Pain and romance

A little while ago I suffered from a mysterious collection of pains that spontaneously struck and soon after left, so soon as the cause (which was nerves) were detected.
Before this discovery, my own anxiety had created hallucinatory pains that for so long had held me a wretched captive of their infallible mythos. I was a victim of a self-created phantom, that as always, grew more brazen in the night.
   Shortly after I attempted to ignore the pain, to hide it, and then simply forgot it existed. I began to sleep again, with sleep became sated and then became dumb. In losing my pain, I lost inspiration and have since grown tired of  the sanity it provides. The pain makes me lose myself, and from destitution; I create.

Night- once loved, how I despise thee. Fear night for what it brings.
At night all pains rage with free roam and nought to temper them but a silence to hear them roar.
The pains increase and disappear sporadically so all pains are fresh and always bewildering.
There is no escape but the long hours ahead where the pains, glutting, await thee.
   And so I dread the night.
With no sleep, no freedom, but the company of devilment.
At night I lose my mind for my futility and beat myself for hope of forgiveness, forgiveness and a chance I may just lose mind enough to feel no more.
   Darkness.
With the encompassing night comes my despair.
Oh, pained despair- how you subdue and contort my reason.
I try all manner of futile performances to shield me from my avid pursuer: first water.
On my face, head, neck, arms and down my gullet.
Cool water to fill my hungry stomach and ward off the heat that I succumb to.
It fails me, of course, as I knew it would.
Next I have ice.
Cooler still so that it might fare better.
I wrap it and re-wrap it in tissue until I am content and begin to apply the pack to the affected areas of my head.
It soothes me!
Precious relief, at last, but there's never enough of it to catch pain unawares: Instead I lay only part way satisfied- which is no satisfaction at all.
I cover my head with a pillow and turn off the lights, retreating now into my cave where I  curl like an infant in mother's arms.
The darkness helps- my eyes burn less.
The ice melts slowly and trickles here and there but never permeates through the surface to quell my needs.
I moan in agony and pick myself up, just to lay myself flat again.
Logic leaves me and I pound my head, my face and the ice against me; through pillow and then with just fist or palm.
The impact offers comfort- it hurts little, and this delivers relief.
Strange, perverted sense of masochistic relief!
With each impact I fracture little, until finally, I break.
I plough my head into many folds for a cushion, shielded by my arms and cry and wheeze such tears of hopelessness as I've not wept in so many years.
They scald my cheeks as they run from my eyes and I explode like the rapture, alone.
I voice my pains to nothing and shrink to become less than I've ever been in the face of adversity.
My enemy is my self, and I have bested I.
   I create a hood of the remaining ice, to wear as a fool's crown in my emptiness.
Then distraught, I sit down to write.
I write to pass the hours until I collapse; collapsing in defeat, I finally sleep and tomorrow- with the coming of early day, I will wake again to the call of Pain, ready to start the routine once more.