I have lots of scars. Some hidden, some visible. They look like small fault lines running here and there. Most came from when I was very young, so they have healed nicely. I did have three that were exceptionally gnarly. One in particular resided two inches to the northwest of my belly button. It was the only remnant of a stomach tube that fed me while my trachea and esophagus healed. It looked exactly like an asterisk, *. It stuck out, and I hid it for a long time with one-piece bathing suits and changing quickly for gym class in school.
Source: sciencephoto.com via Susanne on Pinterest
When I was sixteen and had my first boyfriend, I hit the stage in where I began to pick apart my body. I got the idea that I wanted to be done with that scar. My mom and I found a talented plastic surgeon who agreed to re-cut three of my scars, all in my mid-section. After my procedure they would be fine lines, just like the other fault lines that ran down my hip or across my back.
I remember lying on the procedure table in a twilight state as the doctor erased my past and created new scars to immortalize this moment. The staff was chatting about funny Seinfeld moments; I guess they assumed I couldn’t hear.
Once I was patched back together. I was getting wheeled out to my mom’s car when I burst into uncontrollable tears. I didn’t know where they had come from and they certainly wouldn’t stop. The nurse felt awful as if they had done something wrong. In actuality, I was grieving that stupid asterisk scar. In just about an hour, it was gone forever.
I’m not sure why I thought that I could erase my story. As if turning that asterisk into a thin line would absolve me from having a history. Or that having that scar gone would make me love my body.
I wish I could go back and tell the 16 year old version of myself that her scars are her badge of courage. They don’t bring shame. They are beautiful. They are part of her story. Not something to be hidden or removed. She isn’t damaged. Any person, any 16 year old boy, who would think otherwise was never worth her time.
If you have scars, physical, emotional or otherwise, they are just lovely. They are your story, and who are we if we are not a compilation of our story?
I did have a bit of fun as my new scars were healing. For a while I had three bright red lines on my mid-section and the first time I changed in gym after the procedure some girls said, “oh my goodness, what happened to you?” My response, “knife fight.”
On beach days I now wear a bikini, not because my scars are less gnarly, they are still noticeable, but because I am comfortable with them and the story they tell.
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