Scars to Your Beautiful

I will never grace the cover of a fashion magazine, nor will I ever be a cover girl. I couldn’t even be a hand model. My body seems to be in a perpetual state of wounds and bruises and scars. There are the little reminders of the summer I had chicken pox. The scars on the inside of my upper lip remind me of a toboggan accident. There is the large scar on my elbow from stitches when I was young enough to not remember. A faint scar on my right wrist goes back to a scratch from a swing set. There are stretch marks from bearing children. A mysterious triangle of a scar at the base of a finger that has been there for as long as I can remember. These scars are memories of a sort, even if I have no recollection of the event. They are part of the history of my body.

Bruises come and go. Sometimes I know where they came from, while at other times I have no recollection of having done anything to merit the mark. At this moment, I have small bruises on each biceps. One is from the flap of a box at work, but I’m not sure where the other came from. There is a yellow-tinged discolouration the size of my fist lingering around one ankle from bumping an iron chair leg against my own leg more than a week ago. A small scrape of skin on the opposite shin, most likely also a workplace casualty. Lifting weights has put calluses on my hands and resulted in many of my bruises and scrapes. I don’t mind them, because they are reminders that I am using my body.

As I sat in the tub this morning, feeling like the effort to bathe was too much and not worth it, I noticed all my bruises and scars and considered the invisible scars and bruises that no one else sees. It is the internal wounds that have the deepest impact. Even when the wounds are not so fresh, even when the wounds have seemingly healed and scarred over, even still the pain can be felt when a pointing finger pokes into just the right spot. And it does not even matter if the cause of the wound is truth or fiction…the pain feels the same.

Wouldn’t it be nice if our body would simply send some more platelets to clot our emotional wounds? Sadly it doesn’t work that way. Perhaps everyone reacts and responds in uniquely personal ways. I cannot speak for anyone else, only myself, and I feel numb, unmotivated, one minute irritable and one minute fine. I have no problem going to work. I have no problem going to my training sessions. I have been able to go to the grocery store or to an appointment or to the library, but mostly I have no motivation to go anywhere or do anything. I did a single load of laundry yesterday. I read half of a book yesterday and finished the other half today. I made dinner last night and will force myself to make dinner tonight. I forced myself to shave my legs this morning. But really, my weekend is drawing to an end and I’ve accomplished so very little except to wear a hole on the living room floor where I spend most of my time. My head feels as if it is filled with static, sort of a headache but more like background noise that you can’t quite block out. This sort of “headache” was a constant presence several years ago when I was originally diagnosed as mildly depressed. <sigh>

I’d gladly take the physical bruises over the internal ones. The physical bruises heal fast and then they’re gone and forgotten. Physical scars might remain, but they hold no pain once they’ve healed.

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