Tell me about your scars

When did this happen?

I love to explore my lovers’ body. Tell me about this scar, or this one. When did this mole show up? Did you ever have stitches? 

Do you have any that aren’t showing?  

I hear stories about their escapades, their adventures, usually their childhoods. My fingers trail along their skin, looking for uneven bits, lumps, scales, rough patches, keloids. 

They are more interesting because of the lack of perfection. They are complex and multilayered. They are proof of a life lived, of boredom shunned. They are examples of bravery, or of foolishness, or both. 

And yet…

And yet…. 

I look at my own body, and I do not see that bravery. 

I am starting to see white hairs, and crows feet, and deeper lines on my face, and instead of seeing the progress I’ve made as a human, I see the youth I’ve lost and possibly squandered.  

I see sagging and drooping, and I remember how I use to look and how I didn’t appreciate it enough. 

I notice some crepe-looking papery skin in my inner elbow - my inner elbow, this is where it starts?? And I dread the idea of it creeping along, until my entire limb, all of them, are covered in this testament to time. 

And it’s not just ageing that makes me feel not brave. It’s the scars too. 

I have a scar on my inner right elbow. It’s not big, it’s smaller than it used to be. It’s maybe the size of a quarter. It’s lumpy, mostly the same colour as the rest of my skin. 

I was visiting an older sister once, and borrowed her bike to ride around. She lived on a gravel road, near the highway. At the suggestion of another sister, I went to the highway overpass, and coasted down part of the hill toward my sister’s street. That wasn’t much fun, so I went higher. Still not much fun, so I went to the very top of the overpass. WEEEEEEEEEE. 

Unfortunately, I had misunderstood the suggestion, and I thought I was supposed to turn onto the gravel road. 

I skidded for quite a distance. A car pulled over to ask me if I was alright. 

“I’m okay” I said. 

I was, in fact, not okay. 

I limped back to my sister’s house, sat there bleeding in her living room, asking for help. She had horrible morning sickness, and could not get up. The sister with the great suggestion and poor instructions eventually brought me a band aid. 

I got my elbow and knee patched up. I was too embarrassed to tell them that my prepubescent nipple had also been scraped raw. I just let it bleed through my shirt. 

I was too proud. I was scarred.

I have a small scar in the outer corner of my left eye, and on my left cheek. When I was 16, I was at a sailing camp, and I thought I was so quick and nimble that, even though we were in a storm, I could climb over the thwart of a boat while barely holding on, forgetting the ‘one hand on the boat at all times’ rule. The great lake upon which I was sailing decided it was time to humble me, and as a wave lifted our boat up and smashed it down, I smashed onto the gunwale. I was lucky not to break my jaw, or lose my eye. We were away too long for me to get stitches. Now when I smile, there’s a little indentation in my face that is not a dimple. 

I was too proud. I was humbled. 

I have a scar on my right knee. I was skiing, a beginner, and went down a hill I knew I was not ready to go down. I didn’t know the hill, the weather wasn’t good, the conditions were slick, the hill was steep. There were too many trees. But, I was with a new boyfriend who thought I could handle it, and he knew the hill, so I followed him. I didn’t want to disappoint him, so I disappointed myself instead. I fell, hard. My right leg twisted in ways it was never meant to twist. I tore my ACL, had to wait and wait for surgery, had months of physio, only ever skied a few more times the next year.  I was too shy to stand up for myself. I was too proud of what he thought my abilities were. 

I was too proud. I was injured. 

It’s almost like pride and bravery are inversely proportional. Too much of one, absence of the other. 

I can’t think of any scars I have that indicate a brave adventure, a fascinating endeavour, or even a good choice. 

None on the outside. 

Inside, though, they are crowded, noisy, sometimes cranky. 

PAY ATTENTION TO ME they cry. LOOK AT ME. THIS IS WHERE YOU WERE BRAVE. 

When you practically raised two kids by yourself when you were still a baby yourself. When you managed to feed your family when you should have been getting welfare subsidies but didn’t know it. When you stood up to your kids teachers, when you fought for their right to play, when you stood against them as the baddie who made them do hard things. 

When you went to university in your 30’s, when you went to dental school, when you went into debt to fund all that, you were so brave. 

When you bought a practice, built it up, became successful in that - so brave. 

When you sold it and joined the Army, wanting to go out and do good in the world, and did basic training when you were almost FIFTY, so so brave. 

She reminds me of the time when I a young kid, and I was at a neighbourhood swimming pool, having a fun day. Games, races, snacks, that kind of community engagement thing. It was time for my age group to do a race the length of the pool. There was me and one other girl the same age. She was HUGE. I came up to maybe her shoulder - I remember, because I looked over at her, and was staring at her armpit. I had to look up to see her face. I looked back at the water, and the end of the pool seemed to recede into the distance.

On your mark, get set, GO.

I dove into the the pool and swam my heart out, knowing for a fact there was no way I would win. 

See, she says - only the brave keep trying when they know they can’t win. 

She reminds me of the time I fought off a rapist, and the time I didn’t, and how both times I had to be brave to survive. 

She reminds me of how, when everything in my professional life was on the line, I fought back, over and over again, losing over and over again, knowing that I had to keep fighting, whether or not I was winning, because there were bad guys to take out. She reminds me that that bravery - and tenacity - ended up being very good for me, in so many ways I didn’t know it could be. 

So what if maybe when I look in the mirror, I don’t always see bravery? That’s okay. She’s in there, just a little deeper. A little more scarred, a few more wrinkles and white hairs, a whole bunch more experienced and adventurous. She’s magnificent. 

And she reminds me that the scars that don’t show are always a better story than the scars that do.

March 2020