Torn Finger Nails & Hot Water
I have a habit of disconnecting from the good things, the proven things, the helpful things.
I guess it’s easier to be sad. I operated on the hallow fumes of sadness for so long that the emptiness feels more familiar than this new fullness of joy. I guess that’s why I Iike to go back to this state of being.
When I say like, I’m not talking about the satisfaction I feel when eating ripe fruit but that feeling of ripping off a fingernail that’s torn at the edge or the stinging that covers my skin when I get into a bath that’s too hot.
All of these things hurt but I keep doing them. The tearing of my fingernails starts as a harmless picking at the corners and then advances to a tearing. Then, before I know it, I have torn my nail down to the flesh-exposing skin that’s not meant to be seen.
It hurts for days and my nubby finger looks foreign among my stronger fingernails. Eventually, it grows back and I will do it again, but this time to a different nail.
There is both deep satisfaction and regret that comes with the tearing. I feel intrigued to see the shred of nail separating from its larger body and then feel fearful as stinging flesh meets air.
When I get into a steaming tub of water I inch my body in slowly past the burning. It is my flesh at the surface that I am most aware of. It is a stinging ring that advances past my toes and ankles and eventually to the tops of my shoulders.
Once I am completely in the pain is a stranger. I will allow my hand to break the surface of the water so we can meet again.
Eventually, we cool together.
The catch is the initial burning and cooling are just the beginning. I remove myself from the tub and my skin is red, hot, and dry. A couple of hours after I absorb the dampness with a towel my legs itch and scratching leaves long marks on dehydrated skin.
This is natural to me. For as long as I can remember I have been nail picking and turning the faucet nobs just past the point of tolerability.
Maybe it's because I like the moment of reprieve. For those few minutes, my mind is only on the tearing and the burning. I do not drift to anxiety but stay in the tiny stinging pains.
The same goes for sadness. I will dip my foot into its boiling waters for a few moments and then watch the pain vanish. The rest of my body follows and then I am scared of what it will feel like to break the surface, so I stay there just below the pain.
When the waters have cooled and I remove myself I will see the evidence on my body for days. Sadness marks me like long scratch lines on dry skin.
I have found sadness and happiness to both be a state of action. Sadness comes with hot water and tearing fingernails. Happiness comes with the lightness of fresh fruit.
If I act on the stories and illustrations that are calling me to write them like a ripe mango calls me to eat it, I find happiness there. But if I move toward the lack of action I associate with sadness, I find bloody finger corners and dry skin.