An Itch I Can't Scratch

My hand itches. It’s distracting and I can’t focus on anything and typing is so difficult with all this bandaging!

Ugh. It makes me want to do something properly melodramatic, like scream or pull at my hair.

Or something.

When I hang out with friends, I sit there and pinch at the itchy parts while I try like mad to pay attention to what’s going on. It only half works. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said, “Sorry, what?” this week.

I’ve also eaten out way too much this week. At cheap places, too, so I’m just going to make myself fat. But cooking makes me incredibly anxious. (As well it should, I guess.) I don’t do it—even boil water—unless there’s someone else in the kitchen. (Last night I made pasta, but only because there were three flatmates around.)

Ideally, someone would stand at my elbow while I putter around the kitchen. They’re too far away in the living room.

Although, in a completely ideal world, I wouldn’t have to cook for myself until the bandages come off. (Or do the dishes, which is actually more difficult because I’m not supposed to get the bandaging wet. =/ ) It’s not that I mind cooking for myself (usually), it’s just so difficult and frustrating that I mostly can’t be bothered. So I go out and eat cheap, greasy food.

It’s been a long week. It feels a bit like it’s been one long, long day full of classes I can’t properly take notes in and itching and pain and a dozen or two people going, “Oh, god, how are you?” (Seriously, guys, take a wild guess. I’m either doped up—because I don’t need to be productive for a few hours—or wishing I was.)

And don’t even get me started on how difficult and not relaxing showers have become.

One long lesson in patience.