Let’s talking about scab picking.
No really… let’s.
The thing is, people pick off their scabs because it feels good and it feels good because scabs are itchy and that’s stupid.
It’s stupid because the same body that put the scab there to close a wound and protect it from germs is the one giving you the urge to remove the damned thing because it gets itchy when it dries up.
Make up your fricking mind!
It doesn’t make sense. We have the urge to destroy our body’s own defenses.
And it comes from a sane place. By far, the most common reason we itch is that some skin cells failed to slough off when they died and now need some help from us to finish the job via scratching.
Thus, we maintain our skin’s health.
But our bodies can’t tell the difference between dead skin that has to go and its own scabs, which really ought to stay.
We even get a “clean” feeling when we are done, like we washed up, when in reality we made things much, much dirtier!
Now imagine what it must have been before we knew about germs et al. People had no reason to hold back in those days, and must have been picking away freely and making their wounds much worse while also opening them up to infection.
Boggles the mind, dunnit? Just think about all the lives Louis Pasteur has saved by now by launching the hygienic revolution.
Scabs still get picked, but at least we know better now.
As those close to me know all too well, I have had a serious problem with the scab removal compulsion in the past. To the point where I made wounds from infections on my legs far worse and far bigger by getting rid of those itchy scabs all the time.
And all the while, the poor wound care nurses had to deal with the consequences.
They were also the ones who gave me what I needed to break myself of that very very bad habit. By covering up the affected areas with bandages, they both put a physical barrier in the way of my wandering hands so that they could not pick at things when my mind was elsewhere, they kept the scabs from drying up and itching in the first place.
Thus, the tide was turned and all those awful leg wounds healed up and now I only need bandage changes on my feet.
Hell, one of my wounds was like two inches from my butthole. Don’t know how I survived having an open wound on the filthiest part of my anatomy.
The scab removal issue has been on my mind lately because I have developed some new wounds on my legs and so I am struggling with the whole thing again.
There is one on each leg, plus a few minor ones hither and yon.
And once more, it is not hard for me to keep myself from picking at them consciously, the trick is to keep myself from messing with them in those rare moments when my mind is busy but my hands are free.
Last time I was at Wound Care, the nurse gave me some spare bandages for my feet in case I have to change those bandages myself some time.
I am thinking they might go on my legs instead.
More after the break.
Pay attention to me!
I have always wanted and/or needed attention.
That’s one of the main reasons I have, mostly unconsciously, worked so hard at being entertaining. I want to grab and hold on to people’s attention and make them happy and then, through them, I can be happy too.
It’s a beautiful thing, really. A fabulous fuzzy feedback loop where my happiness and skills make them happy, and their happiness makes me happy, and I radiate that happiness back to them which makes them even happier, until we either reach some sort of entertainment nirvana or explode from the sheer bliss of it all.
It would totally be worth it. Dude.
Ergo, I am a natural entertainer. I tend to ignore that part of myself because there is no way I have the energy, youth, focus, or vigor to try to be an actor or a musician or even a comedian at my decrepit age and in my run down shabby condition.
I might be able to do comedy if I had someone to drive me everywhere, door to door.
Working my walker into the act would be an interesting challenge. But it would have to be that or bring a frigging chair.
It’s possible to be a sit down standup comic, but it’s very, very hard.
I suppose I could do my act from a wheelchair. I don’t technically need one yet but I feel like it ain’t that far off.
And boy does getting around without having to stand up suit me.
I get the feeling that if I had to stand up to do comedy, the pain I would be in would make my material very, very edgy.
“Hey, have you ever noticed that LIFE FUCKING SUCKS and I HATE EVERYTHING and EVERYTHING EVERWHERE SHOULD DIE FOREVER?!?!?!.”
Life sure is funny that way.
But no, I figure if I ever become any sort of entertainer, it will be via the internet. I will put together a podcast with Felicity, or start making TikToks again, or whatever.
That means kicking my false introversion to the curb permanently. I will always be a basic introvert – small group of RL friends, prefer quiet places, dislike really loud people – but I also crave attention and praise and money, and those needs are not introverted at all, and it’s time I faced that.
And that is just as much a real part of me as all that sad sack bullshit I am working so hard to put behind me.
I don’t need to be that broken down depressed version of myself any more.
I can be more.
I can be better.
I can be stronger.
And I can be… me.
And I’m fucking amazing.
I will talk to you nice people again tomorrow.