Well, mine’s not oozing, but it is a bit on the reddish side.
I’m not sure when it started precisely, although it seems to me, that there was once a small blemish there, before that is, I ever lay a nervous finger to it.
I handle stress a bit differently now, that is, differently than before the accident that thwaped my brains onto the pavement, snapping and rearranging the direction of the receptors in the old bean cavity.
Before the accident, I could shrug off most stressors, like water off a Blue Footed Booby’s butt, but now I tend to tear up and blubber like a an over stimulated Betsy Wetsy doll.
The literature I’ve read on the subject of TBI or “traumatic brain injury” has lay to rest my fear that I’m not “normal”, I’m normal enough for a person recovering from TBI; that is to say, it’s normal for a person to run the full gamut from major to minor personality changes, after a shocking sha-bonking to the noggin.
This in mind, I’m grateful that I haven’t turned into an angry shrew or a babbling idiot; although I did go through a brief, two week stint of nervous psycho-babble for which everyone was relieved, lasted not one day longer.
Anyway, this worry spot has been driving me crazy lately, for it seems that every time it comes close to healing completely and dissolving back into a smooth unmarred complexion, I begin to worry it again. It's like an unconsciouse conscious action, I don’t know how else to put it, I’m aware of what is going on, yet at the same time, it’s like being in a trance, and it happens whenever I'm feeling a little stressed or overwhelmed.
First, my finger runs lightly over the top of it, then, finding it a little rougher than the surrounding skin, I search out and find the purchase of an edge, then, ever so slightly, I begin to worry it. Now I do have a worry stone that I like to caress with my thumb, but this seems to give me more satisfaction some how; and I can’t help but wonder if the psychology of this scab picking has something to say about my feelings of vulnerability, and my unwillingness to close myself off again to the tough turtle shell of my former self.
It might just be that I actually like myself better, now that I have become somewhat softer and squishier as far as my emotions are concerned. I do feel a certain freedom that I never felt before and my close friends have remarked on the fact that I was like an impermeable rock before, full of an over abundance of strength that never seemed to wane, and they found it at times unnerving and even frightening.
I can see how they would feel that way, I’ve felt that way about my father many times, and it’s he whom I’m sure I got trait of stoicism from. I both admired and hated it in him when I was a child, I never felt perfect enough when I was around him, no, and far from it.
So, perhaps this incessant and silly little mark upon my otherwise clear complexion is an indication of my state of being, and a small rebellion against the stridence for impossible perfection.
In any case, blemished or not, I am a happier freer person, now that the masonry of my former countenance, having fallen into a zillion little pieces, are now scrambling themselves into some sort of new working order, and so, are dispelling with old patterns that have little or nothing to do with the survival of my most basic self, I haven’t the energy for keeping that stony façade up anymore.
So now I pick on occasion, stupid habit true. I guess it’s my own little perverse take on thumb sucking or hair twirling, nothing I'd want to grow to accustomed to mind you, and I’m sure I’ll grow out of it soon.