We all have scars. They might be big, little, or inbetween. They might be somewhere for the whole world to see, or they might always be hidden. However, our scars tell stories about where we've been, what we have done. They fad over time, just like our memories of the events that gave the scars to us. Some scars don't fad and are forever with us.
I have three major scars on my body, along with many little self inflicted ones as I was a scab picker as a child. I did not realize my mother's threats were real until I was about fifteen and noticed that I tanned sort of strange (when I did tan) due to all the tiny white spots on my arms and legs. Now I just don't tan and no one can see those scars that I picked at as a child.
The first major scar is on my back and it is there from my picking at it. It was given to me by a fellow child who was pulling me in a wagon and flipped me out the back and proceeded to drag me half in, half out of the wagon up the street. I remember this happeneing, but I do not remember much about it other than hanging out the back of the wagon keeping my head up. I scraped my lower back up pretty bad. My mother was appalled that the child would do this to me. And later, she was appalled by the fact I kept picking at it.
"You'll never be able to wear a two piece because you'll have that ugly scar on your back!" she would yell at me. At the time, I was about five or so, she would not allow me to wear a two piece and in my wisdom as a five year old, I figured that meant she never would.
Two years later, I had a fake two piece (swimsuit that bared my tummy and back, but was tied together on the sides). I was at my grandma's house and my brother and I were playing in the sprikler on a hot summer day.
"What is that ugly thing on that child's back?" my grandma demanded of her daughter.
"She fell out of a wagon and picked the scab until it scarred. I told her it would be ugly."
I never was able to see this scar, thus I do not know if it is ugly or not. I do now that it faded and it pretty much gone. I was in middle school, now allowed to wear two pieces though I never did and asked someone if I had any scars on my back. No one saw anything. Later, when I was in college and wearing a two piece my dad said, "Hey, that ugly wagon scar is gone."
"Or she's just too pale to for you to see it," my mom commented, still bitter I had picked at it when she told me not to.
While I am not upset that that scar fadded, there are two scars on my body I would rather not have fade away. One is the scar from my appendix removal. The other is a small scar on my left hand between my index finger and pointer finger.
Most people would be happy to have appedix scars fade away over time. These people must not have paid 7,000 dollars give or take a thousdand to have theirs removed. This removeal screwed up a lot of things for me, as I had planned to use that money to pay off a student loan. Also, seeing the student loan was less than 7,000, I would still have the left over money and we could fix the air conditoner in my husband's car. However, no. My appedix decided it had to get infected to the point where they had to phsyically CUT it out and cause me to be in surgry for awhile, hiking up the price. Having to have it cut out of me, also left me with a long thing scar, not the tiny no show dots. The doctor assured me afterwards, I would still be able to wear a two piece swimsuit and it wouldn't show. I looked at him doubtfully, wondering if he had gotten out in the past ten years. The first time I put on a bathing suit after I had it removed, there it was, clear as day. I knew it would be due to the fact when I was still skinny and wore low rise jeans, it showed. Seriously. If long shirts hadn't been in, the whole world would have seen the ugly scar right above my hip bone.
The last scar I have is always visable to the world unless I wear gloves. It is tiny and no one has ever in my life asked me where it came from. I do not think anyone has noticed it. I know it is there and I know the story behind that little scar. It is all I have left, a physical reminder of my life in Glasgow, Scotland. I got the scar on my very last day in the city, New Years Eve. I was goofing around with my then boyfriend and somehow his toenail nicked my hand while I was sitting on the couch trying to read while he was doing something on my laptop. Or something like that. The moment was such a normal moment, my brain did not catlouge it as something important that I should remember. I just remember, suddenly my hand was bleeding between my fingers. I remember, a day later sitting on a train charging towards London, picking at it. By this point in time, I did not pick scabs like I used to. I hardly had any any more for one, and I was no longer fascinated by blood like I was as a kid. I sat there, sad to have my life in Glasgow ending and figuring I would never see that guy again, as I had gone into the relationship thinking it'd be a fling, but it wasn't.
I picked the little scab every day. I always kept a little bit of tissue on me to soak up what little blood would come out of the little spot. I spent five days in London picking at it. By the time I got on the plane to come back to the States, it was almost healed. I picked it one more time on the plane, knowing it would be a scar now.
It is a little scar. I look at it and smile, remembering all the great things about Glasgow. Remember all the great things that relationship did for me. It might have been a short one, a little one just like the little phsyical scar it left behind, but it did a lot for the emotional scars I bore from my past. I always knew it would not take much to heal me. That small amount of time spent in Glasgow healed me in such a way that I was ready for real relationships, I wasn't scared of guys, I knew there were actually nice ones out there that would not emotional abuse me and cheat on me.
And I found one. The ring he gave me sits a finger away from the tiny scar I got on my last day in Glasgow, Scotland. The same guy saw me through the hasself of getting the appendix scar and swears up and down I do not have a scar on my back. He has looked for it on numerous occassions, trying to find this ugly scar I was supposed to have my whole life from being dragged in a wagon. If he has ever noticed the small scar on my left hand, he has never asked me where it came from. If he did, I would tell him. I have noticed as of late it is fading. It made me sad to see the tiny scar fading after all these years of hanging in there. I do not want to forget. It is just that simple.
