Scar – “A scar is an area of fibrous tissue that replaces normal skin after an injury. Scars result from the biological process of wound repair in the skin, as well as in other organs and tissues of the body. Thus, scarring is a natural part of the healing process.”
Scars live on all of us I imagine. Some maybe can be, or are, hidden beneath clothes. Some maybe we wear as a badge of honor, or it serves as a memory of something awful that we made it out alive. There really isn`t anything one can do to get rid of scars. They are a part of us, and our story. Sometimes are scars are ridden with shame, or embarrassment. I know I have some of those. Maybe some that are bigger, some that are smaller.
But what I have been really trying to learn is that they are each part of a piece of my life, just as they are yours.
I have spent a lot of my life learning how to hide them, and how to cover them up. Some are from being a child, and many are from adulthood. Life takes a toll on the body, and especially pregnancy. I don`t know why I have felt embarrassed by pieces of my stories, because that`s all they really are, aren`t they? Little glimpses and memories of where I was, and now where I am.
However you got your scar, it is proof that you were stronger than what tried to get you. The scar is the story behind what tried to get you.
Scars represent strength, bravery, and courage. In a time of pain, and fear maybe, your body, rose to the occasion and stayed strong. Your body healed, and left a mark to remind you of where you once were. It is a constant reminder of how incredible you are.
I like to see scars as chapters in my book, or should I say novel, as it is quite long. There are scars that I got from doing silly, or maybe stupid things, but that gave me a good laugh. There are scars that I got from being in unsafe situations, and being too afraid to change my environment. There are scars that tell the tale of bringing my children into the world.
I used to get bullied for having a scar on my forehead. It is right in the middle of my forehead. I spent years having a front bang, to cover it up, but sometimes the wind would blow, exposing it. I was ashamed right from the beginning. I was a small toddler when I hurt my head, and to be honest, I don`t even know how I did it, but none the less, a scar remains.
I used to try to find some form of surgery to take it away, or some oil that will make it disappear.
I failed to see it as a part of my story, or as a symbol of strength. It was a reason I got bullied so often, and I just wanted it to go away. I have scars on my back now too, from removing potentially cancerous moles. It took me a while before I would wear anything that exposed them, as I felt so uncomfortable with them. Probably from my experiences being bullied. I would bet that not one person exists without a scar. Every scar tells a story, and it is a part of a chapter in our novel.
My body is now filled with scars.
Head to toe, I have scars. Life takes a hit, and then a punch, and before you know it, you are down. Sometimes you don`t hear your body screaming at you to slow down, let yourself rest, and you just keep going. Scars are stories. Maybe stories to pass on to our children, or nieces and nephews. Maybe they are lessons. Maybe they are memories. They are a part of us, none the less.
Recently, I was struggling with anxiety so bad. Nothing was helping. I was trying so hard to control it, and I just couldn`t. I couldn`t function. I couldn`t leave my house. I put clothes on each day, but didn`t bother to brush my hair. I cried so often. My heart raced, my palms were sweaty, and I was constantly exhausted. I couldn`t sleep at night, I couldn`t turn my mind off. It raced so fast, I didn`t even know what the race was about. I couldn`t hear anyone, because my head was just too loud. I was a mess. I am not sure what brought it on, or even what happened. It was an all of a sudden thing.
Without realizing it, I began to scratch my skin when I was feeling anxious, which was all the time.
My skin began to hurt, and was getting quite red. When I would scratch it, I didn`t even realize. It was like a release of the energy that was inside. Before I knew it, my hand was dripping blood.
It healed, and I tried to stop, and then anxiety would hit me again, and before I knew it, my hand would be dripping blood again. This happened over and over.
I went to a Psychiatrist and was diagnosed with Generalized Anxiety Disorder, and started a new medication. Slowly, I began to feel better. I started being able to function through the day. My heart slowed down. I was sleeping a little better.
On my hand now there lay a scar. I am sure it will fade in time, but it will likely remain there. It is a time in my life when I was struggling. Struggling like I have never struggled before. I knew I couldn`t live like that, but didn`t know how to make it stop. I didn`t know what to do. My anxiety pulled me under and was making sure I drowned. It was awful.
I felt ashamed of my hand when I first saw it scar.
What if someone asked me about it? I didn`t mean to do it. I didn`t even realize it. I was just so upset and frustrated and had all these thoughts in my head that I couldn`t get out, and it got so bad. It is a scar. I am no longer ashamed of it. It serves as another piece of my novel that my life is writing.
It may be a bit of a darker chapter, but it is none the less where I was in my life.
I am on a better streak now. I am coping better, and not feeling so much anxiety all the time. I am doing good. But rather than being ashamed of our scars, which I know sometimes is easier said than done, maybe we should be proud of how far we`ve come. Something tried to take us, and we were stronger. Our body knew we were stronger, and healed the wound. At times, it is our heart that is scarred. While no one can see it, one can certainly feel it. You carry the hurt with you, for a long time, maybe even forever. Hurt is real. Pain, of course is real, even if it is emotional pain. Scars on our heart, hurt as much, if not more, as the ones on our body.
I think in time, all scars heal. The mark remains, whether it be on our body, or our heart. It is like a stamp of the story. A flashback of what happened. A memory that stays. But none the less, it remains there.
I hope you are not ashamed of any scars you have. You are a strong individual, and have nothing to feel shameful about.
Scars help tell our stories, and our stories are real.
Love Always, Enn
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