My essence and core was represented by a scar, a length of subtly shiny indentation on my skin. It represented what should have been a minor detour in my early existence, but it came to define me. I let it become my compass and the captain of my ship. Where there should have been a little nothing, there was with in me a well of ugliness, a pit of I can’t, a vortex of fears with out names.
My scar fueled my need for physical modesty, the cause of my scar, early childhood surgeries fueled my aborted accomplishments. There was never a time in my life in which I found it hard to cover my body. In fact I found it hard not to. From a young age I wanted the feeling of my body being covered right down to wearing socks to bed. I saw myself as other.
My mother always bought me one piece swim suits even as a toddler. Even as a toddler I saw my body as this grotesque colossal monstrosity because obviously it had to be covered while other girls where made delicate and exquisite as pixies. My mother wanted to protect me from scrutiny, questions and ridicule, so clothing must always cover my scar. She wanted to protect my operated body so I strengthened my “I cant muscle”, my “I’m afraid muscle”’ and “the world wants to hurt me muscle”.
I never imagined these things would follow me into adulthood, into marriage and into motherhood. It had always been so easy for me to hide behind spirituality and good girl syndrome. I didn’t realize that in me, these things were no lofty accomplishment. I’m only now beginning to peel away the masquerade. I hope I someday find the soul buried beneath the scar tissue.
