I got a splinter in my finger today. Not wood - some white, thin, semi-flexible material that reminded me of tiny fish bones. I noticed when it jabbed itself into my flesh, looked down, and saw the white half inch spear. Enough remained outside me for my nails to grasp it and pull.
Apparently, a small piece broke off and remained. I noticed a couple hours ago, when pressure on my finger precipitated pain. For a moment, I thought the bit of white was just skin, but it wasn't. I could've left it there, to be pushed out of my skin whenever my finger felt like rejecting it. But in the meantime, any touch to that part of my finger would've hurt. So I grabbed a pin, started poking... and realized that I am still a child.
Upstairs I trotted, pin in hand, hunting a flame and a person. The flame presented as a lighter. The person as Bekah. I sat, not watching, teeth clenched, and she dug that nasty white thing out of my finger. Voila! Ouch.
Years ago, I sat, clenching my other fist, not looking, trying but failing to keep silent, as my father dug a sterilized pin into my finger, my hand, my arm, wherever the splinter had lodged that time. It always hurt. I could never watch. I could never do it myself. My childhood memories of the pain inflame it beyond what it deserved, so that I remember splinters hurting SO SO MUCH! when really it probably wasn't that bad. But here's the thing: no matter how much pain the removal caused, no matter if blood was drawn or not, after the splinter was gone, there was a deep relief. My finger, after a moment clouded the memory of the fire shooting from the tip of that pin, no longer hurt.
My finger doesn't hurt anymore. There's something beautiful and powerful in someone else causing you pain to remove a source of constant pain so that there can be no pain. The hurt that heals. The cut that cleans. For the greater good? Life is pain, Highness. But we can't deal with these things on our own. There are things we balk at. I cannot inflict much physical pain on myself, even if I know it's necessary. Maybe I can force myself to do other things - like join a crowd of strangers and socialize, or keep running when my lungs ache, or stop freaking out and relax and trust that the water will hold me and it's not very deep anyway so I can always touch the ground. But even those things I make myself do - like talk, run, float - are done with the help and encouragement of other people. They tell me I can do it, give me advice - take slow, even breaths. And before I know it, the splinter's gone. Thank you, Bekah. And I can swim. Thank you, Lizzi. And I can run for the first time in 5 years. Thank you, Brad. And I can talk to people I don't know. Thank you, Annery.
Thank you, my crazy little family.
