What hurts more? A bruised knee or a disturbed mind? And is it even a comparison worth making? I've decided to comb my memories and figure out. For I take questionable pride in being a nitwit of a clutz and have a fair share of injuries to boast of.
Take, for instance, when I was about eight. And I flew straight off a slide and landed face down with gravel in my knees. Now mind you, I could've had a safe landing had I not attempted to "stand up midway to gain momentum". I obviously didn't understand how physics worked.
Not that I do now,anyway.
My knee had more bruises than skin and every time it began to heal, I managed to give it a good bang against a wall or something, opening it up once more. It was a few months before my balance learned how to deal with the situation. Neural conditioning, If you will.
When I was six, I figured jumping was the way to go up stairs in a rather boring shop. I don't remember what they sold there, but it had white walls and white lights and my mother was taking way too much time. I tripped, needless to say, with my chin colliding with impeccable precision on the edge of a stair. My skin spit open, my blood added colour to the interiors and my bone peeked out into the big bad world. I was rushed to the doctors to be sewn up.
My chin bone obviously hadn't seen nearly enough in time to be pushed back under epidermis, and so, shortly afterward, I fell flat from a monkey pole in school. My mother, who was talking to my friend's mother at the time, turned around and let out an astonished, "not again".
Around seven, I was running around my building and hopped right onto an exposed soldering iron.
Oh, the pain.
I recited boli from Kathak and spoke unendingly, hoping I'd learn to ignore the weird throbbing. My foot was wrapped in potato peels which made me feel like my feet were peeling off themselves. It was strange, for I could feel the warmth leaving my foot and the cold peels wiggling under my toes. I got to miss school the next day.
When I was thirteen,I decided to race my athletic and skinny best friend across a somewhat restricted area of school. The fact that I was round and overweight and that I never finished earlier than seventh in any sport didn't seem to stop me. Off I went, my stubby legs carrying me unbelievably fast. Still, when I looked ahead, there she was, my skinny friend, darting toward the finish line. My legs, as though oblivious to my uncoordination and perpetual state of inertia, flung me faster still. Half way in, I lost my foothold and simultaneously tripped over some dried leaves. I fell forward onto my stomach, my arms outstretched over my head and my legs trailing behind me. My speed kept me moving, as though being disqualified from the race would be much too disgraceful. I slid for about ten seconds, looking like Superman traveling closer to the ground because gravity felt overly affectionate toward him that day.
I returned home covered in red. Mercurochrome, not blood.
A few days later, I rushed to open the door as the bell rang. I had ordered pads from a medical and they had finally arrived. In my hurry, I banged the door on the bridge of my nose- swinging it inward wildly. I began to laugh loudly and nearly scared away the delivery boy who looked fairly confused about what just happened. I was going to need some plaster for my throbbing bone.
Two years later, I was talking to a friend animatedly when I walked into a metal tap. Its nozzle struck my shin and left four cuts in my skin- symmetric parallel lines that to this day form my most beloved scar. I bet nobody has one as pretty.
I once fell flat on my bottom from the top berth of a train on my way to Calcutta in the dead of the night.
My most recent wound was from running up stairs at the railway station and getting my leg caught in my own pants. My knees hit the marble and left me limping for ten days after.
In the years to come, I slipped on pavements, sprained my ankle while standing up straight, fell down stairs and
landed on my bottom (multiple times) and tore a muscle by throwing a
tent pole wrong.
Granted I've never broken a bone or gone into labour, but I've always brushed my backside, had a good laugh and hobbled along until my immune system did its job. One gets used to being clumsy.
I doubt it's as easy to recover from being sad. Sadness isn't skin deep and is far removed from feeling hurt. But I feel like the comparison between physical and emotional pain cannot be made simply due to how subjective it is- from person to person. The sensation of external wounds is somewhat universal, but emotional wounds would differ based on experience and degrees of stoic-ness.
