picking at your calluses
that callus, that thick impenetrable skin, is the only definitive proof of your hard work. maybe you played the guitar, did pull-ups, sawed a log, walked in new shoes... maybe you started the endeavor in pain and bleeding, and your body has adapted to protect yourself. this is what you're made for now.
i wonder if there is such a thing as a callus of the mind. i recently stayed at home again after living away for a while, and i feel like i lost my mental calluses that were meant for interacting with certain members of my family at their low points. screaming and hitting things over minutiae, how do you live like this? i thought. and then i remembered the years growing up, how the chaos affected me for years until it became background noise, and now i feel like a very young version of myself, naively expecting to feel normal again.
my mom never developed those calluses. she has sore spots instead, the way even the smallest slight sets her on edge. "we know this person can handle themselves, so why don't you step away?" i ask. "i don't want to close my eyes to it," she responds. "i need to be fully present." i should take her word for it because she knows her situation best, but i can't help but think that she should protect her own sanity first. she drags herself into the drama so she can sympathize, but by constantly being on edge, it's harder for her to be the support that she desperately wants to be.
sometimes, we convince ourselves that the only way to truly help the ones we love is by hurting ourselves in the process. maybe this is a plea to you, if you find yourself in a similar situation, to stop picking at your calluses.