Imagine you’ve just gotten .
It was a stray Bullet from someone target practicing but being dumb at it, and your injury was a flesh wound, but it hurt like you had had all your teeth extracted without Novocain.
As you are standing there in shock, clutching your side and holding it tight to halt the blood flow—without much success—the doorbell rings.
Grunting, you shuffle over to the door, and open it.
“Hey kiddo,” your friend chirps out with more vigor than you have heard since Halloween. “Let’s go have some fun, how about river rafting?”
You stand there with blood seeping through your fingers, oh, no, you think, Howard (the friend) faints at the sight of blood.
Okay what do you do now? Pull the friend in, tell him to pull himself together and bandage you up? Excuse yourself, go to the bathroom and tape up your side and go with him?
No, chances are you want to go to the hospital. You want a sterile environment with the best surgeon available.
The same goes with psychological wounds. You want someone compassionate enough to allow you to vent your story, but with enough savvy to see what really needs attention. (Triage.)
Maybe the bullet is still lodged in your beautiful flesh. You want someone to take it out, and do a good job of it. (And someone to get you to your place of healing.)
Sometimes we are tempted to bandage up our own the wounds saying they are trivial. of people have it worst,” you say. “They got shot in the heart.”
Yet, small injuries, like splinters hurt, and need taken out the same as bullets.
We don’t numb ourselves with substances so we don’t feel that splinter. No, pull it out. It will hurt for a minute, but you will heal in the long run. And go on to live a long enthusiastic life.
I’m not talking about people who like to whine so they will get attention, I’m talking about people who muscle it through, and ignore issues that are best faced and extracted.
Pain is there to be attended to. Now, after the surgery is the time to celebrate. Pull out the champagne.