There are times when I realize that some past emotional wounds are still very fresh though it seems a layer of skin has formed a scab over them. It’s easy to overlook wounds if you tell yourself that they aren’t there or that you are grateful for their presence because they’ve given you character or taught you a lesson about yourself. When you are done justifying the presence of these wounds or the good that came out of the hurt they provided, and when you are done protecting your ego, sometimes your humanity will peer through and you’ll have a moment of clarity when you simply want to yell a long, passionate, violent strand of obscenities to the person or people who hurt you.
I am having that moment of clarity now. Fortunately for my spirit and the sake of being a lady, I don’t curse and I am therefore limiting myself to merely mentally composing said virile strand of obscenities that I’d like to lavish upon the inflictor of those wounds I aforementioned.
Mid composure, however, I wonder the point of it all? Why bother formulating the strand of verbal wrath that you probably will never release?
For healing, of course.
“For healing,” I tell myself; certain that this potent composition will make me feel better. The truth, however, is that you cannot heal hurt with hate; and you cannot heal when you are storing hate in your heart. Hate is to love what pneumonia is to AIDS; a deadly virus that starts small and has the potential to completely shut down your system. Perhaps we need to stop kissing our wounds with petty attempts to strike back at our past, and instead, confront the pain that we’re trying so desperately to cover up.
What about you, what wounds are you kissing? What gratification and/or displeasure do those kisses bring?
Categories: Below the Belt
I rather let a new layer of skin form over my wounds than to kiss them. I understand what you mean by pain can sometimes make you stronger and help you discover truths about yourself. But personally I make it not exist anymore by not paying attention to it.
That’s actually a psychological defense mechanism called “repression.” I do that sometimes too; generally only in the most extreme cases where something is so emotionally investing that it sends me into a sort of shock comatose in which I block almost the entire event from memory.