I hurt myself by pulling my thumbs away from my body causing inflamed tendons to swell and pop. The joints do, too. The small bones in the fingers feel relief with the snap crack of my knuckles, but I can feel I’m doing damage.
The swelling pools in the space between my pointer finger and wrist; I can see puffiness pushing against the inside of my skin.
My scar tissue moves like the coffin lid hiding a buried survivor who desperately assesses the situation. “How do I get out of here,” ask the bumps of hardened body glue contained by flesh. With a light touch of my fingertip, I press against the scars under the skin that hardened abused veins.
It’s psychosomatic. I am hurting myself and I can’t make myself stop. No wrist braces or rest or ice. Sometimes, I remember to take ibuprofen. Usually, I berate myself for lack of discipline. Why don’t I just stop messing with my hands?
The ligaments tear; I feel the stretch and pull and ache where previously there was no pain.
As I complain, my husband eases his hands over mine, making me stop tugging at my joints without using force. His warmth is soothing; his energy hugs my fractures like pouring liquid metal to coat and strengthen my chipped bones.
My cartilage like rubber cement balled up between thumb and fingers. He holds my whole heart together with his energy, healing my psychosomatic wounds like a deep tissue masseuse rubbing out muscle knots.
He relaxes my muscle fibers knotted by stress as he holds me, and I sleep.