Some scars are like ghosts on the skin. They rapture our memories and haunt in ways that can motivate or hinder our perceptions. Scars engrave us with the stories that we carry with us even if those scars are not outwardly open for observation. My scars are a combination of ugly, embarrassment and life.
I am a mutant child. I was born with two thumbs on my right hand, one of which was removed when I was very young. I am constantly reminded of this deformity in myself whenever I look at my hands. I am hyper aware of my physical self because I have always been overly sensitive and concerned for how others will see me. For this I see my physical self with strict scrutiny. I rake every detail of my appearance.
Throughout my years I have accumulated scars I have no memory of ever receiving. On my knuckle, my thumb and I’m sure there are others. I have scars that only I can tell are there. Like the ones I can see when I hold my forearms in the light at a certain angle. That I can feel gently if I drag the tip of my finger over the soft part of the skin. It tickles. Some scars from the years of my adolescence are not as faded. I defy them by knowing they healed.
The scars of my adulthood I wear with distain and regular disgust. Some are the product of my weakness, my relapses into darkness. The boldest and hardest to heal, are the scars that bought me happiness and life, yet I still wear them with distain. I have not grown into loving my body, or its life giving capabilities. I remain overly harsh and cruel in judging my failure to resume as I once were. I abundantly admire this ability in others that love themselves fully.
Every memory that bought pain, that dealt me scars, finds a way to heal. To close and fade. I don’t choose to feel those histories with the intensity I once afforded them as I prefer to leave room in my experience for more important things. Scars don’t have power of me, and neither do the wounds that I associate with them.