Scars
I don’t know, maybe I’m weird, but I like scars.
I like them because they don’t let me forget.
Maybe it’s morbid, but I have a horrible memory, and scars are mementos. It’s kinda of like keeping a ticket to remember a concert by. They’re not always happy memories, not by a long shot, but that doesn’t mean I want to forget. That scares the heck out of me: the notion that maybe I went through all of that and I couldn’t even take anything out of it. That makes you think, what’s the point? It’s not fair, why me? I still think all of those things, at some point, but I realize that, as far as I’m concerned, there is no point, there’s no matter of fair, no one picked me out. It just is. You don’t roll over and accept it, though, you don’t say what’s done is done and forget about it. You never forget it, you learn from your trials, and you hope that maybe someone else can learn too. Scars aren’t just injuries that never healed, they’re memorials, monuments that never let you forget what you’ve been through, what you’ve survived, and maybe how you did it.
What’re scars? They’re part of you that’s died, and even in healing, it’s not what it was. It’s there, but it’s different. A lot of people believe that there’s balance in the universe. So, when that part of you dies because of what it’s gone through, it seems to me like the only way to keep that balance is to make sure the rest of you lives even harder to make up for it. Scars don’t let you forget that.
When I look at my stomach, at the pink line drawn from my left ribcage to just to right of my spine, that line drawn with a scalpel’s blade, I remember.
I remember telling the surgeon my name was Han Solo.
I remember teaming up with a volunteer to hide a plastic rat under my gown, and I remember the look on the surgeon’s face when he saw it.
I remember my first surgery, cut in half and put back together with 31 thick, brassy staples.
They don’t let you forget how fragile we are, how all it takes is a scar that never gets to become a scar, and that’s it-it’s over. There’s no warning. You don’t see it coming, usually. One minute you’re playing basketball, the next, you’re dead or dying. Scars remind you that you can’t waste any time.
I see all of these cosmetic products that help you hide your scars, to bury your past for the sake of vanity. I don’t know, maybe I’m just a stupid kid, but I’m proud. I remember in my 7th grade science class, we were talking about scars or some such, and I volunteered to stand up and lift up my shirt and show my scar to the class. I was a shy kid, shy as heck, but I wasn’t even nervous. I wasn’t just showing my scar, I was showing it off.
They’re like a badge of courage, y’know? It’s like, look, I got cut wide open and stapled back up, and I’m still fucking moving.
Why would you want to hide that?
I like them because they don’t let me forget.
Maybe it’s morbid, but I have a horrible memory, and scars are mementos. It’s kinda of like keeping a ticket to remember a concert by. They’re not always happy memories, not by a long shot, but that doesn’t mean I want to forget. That scares the heck out of me: the notion that maybe I went through all of that and I couldn’t even take anything out of it. That makes you think, what’s the point? It’s not fair, why me? I still think all of those things, at some point, but I realize that, as far as I’m concerned, there is no point, there’s no matter of fair, no one picked me out. It just is. You don’t roll over and accept it, though, you don’t say what’s done is done and forget about it. You never forget it, you learn from your trials, and you hope that maybe someone else can learn too. Scars aren’t just injuries that never healed, they’re memorials, monuments that never let you forget what you’ve been through, what you’ve survived, and maybe how you did it.
What’re scars? They’re part of you that’s died, and even in healing, it’s not what it was. It’s there, but it’s different. A lot of people believe that there’s balance in the universe. So, when that part of you dies because of what it’s gone through, it seems to me like the only way to keep that balance is to make sure the rest of you lives even harder to make up for it. Scars don’t let you forget that.
When I look at my stomach, at the pink line drawn from my left ribcage to just to right of my spine, that line drawn with a scalpel’s blade, I remember.
I remember telling the surgeon my name was Han Solo.
I remember teaming up with a volunteer to hide a plastic rat under my gown, and I remember the look on the surgeon’s face when he saw it.
I remember my first surgery, cut in half and put back together with 31 thick, brassy staples.
They don’t let you forget how fragile we are, how all it takes is a scar that never gets to become a scar, and that’s it-it’s over. There’s no warning. You don’t see it coming, usually. One minute you’re playing basketball, the next, you’re dead or dying. Scars remind you that you can’t waste any time.
I see all of these cosmetic products that help you hide your scars, to bury your past for the sake of vanity. I don’t know, maybe I’m just a stupid kid, but I’m proud. I remember in my 7th grade science class, we were talking about scars or some such, and I volunteered to stand up and lift up my shirt and show my scar to the class. I was a shy kid, shy as heck, but I wasn’t even nervous. I wasn’t just showing my scar, I was showing it off.
They’re like a badge of courage, y’know? It’s like, look, I got cut wide open and stapled back up, and I’m still fucking moving.
Why would you want to hide that?