A first-hand synopsis of a woman healing wounds that can't be seen, only heard.
A wound that keeps oozing is both frustrating and painful. It keeps no record of the amount of times you’ve attempted to clean it, the amount of effort you’ve put in to get rid of the pus-to nurture it so it can heal.
An infected wound only knows about the amount of pus that still needs to come out. To some extent you blame yourself for putting yourself in the position of getting infected, even though in the back of your mind you know it was an accident. You couldn’t have known you’d get infected, nor can you possibly know the amount of time it takes to heal. All you know, after the fact, is that an infected wound hurts. So after the fact, I can safely say, my infected wound hurts.
It’s an uncomfortably difficult pain to describe when you don’t understand half of it. As a woman of misguided strength, it’s even more frustrating when you want to. You keep picking at it, trying to get to the root of it. Something keeps telling you the more you pick at it the more you’ll understand. The more you pick at it, the more pus will come out. It’s not a pretty sight. You clean it with one eye closed, scared of what you might see. Your wound eventually forms a scab, but it only covers up what needs to be exposed in order to form a scar. Scars, you may say, are unwanted entities. No one wants them. They look unsightly. They remind you of events that were painful.
However, a scar means the infection dried out and the wound healed. Scars are good. Others may look at you and judge according to the size of your scars, even though they don’t know what caused them. Only you know the depth of the wound that formed your marks. Often times, ripping off the scab that forms half way during the healing process, hurts more. You think you’re healing, only to realise you missed a spot when you attempted to clean the wound the first time, which infects it all over again.
They say time heals all wounds. That’s not true. If you don’t clean the wound properly, time becomes your enemy. Often you need help with the cleaning process, but your ability to speak forms part of the wound. Using your voice becomes part of the pus, which makes asking for help near to impossible. You’re used to your voice having absolutely no meaning. You always hear someone saying you were in charge of giving it away, even though it happened without you realising. It was so subtle. But in actual fact, it was taken. You weren’t strong enough to hold onto it. You were robbed of your voice when you were weak and helpless.