Scars
Good morning, my Lovelies! ‘Tis a cold, rainy day here in Delaware, but I hope the sun is shining and brightening your little part of the world, wherever that may be. Have you had a reason to smile this week? If not, I hope you find one today.
So, I went last Sunday and had my newest tattoo worked on
some more. I’m now at a total of four sessions on this particular one, and
there’s room for me to add more to it. I absolutely love it! But as I’ve been
tending to it this week it got me thinking about scars and my body.
My body will never be “perfect”. Not in my eyes nor anyone
else’s and I’ve spent the majority of my life trying to come to terms with
that. It is unbelievably hard to keep in mind that I’m enough, physically,
mentally, and emotionally, but though it is hard, I keep trying.
My body has had trauma – insignificant events and major
events.
When I was five or six years old, I was playing at the
baseball field while my brother and his team were having a game. Of course, I
was barefoot – I had a tendency to run around not properly clothed as a child.
And in my playing, I was walking along on a board, pretending it was a balance beam, and stepped on a nail. A trip to the emergency room, a tetanus shot,
and concern and pampering by my brother’s teammates after the game (this
attention probably began my love affair with all things men), and I was all
better. Sort of. You see, that nail left a scar on the bottom of my foot in the
form of a dark circular mark.
When I was nine-ish, I was blessed to catch the chickenpox –
ahhh Varicella! You evil, itchy bastard! Though I tried my hardest to not
scratch (after constant warnings by my mother of the possibility of scarring),
it was inevitable. Yes, my chickenpox left me with a pox mark. It’s on the side
of my nose next to my eye, and though it isn’t obvious unless I’ve gotten a
tan, it is a scar that I see every time I look in the mirror.
There have been more instances, such as the benign tumor I
had removed that left an inch-long scar on my middle finger. (Yeah, that was
fun.) And there have been things that have happened gradually, such as my repeated
weight gain/loss cycle that has given me stretch marks.
And of course, there are the scars that I’ve given myself in
the form of my tattoos and piercings, but none of them can compare to the scars
that I have along my abdomen.
Those scars? Those I received when my body refused to
cooperate as I was in labor with my children. Cesarean sections. Yes, I’ve been
sliced open twice to deliver my babies. They cut through layers and layers of my
body to safely bring my children into this world.
Are those scars huge? Yes. (My firstborn arrived and gave
me the gift of 28 staples to close my stomach and hold me together while I healed.)
Painful? Absolutely. Worth it? I can’t think of any imperfections on my body I’m
more proud of than the ones that were left by giving birth.
My scars are physical reminders that I’ve survived. I’m sure
there’s some psychobabble out there about my tattoos being symbolic reminders
of pain and the beauty of survival, but that’s not my area of expertise.
Anyway, I’ve told you all of this to simply say, no matter
your scars, internal or external, you are beautiful. You are loved. You are
cherished. You are appreciated. And I, for one, am unbelievably thankful to
have you in my life.
Also, it’s Mother’s Day Weekend! Happy Mother’s Day to all
the mommas out there! You rock!
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