Last night was a joke.
Our hearts were bleeding, minds leaking. Separately, we put on band-aids of familiarity. Our emotions covered by small talk and time with friends and family. We ignored the earlier portion of the day, because we all know it’s best not to look at a wound or think of pain while desiring healing. The band-aid was placed by friends who I ranted to and family members who distracted you. The band-aid that temporarily minimized the pain. The band-aid that allowed us to talk. Text message. Without harsh feelings. Without confusion. With only, “oh that’s fun! Hope it’s going well!” keeping us entertained as the after effects of the wound set in.
Band-aids are only truly needed until a scab is formed.
A scab formed for me after explaining in detail to my best friends how I’d been wounded earlier that day. I was automatically placed into recovery by their calming words and ability to listen. The scab was there. Not as shaken, I started recovering slightly. But I could no longer take any fake sense of security stuck on me. I am not a child. I know when I am fooling myself.
I ripped off the band-aid last night.
Curious, but not quite insane, I needed to know the severity of the wound that was there, under the band-aid. I needed to know why I had to be the target and why it had to happen as it did. Masking the truth only saves a victim from regressing into shock. I wanted to confront the wound in its real state. I needed truth.
The band-aid came off but so did a good portion of the scab. After the bleeding subsided, what was left was raw scar tissue. Damage has been done. Changes have been made. Now I have to wait for the scar. The lasting effects. Right now it’s a bumpy, dark, hideous mess. Will it turn out to be a silly story to tell? Will the scar be shaped funny? Or will it always be a reminder of pain? As the waiting game plays out, it’s hard to tell. But with a wound so deep, it’s time to face the possibility of living with a scar I can’t forget.