Sometimes, pain can sucker punch you like a fist between the eyes. It's immediate, it's excruciating, it leaves you reeling, rocking back and forth trying to find balance; but, after the initial shock is over, it fades into little more than a dull ache.
Sometimes, pain is not so instantaneous. It's like a scab, the remnants of an old wound. Unintentionally, unthinkingly, perhaps, that wound may be picked open, peeled back, and suddenly there is blood, there is rawness, there is mess.
I learned some interesting news this week.
It didn't really hurt, at first.
In fact, it barely hurt at all. It felt kind of like I'd brushed over a once-injured area that had almost healed; gingerly, with gentleness, with care, then moved on.
It didn't hurt, in fact, until I decided to dig a little deeper, to find out a little bit more; and, in so doing, to probe into my own half-forgotten memory box of the past. Consequentially, I managed to open up some almost-completely-healed hurts. Now they need time to heal over again.
The more a scab is picked, the worse the scar will be.
I seriously need to learn to stop picking these scabs.
I don't want to be covered in scars.
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