My Poor Hand

When I was young I would wake up with scratches and cuts and bruises. I’d also be laying across my bed, teddy bear clutched under my head (he was pillow-sized), limbs hanging off. I was apparently an adventurer off to battle every night.

It’s been decades since I’ve really hurt myself in my sleep, but last night, I apparently was back at it.

I do have a troublesome dry patch there. It might even be a patch of psoriasis, ‘cause I’ve got that. I almost had it under control and then it flared. I’ve been trying to help it calm down, but I’m easily distracted from my self-care.

I recall waking myself a few times with it and just going back to sleep. By morning I had scratched it so raw that I couldn’t go back to sleep. I had blood under my nails!

The dreams I had were not all that pleasant either.

It’s been mostly fine, but then just starts hurting. It hurts a lot worse than it looks, I swear. I have an unhealthy-ily high pain tolerance, but this thing is making me whine like a baby.

I guess it could be worse. A coworker put a giant wood splinter straight through the top of her finger. Or the time I slammed my thumb in my car door and tried to walk away. That took eight months to heal!

My husband says that maybe I shouldn’t be writing my novel before bed. He may have a point…