I don't think I'll ever understand how or why people dictate which situations one is allowed to be vulnerable in and in which situations one must stifle the tears. Shouldn't every person be allowed to let their own, individual chemicals tango in their minds exactly how they please?
Take, for instance, when I was about eight. And I flew straight off a slide and landed face down with gravel in my knees. Now mind you, I could've had a safe landing had I not attempted to "stand up midway to gain momentum". I obviously didn't understand how physics worked.
Not that I do now,anyway.
My knee had more bruises than skin and every time it began to heal, I managed to give it a good bang against a wall or something, opening it up once more. It was a few months before my balance learned how to deal with the situation. Neural conditioning, If you will.
When I was six, I figured jumping was the way to go up stairs in a rather boring shop. I don't remember what they sold there, but it had white walls and white lights and my mother was taking way too much time. I tripped, needless to say, with my chin colliding with impeccable precision on the edge of a stair. My skin spit open, my blood added colour to the interiors and my bone peeked out into the big bad world. I was rushed to the doctors to be sewn up.
My chin bone obviously hadn't seen nearly enough in time to be pushed back under epidermis, and so, shortly afterward, I fell flat from a monkey pole in school. My mother, who was talking to my friend's mother at the time, turned around and let out an astonished, "not again".
Around seven, I was running around my building and hopped right onto an exposed soldering iron.
Oh, the pain.
I recited boli from Kathak and spoke unendingly, hoping I'd learn to ignore the weird throbbing. My foot was wrapped in potato peels which made me feel like my feet were peeling off themselves. It was strange, for I could feel the warmth leaving my foot and the cold peels wiggling under my toes. I got to miss school the next day.
When I was thirteen,I decided to race my athletic and skinny best friend across a somewhat restricted area of school. The fact that I was round and overweight and that I never finished earlier than seventh in any sport didn't seem to stop me. Off I went, my stubby legs carrying me unbelievably fast. Still, when I looked ahead, there she was, my skinny friend, darting toward the finish line. My legs, as though oblivious to my uncoordination and perpetual state of inertia, flung me faster still. Half way in, I lost my foothold and simultaneously tripped over some dried leaves. I fell forward onto my stomach, my arms outstretched over my head and my legs trailing behind me. My speed kept me moving, as though being disqualified from the race would be much too disgraceful. I slid for about ten seconds, looking like Superman traveling closer to the ground because gravity felt overly affectionate toward him that day.
I returned home covered in red. Mercurochrome, not blood.
A few days later, I rushed to open the door as the bell rang. I had ordered pads from a medical and they had finally arrived. In my hurry, I banged the door on the bridge of my nose- swinging it inward wildly. I began to laugh loudly and nearly scared away the delivery boy who looked fairly confused about what just happened. I was going to need some plaster for my throbbing bone.
Two years later, I was talking to a friend animatedly when I walked into a metal tap. Its nozzle struck my shin and left four cuts in my skin- symmetric parallel lines that to this day form my most beloved scar. I bet nobody has one as pretty.
I once fell flat on my bottom from the top berth of a train on my way to Calcutta in the dead of the night.
My most recent wound was from running up stairs at the railway station and getting my leg caught in my own pants. My knees hit the marble and left me limping for ten days after.
Granted I've never broken a bone or gone into labour, but I've always brushed my backside, had a good laugh and hobbled along until my immune system did its job. One gets used to being clumsy.
I doubt it's as easy to recover from being sad. Sadness isn't skin deep and is far removed from feeling hurt. But I feel like the comparison between physical and emotional pain cannot be made simply due to how subjective it is- from person to person. The sensation of external wounds is somewhat universal, but emotional wounds would differ based on experience and degrees of stoic-ness.
I don't think I'll ever understand how or why people dictate which situations one is allowed to be vulnerable in and in which situations one must stifle the tears. Shouldn't every person be allowed to let their own, individual chemicals tango in their minds exactly how they please?
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