. Language merely attempts to construct an imperfect representation, capturing only a fragment of pain’s essence. Genuine anguish remains unique to each individual. Attempting to explain it to others is akin to speaking to someone who does not understand your tongue.

I cannot expect others to fully comprehend my sorrow. However, I can work towards making peace with it. My pain persists, but now it possesses shape and form. The well, the struggle, the glimmer of light above—these images serve as my language, my initial step toward understanding my suffering.

I have named the darkness and discovered metaphors to articulate my grief. This grants me a measure of solace and control over the shadows. There remains a lengthy journey ahead, but for today, this is sufficient. I close my eyes, attuning myself to the silence within. Gradually, I begin to ascend.

Chapter 2: Bridging the Gap Between Pain and Understanding

The second video titled "Explaining Pain: Clenched Fist Metaphor | Aleks Physio" delves into how physical metaphors can illustrate emotional pain, making it easier to communicate and understand complex feelings.