I am not my scars



I have lot of physical scars; they are reminders of an epic childhood. Souvenirs from days spent running into barbecue stands, falling of guava trees and running around empty swimming pools. They are battle marks from accidentally missing your kick in a game of street soccer and making contact with the ground so hard that it eats away at your flesh, leaving your elbow, knee or shin bleeding and exposed. Some would cry because of the impact, some knew that a lecture at home was imminent and some knew to hold it in until water and antiseptic made love to the wound. Most of my scars have faded so well that you would never believe that they resulted in a love hate romance with bandages and antiseptic. I carry my physical scars with pride, they give me character. 

If only emotional and psychological scars healed as well as the physical scars do. You know how your skin forms a scab to protect a wound from the elements and to allow new skin cells to replace the old ones. Some emotional and psychological scars are permanently in that stage of scab formation where removing the scab would result in re-opening the wound, starting the process all over again. That’s what I did to myself for a while, I kept picking at my scabs too soon, and all I did was re-open the same wound over again. In the end I realized that I kept prolonging the healing process. Some things you learn the hard way, you learn not to rush a process that needs time. You learn patience, and boy have I had to be patient. 

I have learned to wear my emotional and psychological scars like I wear my physical scars; they are a part of me, but that is not all there is to me, there is a lot more. They remind me how far I have come; they are my incentive to keep going forward and the best reason for me to avoid sliding backwards. I wouldn’t be where I am if it wasn’t for the experiences that gave me these scars. I wouldn’t be as balanced as I am if I had never faced what I have faced; I could have run away but didn’t so why hide the fact that I have them. I am not going to make a fuss and show them off but I will not be ashamed of them either.   

So I am defiant in my belief that I am not my scars. They are a part of me, although they are not me. Choosing to only see the scars means you miss out on the joy of knowing the person behind them and the value of the knowledge that the person has learned from them.

I am not my scars.

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