Snake bit, twice shy.

I had the pad of my ring finger forcibly removed by a flailing drain snake yesterday. It hurt physically. It will hurt financially. But I was a bit baffled when I realized that mostly I was ashamed, embarrassed.
Accidents happen. Maybe to me a little more than on average, but they're still accidents. Some of them could have been prevented with a little extra thought or care or lesser speed, but they are accidents still. While in high school I landed awkwardly playing ultimate and broke my wrist. I kept playing for a few minutes. Not because I didn't think I'd hurt it. I was embarrassed. Like a grade-school-er denying aloud he's pissed himself while standing in a warm puddle. Haley broke my finger once, simply by grabbing it and twisting. I told my dad I slipped on the ice, but it wasn't to avert the blame for her or the shame of having my finger broken by a little sister, but just a panicked attempt to will the thing away.
It's like admitting a fault or flaw. Even when it's a clearly visible one with no one to blame but the fates, I can't stand it.

My dad dropped a tree wrong while cutting firewood years ago. He got an x-ray on it weeks later when his leg wouldn't stop hurting. He'd broken it. Did he not know, or was he just passing the truth on down the road for a bit, working with that much more pain being fully worth it? He died wrapped around a PTO shaft; I wonder if he's too mortified in heaven to admit that?

Scars, after being there for a while, I take a pride in. But while the wound is still a wound, I'd rather you all couldn't see it. My dirty laundry is my inability to keep myself from harm.