At some point, I realized I didn't want it to heal. At first, it was a compulsion. I would pick, it would bleed, and the pus would ooze, and then it would scab, and then I would get tired of waiting and then I would pick.
After a while, it became a commitment. I would write reminders to myself that the sore on my leg would need to be reopened. It was just a simple scrape, but after so many times picking, the act of picking became the act of bearing witness. I was committing myself to much more than just remembering a fall, and a scrape, I was remembering that small pains never went away, and that it was better to bleed and ooze than allow myself to forget.
1 September 2014