We all have disgustingly bad habits, no one just dares put ‘em out there like any other dirty laundry. In the spirit of zagging, I’ll hang one of mine out.
I am a scab picker. Yes, 28 to date, yet I never outgrew the bad habit of picking away at my wounds. My parents and friends still slap my hand when they catch me in the act. An excellently recent example would be the latest mishap on my right knee. I was running a couple of weeks ago and tripped over the uneven sidewalk I was on. Fell hard on my knees and scrapped the right one solidly on the pavement. The then-fresh wound was bleeding for a good part of the rest of my run. It dried out a few days later and started to itch like frikkin’ hell! It was only automatic for my hands to relieve the “pain.” Now I can’t wear skirts to work because my already-unpretty legs just got uglier. If Dive Master Kuya Toto saw it, he’d say it was “samting… panget!”
I know it’s wrong but this bad habit, like any other, is hard to break.
What I realized today, thru an amazing apt analogy made by my best friend, is that I don’t just pick on my scabs literally; I do it figuratively, too. If you backtrack a few entries, you’ll see my recent history. Short of it is someone decided to take my heart and crush it in my face. Been living with a hollow for a few weeks now, waves of sadness come and go, and last night was bad.
I had a moment of weakness. Somehow I brought myself very near heart-crusher’s vicinity. Out on the semi-silent, weeknight streets of Makati CBD, I was standing in front of his building, asking myself “What the fuck am I doing here?”
I was out there a good ten minutes, while an internal debate raged on between the girl who wanted to fight for him and the girl who wanted to keep a semblance of strength and pride. Then, it dawned on me. If I really wanted to see him, I would’ve been in there ten minutes ago. So I walked away.
Walking away was easy, but it was painful. I cried myself to sleep again last night. Prideful, strong girl was angry for nearly giving into the weakness. She was screaming, “What were you thinking in the first place?” in my head last night, and I honestly couldn’t answer. I have no idea why I keep putting myself in that sort of situation.
I told Chaw, my best friend about last night’s incident today. Plus I added my glorious insights: 1) that I am jaded for a reason, 2) and it’s because I’m always the dumpee. Chaw’s a very patient and understanding soul, but I think my "insights" frustrated her and she told me, point blank, “You have to stop picking on the wound.”
And it’s true. Reading back what I’ve written so far… I have a mix of pity and sorrow for the girl going thru the pain, but frankly, I must say the pain is mostly self-inflicted. I pick on the hollow… I haven’t allowed my heart to heal right.
It was a good realization. No. Not just good. It was the perfect wake-up call, for both literal and figurative scab-picking. The wound on my knee still itches, but I’m leaving it alone. The hollow still hurts, but I feel my heart growing back and I’m getting rid of the things that hinder the healing. He may have said his goodbye a few weeks ago, but I can honestly say mine is beginning only now. No more turning back, no more fighting. I’ll never forget, but I forgive and I truly wish for nothing but the best.
It's still there, but I’m leaving it alone. Hard habit... broken.