I can forget about the appedix, I can forget about being dragged in the wagon. I do not want to forget him and Glasgow. I simply do not want to forget.
I have three major scars on my body, along with many little self inflicted ones as I was a scab picker as a child. I did not realize my mother's threats were real until I was about fifteen and noticed that I tanned sort of strange (when I did tan) due to all the tiny white spots on my arms and legs. Now I just don't tan and no one can see those scars that I picked at as a child.
The first major scar is on my back and it is there from my picking at it. It was given to me by a fellow child who was pulling me in a wagon and flipped me out the back and proceeded to drag me half in, half out of the wagon up the street. I remember this happeneing, but I do not remember much about it other than hanging out the back of the wagon keeping my head up. I scraped my lower back up pretty bad. My mother was appalled that the child would do this to me. And later, she was appalled by the fact I kept picking at it.
"You'll never be able to wear a two piece because you'll have that ugly scar on your back!" she would yell at me. At the time, I was about five or so, she would not allow me to wear a two piece and in my wisdom as a five year old, I figured that meant she never would.
Two years later, I had a fake two piece (swimsuit that bared my tummy and back, but was tied together on the sides). I was at my grandma's house and my brother and I were playing in the sprikler on a hot summer day.
"What is that ugly thing on that child's back?" my grandma demanded of her daughter.
"She fell out of a wagon and picked the scab until it scarred. I told her it would be ugly."
I never was able to see this scar, thus I do not know if it is ugly or not. I do now that it faded and it pretty much gone. I was in middle school, now allowed to wear two pieces though I never did and asked someone if I had any scars on my back. No one saw anything. Later, when I was in college and wearing a two piece my dad said, "Hey, that ugly wagon scar is gone."
"Or she's just too pale to for you to see it," my mom commented, still bitter I had picked at it when she told me not to.
While I am not upset that that scar fadded, there are two scars on my body I would rather not have fade away. One is the scar from my appendix removal. The other is a small scar on my left hand between my index finger and pointer finger.
Most people would be happy to have appedix scars fade away over time. These people must not have paid 7,000 dollars give or take a thousdand to have theirs removed. This removeal screwed up a lot of things for me, as I had planned to use that money to pay off a student loan. Also, seeing the student loan was less than 7,000, I would still have the left over money and we could fix the air conditoner in my husband's car. However, no. My appedix decided it had to get infected to the point where they had to phsyically CUT it out and cause me to be in surgry for awhile, hiking up the price. Having to have it cut out of me, also left me with a long thing scar, not the tiny no show dots. The doctor assured me afterwards, I would still be able to wear a two piece swimsuit and it wouldn't show. I looked at him doubtfully, wondering if he had gotten out in the past ten years. The first time I put on a bathing suit after I had it removed, there it was, clear as day. I knew it would be due to the fact when I was still skinny and wore low rise jeans, it showed. Seriously. If long shirts hadn't been in, the whole world would have seen the ugly scar right above my hip bone.
The last scar I have is always visable to the world unless I wear gloves. It is tiny and no one has ever in my life asked me where it came from. I do not think anyone has noticed it. I know it is there and I know the story behind that little scar. It is all I have left, a physical reminder of my life in Glasgow, Scotland. I got the scar on my very last day in the city, New Years Eve. I was goofing around with my then boyfriend and somehow his toenail nicked my hand while I was sitting on the couch trying to read while he was doing something on my laptop. Or something like that. The moment was such a normal moment, my brain did not catlouge it as something important that I should remember. I just remember, suddenly my hand was bleeding between my fingers. I remember, a day later sitting on a train charging towards London, picking at it. By this point in time, I did not pick scabs like I used to. I hardly had any any more for one, and I was no longer fascinated by blood like I was as a kid. I sat there, sad to have my life in Glasgow ending and figuring I would never see that guy again, as I had gone into the relationship thinking it'd be a fling, but it wasn't.
I picked the little scab every day. I always kept a little bit of tissue on me to soak up what little blood would come out of the little spot. I spent five days in London picking at it. By the time I got on the plane to come back to the States, it was almost healed. I picked it one more time on the plane, knowing it would be a scar now.
It is a little scar. I look at it and smile, remembering all the great things about Glasgow. Remember all the great things that relationship did for me. It might have been a short one, a little one just like the little phsyical scar it left behind, but it did a lot for the emotional scars I bore from my past. I always knew it would not take much to heal me. That small amount of time spent in Glasgow healed me in such a way that I was ready for real relationships, I wasn't scared of guys, I knew there were actually nice ones out there that would not emotional abuse me and cheat on me.
And I found one. The ring he gave me sits a finger away from the tiny scar I got on my last day in Glasgow, Scotland. The same guy saw me through the hasself of getting the appendix scar and swears up and down I do not have a scar on my back. He has looked for it on numerous occassions, trying to find this ugly scar I was supposed to have my whole life from being dragged in a wagon. If he has ever noticed the small scar on my left hand, he has never asked me where it came from. If he did, I would tell him. I have noticed as of late it is fading. It made me sad to see the tiny scar fading after all these years of hanging in there. I do not want to forget. It is just that simple.
I can forget about the appedix, I can forget about being dragged in the wagon. I do not want to forget him and Glasgow. I simply do not want to forget.
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