The Scars We Hide

I was putting on my make-up this morning and noticed the scar on my brow-line from where I ran into a table at my aunt’s house when I was very young.  I remembered my aunt rushing to help me as the blood was almost uncontrollable and how she was close to bringing me to the hospital.

Then I looked at my forehead and remembered having a head-on collision with a tree a few years back and how the police officer said he’s never seen someone survive an accident like that, let alone walk away from it.

Then my eyes quickly drew to my wrists where the scars are faint from when I cut them as a teenager.  I traced them, one by one, as I remembered the reasons why I felt that was my only choice.  I thought of how no one would ever know the place I was at within myself that made me feel so unwanted, unloved, and alone.

That then brought me to the scars I hide deep within my heart; scars unknown by most, yet help make up the very person they see everyday.

The scars of abandonment, neglect, abuse, and the countless other events that tore through me like a double-edged, hot knife.

I’m sure you can relate, on some level at least.  We all have hidden scars, don’t we?  Pain we either pretend was never a part of the past or scars we hang on to, reopening time and time again, never giving them a chance to heal.

Some live in denial, acting as if the rips in the heart and soul never happened, while others walk through life believing that everyone they meet is the same as the ones who harmed them in the beginning.

I was both.

I lived a long time pretending I was OK.  I thought that if I did, no one could harm me again. I was tough as nails and would tell you so.  I never let anyone in because if they got close enough I was sure they’d hurt me too.  I was playing a victim and didn’t even realize it.  As soon as it occurred to me that I was, I decided to do something about it.

I wanted to be more than just a survivor, I wanted to be victorious.

I’m sure if you looked close enough, you’d see all the scars I wear, but I wear them proudly.  (That is why this blog has the name it does and why my “About Me” page is filled with TMI.)  I feel like a living, breathing Braveheart, but that’s OK.  I’m not ashamed of what I’ve made it through (proud of it, actually), and I no longer dwell on it.

I realized a long time ago that no one will benefit from me acting as if everything was fine my entire life, because it wasn’t!  I’ve learned that the more open and honest I can be, the more permission it gives to others to do the same.

I’ve also learned that if I look for the bad in others, that is exactly what I’ll find.

I don’t hide my scars anymore:

• the one on my brow-line? I used to hate it because it stuck out like a sore thumb; now it reminds me that I can heal.
• the scars on my forehead? I used to put concealer on them; now I’m reminded that I survived the un-survivable.
• The slashes on my wrists? I used to wear a watch to cover them; I’m now reminded of all I made it through.
• And those on my heart? I write about them so others don’t feel so alone.

There is a quote I have on a board in my kitchen, one that my kids remember now that they are out of the house (2 of the 4 anyway):  “When you get to where you’re going, remember where you came from.”

If you’re always hiding, how can you remember and if you can’t remember, how can you feel and be victorious?

Have courage, my friend, and don’t be ashamed of where you’ve come from.