Repetition: "the impulse to work over in the mind some overpowering experience so as to make oneself master of it."
~ Freud, Sigmund. "Beyond the Pleasure Principle." The Complete Psychological Works of Sigmund Freud. Trans. James Strachey. Vol. 18. 1920. London: Hogarth Press, 1981.
"Maybe we can help you get better..."
An offer of help from the spirits should have given her hope, at least made her grateful. Instead, it just made her feel nauseous. She shuddered as she pictured another two years of working, struggling, striving, meditating, practicing, working, working, working to get better, only to fail in the end. What if it did no good? She'd be right back where she started. The more she tried to get well, the worse she felt. The Tree of Time had been her last hope. If that couldn't help her, nothing could. Why pretend she had the power to heal herself?
But she so desperately wanted to get better. She had nothing to lose. Why didn't she want to try it? Why wasn't she eagerly saying, "Yes. Please show me how to come back to life, to find my strength again. Please make me whole!" ? It might work...
But it might not. She couldn't control whether anything would work, whether she would ever get better or not; all she could do was hope. She hated being so helpless! Should she try something new, pretend she still had control over her body and soul, only to fail and be reminded how powerless she was? She couldn't bear the thought of losing to this darkness that held her soul in its merciless grip. If she couldn't win against this darkness inside her, she could at least refuse to play the game.
"I'm sorry... but for years, people have been saying they can help me get better – nothing's worked." She would never head down that road again. She chose to answer, No, and walked away. At least she could control that.
It was the first choice she made in years where she achieved exactly the results she'd intended. The first control she'd been allowed to exercise over her life since that day on the peak. She couldn't choose to get better, but she could choose to stop trying.
She didn't get that feeling again until she stepped into the ring. The blows hurt, but she was in control of them. She'd chosen to come in here. She could choose to leave any time she wanted. She'd put herself in here. It was the first time she'd felt in control of her fate in years.
Every muscle in her body ached. Every step hurt. Every throb of pain was ecstasy. She had made it all happen. She would do it again tomorrow. She had found something she could control. She wasn't helpless anymore. She wasn't powerless. She couldn't choose to be the Avatar, to be whole again, but she could choose this. She could choose to stay broken. Here, she could decide when and how much pain she would feel. The pain was hers to control. Her body was hers to control at last.
She went back to the ring as many times as she could, recreating the pain over and over again. She couldn't heal herself, but she could hurt herself. She couldn't stop the pain, but she could cause it. She invited it, she welcomed it, she courted it, she made it happen; here, she was master over her own body, over the pain.
Nothing could stop her from going back; it was her choice and hers alone. She'd found something she could do without anyone's permission or help. It wasn't about winning the matches. It wasn't even about beating the demon stalking her. It was about forcing the pain to come when she chose. As long as she kept going back, she knew the pain hadn't defeated her. She was strong enough to take it.
Each night, something whispered in the back of her mind that it was a phony victory. She refused to let herself care and, because she was in control of herself, she didn't. Zaheer hadn't killed Avatar Korra – she had. Her pain, her destruction, was all her own doing. She and she alone was in control.