Sometimes I just need to be appreciated for my softness.

I wrote something in my journal a few weeks back. Here is an excerpt, with a few minor changes:

Sometimes this life is so hard.

I have a skin condition called keratosis pilaris. I pick at the tiny bumps it causes on my arms, because it is so numbing. Like counting. I just run my fingerprints across the surface, feeing for hidden pockets.

one...two...three...four...

Words, description, and cadence are pushing and shoving their way into my mind's flow. 'How should I craft these words more beautifully?' They keep asking. 'Where can I improve my pacing?' 'Is this making sense?'

five...six...seven...

I am holding a velvety knit throw that shimmers tones of bright red to deep, shadowy crimson across my lap. I contemplate laying it upon the ground, wrapping myself in it, being covered by its provision, all in symbolic representation of Christ's sacrifice.

eight...nine...ten...eleven...

Last night, a six-week old puppy rested its warm belly between my breasts, and reached its neck to brush my chin wet with its tongue.

It was the first time I stopped counting in three weeks.

Sometimes I just need a connection.