Saturday night in the room where I grew up I reached for my razor the wrong way and was cut. I was nothing more than a little flap of skin separated from the tip of the index finger, but it bled unselfconsciously. The body doesn't seem prone to the same kinds of self-doubt as the mind. It's perfectly happy staging a melodramatic bleed from the humble opening in a fingertip. It has a confidence that I would like to study, but I was in no mood to observe and learn from this bloodletting. I was so tired that I was tempted to go to bed with the offending hand slung out over the wooden floor, letting it have its histrionic little fit, making me look like a painting of a slain French Revolutionary leader.

So, bleary and wanting to be done with it, I was caught in the bathroom wrapping the digit in toilet paper and pressing on it to staunch the stupid bleeding, watching the little bright spot bloom through the white paper over and over. When exposed, the cut looked like gill slits. Every time I threw out one of the makeshift bandages I would fold it in on itself several times until all the bloodspots were concealed. I have no idea why, but it seemed churlish to leave visible signs of blood in a wicker trash can that someone else must empty. I hunched over the running sink and shook the hand gently, enjoying momentarily the sight of the red speckles hitting the white porcelain and being smeared drainward by the constant swirl of water. Leaning on the sink I almost fell asleep looking down at the finger hanging over the curved space of the bowl like a high-wire walker. Little blooddrops fell from my hand and fell for lengthening seconds through that vast space into the churning maelstrom below. I was tired of direct pressure and the simple needs of this body.

I fail to react consistently to the sight of my own blood. On this occasion, I wanted nothing more or less than to go to bed as soon as possible. On other occasions I can remember feeling relief, surprise, thrill, fear, faintness, determination. I'm far more likely to be rattled by the sight of another person's blood than mine, but this hasn't been a controlled experiment: I've seen more of other folks' cardiac juice than my own.

Finally I balled a beehive of toilet paper around my fingertip and went to bed. I woke up hours later sensing that paper mass still attached to my hand, and slid it out from between the sheets for a look. Blood hadn't even soaked through the outer layer. I went to the bathroom and unwrapped it daintily. The gaping wound of the night before was gone, replaced with a nondescript little cut. Having indulged in its dramatic moment, the body went on about its business shamelessly and with no apparent qualms about the excesses of the previous evening. Nothing to get worked up about.

Certainly not enough to write about. But I read about a recent study that found that people who write about personal trauma see improved health, fewer visits to the doctor, and heightened immune response. They actually divided a bunch of college students (the traditional subjects for psychosocial research) into groups that wrote about either non-traumatic subjects or past sources of pain. "Non-traumatic" topics included a description of the students' dorm rooms, which suggests that these researchers have been out of college long enough to forget what the typical dorm room is like. "Traumatic" included car wrecks, deaths, and, for people like me, dates.

All in all, the traumatists came out healthier than the banals. The theory is that mulling old hurts, processing them to a level that can be conferred to language, and telling the stories may help humans free themselves of anxiety. It's all very psychotherapeutic. I never knew when I started an online journal that I could anticipate so many positive effects from airing dirty laundry.

By this token, I should be one of the healthiest people I know. I should be so healthy that people I brush by on the Metro should find themselves mysteriously cured of nagging colds and unsightly warts. People who receive an email from me should experience startling improvements in short-term memory and typing skills. Bob Dole should call to say that ever since I watched his commercial, he's been getting it up without any blue pill action. You might be experiencing some astonishing curative miracles merely by reading this. The effects may be only temporary, so act quickly. There's no telling when my mood might veer toward humor again.