My Scars - A Life Story

You see, life doesn't always work the way we picture it. A lot of life is about the bumps, scratches, and scars along the way to perfection. So why not give a little credit to the imperfections?My scars (every single one of them) has led me to this stage in my life, and two of them have given me the best gifts anyone could ask for. And at this particular life stage, I need to be honest with myself and all of you in how I came to be the person I am, to be the best person (and mother) I can with where my life has yet to go.

My first scar is right next to my left eye. I'm fairly certain my dad never planned on dropping me as a toddler while playing airplane.  It's small, maybe a few centimeters long, and no one notices it unless I point the thing out. Never once has it bothered me. Instead, it seems to be a funny anecdote that always leaves me with a smile, and the knowledge that I have a reminder that my dad loved playing with me (the scar, by the way,  happened because my face connected with the frame of their bed).

Toddler me with my parents, can't even see the scar

In high school I did some fairly stupid things, which is typical of most adolescents. I was lucky enough, though, to have some fantastic friends along the way who would do their best to straiten me out, or simply tell me how stupid I was being while still supporting me as a person. On my right hand, there is a scar from doing something stupid with a dear friend of mine who has now passed. Every time I look at my index finger I instantly hear his voice saying "no worries, that'll never leave a real mark" and see his smile. It's as though Daniel is permanently with me, forever reminding me to be who I am supposed to be and not cave to peer pressure. It is a mark I cherish, better than any tattoo could be, or long lost memory.

Daniel, he passed the day my son was born, 06/09/2008 

My right forearm has had a nasty mark on it for nearly 10 years, one that I don't necessarily hide, but definitely hate looking at. It has made me feel like a freak of nature, a person viewed as odd and depressed. You see, back ten years or so ago I did what I could to fit in, which included hanging out with non desirable people from time to time. One of those people decided to brand me (against my will) with a lighter leaving a third degree burn and infection. To this day, people give me side ways looks and off comments about it, suggesting it is something I did to myself. I have come to see it, though, as a reminder. A reminder that though I was weak in the past, and did not do anything to the person that hurt me, I am strong now. I am strong, and will be exactly who I need to be regardless of the pressures surrounding me.

Lastly, I have two scars on my stomach: One directly on top of the other. They are the scars from my cesarean sections I have had to birth my two children. When I had my daughter, it was quite the ordeal. A month and a half prior to her birth I began having real contractions and was dilated to a 2. After a few weeks of light duty, I was then put on bed-rest to try and slow things down. I awoke at 6:00am August 26th to my water breaking and went through a series of pitocin (hate that horrid stuff) to try and evict her from the birth canal. By 11:30 that evening the doctor decided an emergency c-section was needed, and my adorable little bundle arrived at 12:18am August 27th. From that day on I have felt guilt. Guilt that I could have had a vaginal birth if I had tried harder, if I hadn't been scared, if I had pushed harder. Maybe I could have walked the halls, tried going in the tub, sat on an exercise ball. Something. Anything. My birth story ends with a surgery (one that deserves a posting all of its own), and I cannot join in with the other mothers when they talk about their hours of pushing, and the feeling of their baby coming into the world. I cannot join them. And no mater what, it feels like it is my own fault, that I let myself down out of fear and sheer exhaustion. I see my scar, and how long and pink it is, and am forcibly reminded that I was not given an easy way out. The scar is my battle wound, my badge of honor forever reminding me of the fight I took to bring my daughter into this world.

My little angel, barely a month old

Not even two years later my son was born via c-section and my scar lengthened. I overheard about a conversation from one of my husband's friends thinking a scar from a baby lessened a woman's appeal (and no, this conversation was not directed at me). Instantly, I felt myself bend over as if to hide the scars that are visible to no one but myself and husband. Shame. The feelings of guilt were back, and with them was the fear that my husband felt these things to. My husband later told me "you have them, two of them, because your life is important and my daughter was big. It's pretty stupid to care about a scar I helped make."

Barely an hour after giving birth to my son

My body has more marks than this, but none are as important as these five. They are the connecting lines in my life story, the proof of lessons learned, or accidents done well. My scars are proof that I was so dedicated to having my babies, I was willing to let someone cut me in order to bring them into this world. I am who I am, marks and all.