Pointing the Finger

A fresh gash is forming on my right pointer finger. I've been moisturizing to no avail. It's growing at a brisk pace, soon to become a beating, painful cut, whether I take every action I can to stop it or not.

I noticed droplets of blood on my keyboard, so I've had to bandage it.

A bloody keyboard. There's got to be some symbolism there.

Let's see, the pointer finger. Am I accusing people too much? Maybe. Maybe I'm accusing myself too much.

I'm giving myself a break from it. I'm tired of focusing on all that's wrong with me all the time. I'm drained already. I can't be that bad.

Could I have handled things better? Said it differently? More gently, with more kindness? Yes, yes and yes, but then I wouldn't have gotten my point across. My point! Am I trying to make a point? To myself?

What am I trying to tell me?

I think I know, and to my horror, I think it's as banal as a L'Oreal ad:

I am worth it.

Sometimes the best wisdom comes from the least expected places.