so for the last three weeks, i’ve had this abrasion on my face. my stories for the cause of said infliction included car accident, flesh eating bacteria, ramen noodle burn, and — my personal favorite — sex injury. the actual cause doesn’t matter. the point is that for days on end, i picked at the scab every day. when i was stressed, when i looked in the mirror, when i wasn’t thinking about it, i would accidentally brush the rough spot on my face and begin the picking.
i’ve had pretty severe acne since high school, so i am no stranger to this cycle. i knew how it was going to work. i would keep picking and keep picking and one morning, very literally, i would wake up and there wouldn’t be anything to pick. and yesterday morning, that’s what happened. it isn’t healed, no. it’s still pretty visible, but there aren’t any rough edges or cracks. it’s a bit red, but it more or less blends in with the rest of my face.
and then i figured, well, fuck. maybe that’s how it is with you.
no. you’re not a scab. ew. come on, go back through my blogs since 2003, and you’ll see almost a decade’s worth of your praises. but our relationship, or the…scab on the wound of where our relationship used to be…it’s something i pick at. it’s a place i go. when i’m tired or scared or stressed or lonely. and i will do it every day, a thousand times a day, and it will take a hundred times longer to heal. because, unfortunately, that’s just a part of who i am.
but maybe, hopefully, one morning i will wake up, and there won’t be any rough edge for me to find the wound. sure, if i examine myself in the mirror, i will still be able to see a faint scar. but maybe someday i will heal well enough that i can at least cover it up for a little bit if i need to.
i will always find a way to make something work.