Precious Trash

I’m not always a liar, but if there’s a way to get out of something, I will. Do less, stay in bed, rot away to nothing – that’s the goal.

The transition from grade 7 to grade 8 is something I try not to think about. High school. I can feel my friends slipping away from me, getting less and less calls. I’m the only one hanging on tight. The world feels like it’s shifting under my feet, and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

Who am I going to be? I’m only a basketball player because I’m tall and they needed someone tall to play defense. I’m only a soccer player because my sister plays.

But volleyball? That I love, and I love it because I’m good. But will I be good in a bigger school? Fulton is well known for being a sports school, will I be enough?

On top of being a liar (sometimes), I’m also a picker. Whether it’s a zit, a paint chip, or an open wound, I refuse to leave it alone until the problem is remarkably worse.

Speaking of an open wound: my ingrown toe nails have been getting progressively worse over the summer.

It gets bad enough that my mom is forced to take me to the walk in, with my red, & puffy toes in my flip flops. The solution is simple: cut a ‘V’ in the middle of my toenail. The problem is that I hear this a ‘V’ from end of the nail to the other. Once again, I make the problem worse.

The problem goes from sore, red toes to having to soak my feet in hot water in order to peel my socks off, puss and blood coating the fabric.

I am familiar with seeing blood in my shoes, familiar with sharp pain when I crouch down to pick something up, familiar with the putrid smell of infection. I am worried around others, what if I have to take my shoes off? Or if I’m already in sandals, which becomes normal even in the winter, what if someone sees them? What if someone steps on them? The fresh air feels good, but leaves them vulnerable.

You know the feeling of stubbing your toe? That was my everyday feeling, my baseline pain.

I had to stop playing soccer and basketball (yay!), volleyball too. During gym class, I am the equipment manager, a doctors note allowing me to skip my physical activity.

I would still try to do volleyball in gym class when it came up. We did an exercise where one player served until the opposing team hit the ball back over the net and scored a point. My serves not only cleared the net, but they looked as if they would go out of bound, so much so that half the time the players never even went for the ball. The ball was never out of bounds. They ended up skipping over me to give others a chance to serve.

Some exercises, like that, I could do, but I couldn’t play. I tried once, but after I collided with another player and she accidently stepped on my foot, that was off the table. I left the court bawling, bleeding and limping from the pain.

Grade 11, 5 surgeries later, multiple pieces of nail cut and then regrown. Finally, I have proper toes and no more pain. One problem solved.

Except now, I am out of shape, getting winded even walking home. The thought of running makes my face burn, my shoulders slouching trying to hide my healing.

When asked by the gym teacher to show my toes, proof to confirm they are still injured, I hold her off, blaming my stinky feet.

I practice make up on my toes for a few weeks, mastering the art of bruised skin, redness, and the specific glisten of infection. All this done with only an eyeshadow palette, lip gloss, and foundation.

Make up isn’t usually a lie, but in this case, it was. It worked, I never did PE again.

And while I still don’t do much physical activity, my toes are still normal, and my depression manageable.

I no longer pick at my toes. I have moved up!

Now I pick at my legs instead.

Progress.