When I was about 8 years old, we lived in a trailer on 5 acres of land in the country. Our yard was gated with a big wide metal farm gate that I, as copilot if our little Nissan sentra, was frequently tasked to open.
One day, as I leaned on the side of the car with my open hand, I slammed the door closed (it had to be slammed to latch) onto my thumb. I felt a weird numby stab, realized what I had done, decided I was dumb for having done it, yanked my hand out of the doorjam, and decided I wouldn’t tell my dad what happened all in about a quarter of a second.
I calmly and collectedly walked in front of the car toward the gate as if nothing had happened, for a total of about 5 steps. At that point a wave of unbelievably intense pain washed through me and my legs went out from under me. I doubled over and started screaming, clutching the base of my thumb, watching the rest of it turn purple and swell in front of my eyes. My Dad was pretty confused at first, but very reactive and concerned. He acted in military medicine fashion and stuck my thumb in ice water. Over the next few weeks, I slowly lost my thumbnail. So gross.
When I yanked my hand clear and started walking, I thought ensuredly that i would be fine. And further into my life, this immediate delayed disconnect with pain and damage has continued, even as I’ve learned to know better. When I shaved the tip of my toe off on the sidewalk while taking a full speed corner in sandles. My excessive drug abuse as a teen. After labia surgery when I couldn’t find the incision where I was expecting it. Falling off an rope and breaking my back. After hitting four obstacles downhill on my bike and not realizing I’d broken my elbow. And, most repeatedly, after braving an emotional tide and getting cracked over jagged rocks.
I don’t know where I got this idea that seeing something coming is supposed to make it hurt less. Like watching someone hit me in the face with a bat or piss away my affection with mediocrity and lies is supposed to change the blow for the better somehow. Like it’s supposed to transform the damage into something else and I’m not supposed to have to really fucking feel it. I don’t know where I got it but it’s hard to put down, it’s embedded, even with the mounting evidence that it actually hurts more to get hit in my open eyes than the back of my thick, ignorant head.
Somewhere in that deep baseline of me, I am still that girl who raises her chin, walks 5 steps, and falls the fuck apart anyway.
Don’t fucking touch me.