“What happened to your head?”, I asked. There was a scar atop his forehead. It was bright and shiney. It looked new.

“Oh,” he said, “that’s from, I think, Thursday.”

It’s a funny thing about scars. They can look fresh and raw and be old. Or they can look worn and tattered and be new. All it takes is a little attention to the wrong area, and boom!, there’s that scar.

It’s the same way with people. We can think it’s healed. We can think it’s gone away. We can hope that, because it’s invisible to the naked eye, we won’t flinch when someone pokes it.

But it’s not true.

I just want to run and scream and cry and yell because, when I imagined it, it NEVER looked like this. I want to know that it will get better, that things will improve, because part of me is too selfish to give everything. And there IS no light at the end of the tunnel.

I know that makes no sense. I’m sorry. Maybe answers are forthcoming.