There is a callus on my right hand on the knuckle at the base of my middle finger.
It's not very visible; you can really only see it if you know what to look for.
It's a sad kind of callus.
It's not formed from hard work or repeated use for something life-affirming like making art or music.
I used to have joyful calluses. There was the one on my right thumb from holding up a clarinet for hours a day. I still have the one on my pointer from writing, but it's softened from years of trading pen and ink for the clickety-clack of keyboards.
This callus is a reminder of shame and betrayal. A symbol of self-loathing and abuse.
Maybe someday it will fade out of disuse like the one from my thumb.
I can only hope.
It's not very visible; you can really only see it if you know what to look for.
It's a sad kind of callus.
It's not formed from hard work or repeated use for something life-affirming like making art or music.
I used to have joyful calluses. There was the one on my right thumb from holding up a clarinet for hours a day. I still have the one on my pointer from writing, but it's softened from years of trading pen and ink for the clickety-clack of keyboards.
This callus is a reminder of shame and betrayal. A symbol of self-loathing and abuse.
Maybe someday it will fade out of disuse like the one from my thumb.
I can only hope.
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