Pain is always stronger than whiskey.
It’s stronger than the barbell, too. And the dumbbell and the treadmill and the trail and the bike and yoga and every way you try to wear yourself out, exhaust yourself, beat the feeling and the caring and the crying out of you.
Pain is an asshole that way.
Pain will keep talking to you long after you’ve left any party. It will follow you to your couch and then to your bathroom and your bedroom and your kitchen, like a not-so-cute puppy who just won’t leave you alone.
So do what you would do with the puppy.
Turn around and make friends with it. Find out what’s wrong. Listen to the whimpers and the cries. Don’t try to muffle the sound – try to find out why it’s making those sounds.
Pain is worse than that puppy, and it’s never going to fetch a damn thing or lick your face or make you laugh when it runs toward you with those gangly legs at the end of a way-too-many-meetings day.
But you still need to figure out what pain wants. Pain is telling you something, Listen.