I was reminded earlier by a Facebook memory that I don’t have a high tolerance for pain.
That soul-crushing weakness is woven in the fabric of who I am, my identity, my being. That hurt is palpable. Visceral. And it can appear almost anywhere at any time.
I’ve come to terms with that and have learned to re-frame it within my humanity.
From the post, I was reminded how my body responded to grievous harm after I accidentally poured copious amounts of boiling, fastidiously-crafted, small-batch home made delicious Chai over my left index and ring fingers as I was decanting it from the creation pot into an ornate serving vessel.
While I’m not averse to cussing or crass language, I don’t use it often. But sometimes, there is no other way. An F-bomb slipped out.
It was loud and forceful. Escaped like a toot in a crowded, silent elevator.
It was delivered with tones of anger and frustration. Tinged in pain.
Piercing the still quiet of the evening.
It hurt so bad. Pulsing and throbbing. Searing.
Seeing it pour down the drain like that. What a waste.
I almost cried.