Scissors are dangerous. I wish someone would have warned me against the dangers of trimming your own split ends. I hadn’t done it in forever, and it was more than necessary. In the course of doing so, I cut the mess out of my finger. It was like a papercut from hell. It didn’t hurt THAT much at first, but once I saw the blood oozing from my hand I realized I had really hurt myself.And once you realize you’ve hurt yourself its like the pain kicks in. After I calmed myself enough to realize that I wasn’t dying, I decided to wash my finger with some soap, which stung quite a bit. After thinking that wasn’t the best idea, I decided to bandage up my finger to keep the cut from becoming infected. Even with the bandaid on, washing dishes was torture. All that soapy water getting into the cut was painful. I had to shower with only one hand, and keep the soap and water as far away from my finger as humanly possible. This got to be a bit ridiculous, that and the fact that I was changing my band-aid 50k times a day. It had been a day or two, and I realized that it was time to release my finger from its shielding bandage and let my body handle what I know it can. Not many people have died of a minor cut before, and I trusted my immune system and white blood cells to take care of me. Obviously my intuition was right, because I’m not sick and/or dying. The remnant of my tragic accident is a teeny tiny scab on my index finger. However, with a little exfoliation that should be gone soon.
Now if only matters of the heart and soul could be settled so easily.
In looking at the scab on my finger, I noticed uncanny parallels between the physical healing process and the emotional healing process. When someone hurts your heart, or if by chance you hurt it yourself, it sometimes takes a while for the pain to kick in. It might take hours, days, weeks, or even several months before you realize the damage that has been done. But when that time comes, when you have finally discovered the injury done to your core, everything hurts. That first realization, of course, gives the worst pain. Its wrapped up in a nice decorative box, disguising itself, if you will, and waits until the perfect time to deliver itself to you. But its not over. Every single solitary interaction after that renders stinging pain. Thankfully, these pains diminish and occur less and less frequently. Eventually, they disappear all together. Because, if they didn’t, frankly, a lot of us wouldn’t be here right now. After these pains fade away, one’s ego is still fragile. There’s a sort of hypersensitivy. Completely justifiable hypersensitivty, however. To compensate for this vulnerability, one must protect themself. You take out the legos and build the tallest, strongest fort you know how. Its walls are impermeable and its foundation is strong enough to weather the toughest of storms. After ample time has passed, the protective membrane that surrounded you is temporarily defunct. Interaction without interference (for lack of better words) has resumed. However, protection can be summonned with a heart beat. But now, things are different. Father time, the forgiveness in your heart, the desire to free yourself from excess baggage, and the need for love suppresses the rebuilding of that fortress. In its place is a white pickett fence, with an closed, but unlocked gate. To the careless eye, you are still unreachable. But for those who not only care to know, but dare to know, you’re attainable. Reaching you, however, is not an easy task. Many will try and many more will fail. Some of these failures may chip away at the fence that surrounds you, exposing what you have tried so very hard to keep covered up. It is at this time in which you have two choices. You can replace the fencing and keep these things out of reach, or you can release yourself from the confines of the fence–slowly, but surely exposing the wounds and allowing them to scab over. I would do this more often, if it were only that simple. But it seems as though when you’re ready to let your wounds heal and to let scabs form, someone comes along and reopens those wounds, as though it is their duty to not let you heal. And let’s face it….you can’t exfoliate an open wound.