Addendum to a Cryptic-ocity
Apr. 30th, 2002 04:58 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
the_siobhanLately I've been thinking a lot about healing.
About how the body forms knots of connective tissue to stop the bleeding, generates new tissue to close the wound, regrows cells, makes new connections.
In the end there is nothing left but a fading scar and a new story to tell around the pub. And perhaps a newfound sense of nervousness around high places and fast-moving objects.
But holy shit, when it's going on, does the fucker ever itch.
Emotional healing appears not to be so very different.
After months turn into years of being curled in on myself because it hurts to much to stand, I can suddenly straighten up again. And move again. And stretch, tentatively. And think, some day soon, about running.
And it itches. It pushes itself into my consciousness. I keep poking at it to see where the tender parts still are, opening it up to the light to examine the new growth, marvel at the parts that suddenly don't hurt. It still stings like a bastard if I forget myself and touch the wrong spot, and somebody banging into it accidentally will leave me curled up on the floor again. But the changes are unmistakable.
I'm healing.
And eventually, all I will have left is a fading scar and an old story to tell around the pub. And perhaps a newfound sense of nervousness around high situations and fast-moving people.
About how the body forms knots of connective tissue to stop the bleeding, generates new tissue to close the wound, regrows cells, makes new connections.
In the end there is nothing left but a fading scar and a new story to tell around the pub. And perhaps a newfound sense of nervousness around high places and fast-moving objects.
But holy shit, when it's going on, does the fucker ever itch.
Emotional healing appears not to be so very different.
After months turn into years of being curled in on myself because it hurts to much to stand, I can suddenly straighten up again. And move again. And stretch, tentatively. And think, some day soon, about running.
And it itches. It pushes itself into my consciousness. I keep poking at it to see where the tender parts still are, opening it up to the light to examine the new growth, marvel at the parts that suddenly don't hurt. It still stings like a bastard if I forget myself and touch the wrong spot, and somebody banging into it accidentally will leave me curled up on the floor again. But the changes are unmistakable.
I'm healing.
And eventually, all I will have left is a fading scar and an old story to tell around the pub. And perhaps a newfound sense of nervousness around high situations and fast-moving people.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2002-04-30 07:30 pm (UTC)