Collect your scars and wear them well.

We are all a product of our past. The things that happen to us.
The things we do. The way we interpret them.
The power we continue to give.
We are a product of wounds and scars held together by good times, many or few.

I've been thinking a lot about the past. Being stuck in bed will do that to you. Nothing but my thoughts are active. My limbs too weak to tap away on the phone or keyboard leave me to ruminate.
To pull apart and review with fresh eyes. A past of decades, years and months.

The past is continuous and fluid. Each second experienced becomes past in a heart beat. No neat lineal path. But a collection of events, some leapfrogging others to link then to now. Peeled away and re-stitched to other events in varying orders as more is understood. As we better understand others.
As we better understand ourselves.

My idea of good and bad unique to me. A matter of perspective.

A matter of choice and chances, made by myself and others.

Looking back I wish others had behaved better. Looking back I wish I'd behaved better.
It goes both ways if you're honest.

Wounds happen. Scars cover them. Some scars are better that others. Some never fully heal and others become part of the landscape.

Don't talk about it. It being, anything.
You don't talk about that. Don't share. Don't speak up. Be quiet.
That's embarrassing. No one wants to hear about that. 

The 1980s were a different land. You didn't talk about illness. You didn't talk about family. You didn't talk about things that happened to you or your friends. Secrets whispered in the dark to girlfriends, or more often hidden from those who unbeknownst to you lived the same life and had the same problems. Wounds were gathered with alarming regularity and varying severity, but always hidden from public view.

You didn't talk about anything that mattered, that shaped, that broke, or mended. You hid it all and stuffed it down. And the universe laughed at your efforts. And the more you stuffed that down the stronger it became. Shaping you in ways you were unaware, or at least you stuffed down any semblance of awareness that dared to try and break through. The way you thought about them was warped by the times. Warped by lessons internalised since the earliest days of memory.

And if you did think about it. If you did feel. You told yourself it was wrong. That no one else thought like you. That you were weak. That there was something wrong with you. Shame born of silence.
A burden born by all yet experienced alone.

Breaking through that has been a hard road. I would start to speak and then withdraw even further. I would sit back whilst others spoke and say nothing of my own experience. Fear of judgement still shaping my interactions. Even now there are things never discussed. Some forgotten until something in the day-to-day clicks and it comes into awareness. Some that just sit there waiting to be shared but being pushed back down. Not yet. Not the time. One experience at a time, thanks.

The scars of life.

They shape you.

They shape how you think about yourself.

They shape how you think about others.

Shame and weakness. Never being good enough. Never trusting others.
They are the burdens I carry. They are the burdens that many carry.

I'm not sure when that began to change. I'm not sure why. I do know that it's an ongoing process.
An emotional cha cha cha. 

But instead of letting that past define me. Instead of letting all the bad shape me. I chose to see it as a blueprint for what I don't want. I want to remember the past. I need to remember the past. Not to dwell on the times I felt less, or the times I felt scared, or sad, or lonely. I want to remember the past to shine a light on the now.

I can't change the past. I can't change the hurts. But I can begin to heal them. I can chose how I respond. I can choose to see them as part of my story but not all of it. Plot points in the overall theme. I will acknowledge them not hide from them. And I will try to check myself and the power I give them.

For every failure there is a little thread of healing. Because every time I let it out, it is a victory. A triumph not seen before. Some scars take more time than others.
Their eventual healing all the more meaningful for the struggles faced.

I am my past. A past I am slowly learning to own. Forgiven not forgotten.
A marker by which to fully see my achievements.

I am still here and I am still kicking. I made it through. I made it. And I continue to make me.

I will speak my mind and my heart.
Sometimes with fear, but always with conviction.
I will speak to share, to heal others as much as myself.

I will collect my scars and wear them well.

Michelle

Scars.

Today was another day of joy changing my dressings. Dodgy collagen means that two weeks post-surgery my wound still isn't fully sealed. There's one pesky patch that teases me. One day I look at it and think, "Finally. Finally, it is starting to come together." The next day I have a line of open, pink wound. Sitting there. Laughing at me. I'm pretty sure I heard it whisper "sucker", complete with maniacal laugh. Ugh. I know I shouldn't get my hopes up. That I should just be patient. But patience and I aren't good friends. Never have been, and likely never will be. Add in that day-after-day that the adhesives needed to keep my dressings on, and the wound protected, are eating away at my skin and I know that scarring is once again in my future.

Many have asked if I am worried about scarring. 

Am I worried about people being able to see the lump on my chest where Jeri sits? 

The answer is simple. No. 

I have a number of scars on my body. I don't try and hide them. It never occurred to me that I should. I don't see them as a cause for concern. I don't see them as something that I should think of with shame or embarrassment. 

They tell me tales of my life. And speak of gifts big and small. 

The stretch marks on my stomach told me of the gift of two beautiful boys. 

The scar on my right breast told me I would be given the gift of attending way too many school concerts.

The scar on my left breast told me I would have the gift of spending many late nights making birthday cakes.

The scar on my stomach told me that I would be given the gift of seeing my kids grow up.

The scar on my thigh told me that I would have the gift of more years with my husband.

The scar on my ankle told me that I would have the gift of spending more Sunday's having family roasts.

The scar under my left breast told me of the gift that my intuition was right.

This new scar tells me of the gift that I will wake up tomorrow, and the next day, and the next. 

It tells me of the gift that I will be able to sit on my couch and argue about what we'll watch on TV tonight. That I will be able to yell at my kids for not cleaning their rooms. That I will do a bazillion loads of laundry. That the cleaning of many toilet bowls are in my future. That I will be able to argue with my husband over stupid little things. That I will be able to both snuggle with my dogs and yell at them for chewing up yet another remote. That I will be able to embarrass my kids with hugs in public and stories from their childhood. That I will be able to hug them and spend time with them. That I can hold my husbands hand this night and the next and the next.  

This new scar gives me time.

Time that suddenly became more pressing.

It gives me hope. 

Hope I'd lost.

It gives me possibilities. 

Possibilities I'd started to forget.

It is a gift.

A gift I never imagined.

There is no shame or embarrassment associated with with this scar. Or any of the others I wear.

I will celebrate it and yell my joy from the rooftops. This scar is a gift, not a burden. It is beautiful. And I will wear it with my head held high and a smile on my face.  

Michelle :)