I wake up and the first thing I do is pick at. I pick pick pick at it. It itches and hurts all the time. It’s a nasty scab. The pain from the injury fresh in my mind each time I pick it. Some say that I should just leave it alone and it’ll heal. That’s easy for them to say. It’s not causing them misery. Don’t they know I would love to just let it be. Let it form a scar. Let it fill the gaps between the torn pieces with connective tissue. Scar tissue can actually be a wonderful thing. There are no nerve endings. Did you know that? I do. After the scar forms you can’t feel anything at that spot. Yet I‘ll pick pick pick at it until it bleeds. You’d think I’d stop. But no…not me. It’s consumes me. It’s defined me. I’ve thought of putting a band-aid on it. But then that’s all it will be. A band-aid on it. Whatever happened to, “Time heals all wounds”? Maybe it’s really, “Time wounds all heals”? I don’t know. About a million years ago, when I was a nurse, I learned to dress wounds. But I never had to bandage a broken heart. So instead, I’ll pick pick pick at it. If I’m lucky, I won’t have to wait for a scar to form for me to stop feeling the pain.
