#119 Control

The strangest thing is happening. About a week ago I wrote what my husband called “easily your most disgusting blog ever”, about how I pick my cuticles. I wrote specifically about the wound on my right middle finger that began last December and that I continually exacerbate. I can’t seem to stop picking at it. And part of me doesn’t want to; I feel that it is somehow linked to Eric. It’s as if having that wound heal means I am over it all.

Well, despite continued, and in some cases deliberate picking, the wound on my finger is starting to heal. Try as I might I have not made it bleed since I wrote that blog. The heaped up scar tissue is slowly degrading and my best picking efforts seem only to accelerate this process. While it is nice that my finger is looking better, I am not happy about this at all. Not at all.

I am a self-described control freak. Once, without realizing what I was saying I told someone I knew I was a control freak but that I was trying to control that. See what I mean? I don’t like or understand how my finger is healing despite some pretty damn good efforts to keep it from doing so. Does this mean my psyche is healing as well? Because damn it, I don’t want to be healed.

I don’t really know what healed means in this context, but I’m afraid to go there. I don’t want to wallow, but I don’t want to move on either. I’m fine with the status quo.

And clearly I can’t control who lives or dies in my life…..if that were the case, well, there would be no need for this blog, but if I can’t even control a self-inflicted wound where does that leave me??

My version of a recurring nightmare is being in a car and needing to stop and having the brakes fail. It’s not a high-speed, quick failure, it’s slow and tortuous. The harder I push on the brakes the slower the car goes, but I just can’t ever get it to stop. A classic (I think) representation of being out of control. My need for control is so perverted that the more this stupid finger heals, the harder I pick at it.

It’s looking like my finger might heal despite me. (or to spite me, I’m not sure) Still, I’m not ready to stop grieving. Time may heal all wounds, but some things I have to at least pretend I still have control over.