Scar Tissue

Somehow, I seem to be more accident prone than normal. I was recently giving my body the once over (especially as it is warmer weather now, which means more baring of skin) and realized that I have got loads more scars than I remember. There are scars of the inevitable spills, bumps, and cuts from having an active life as well as the scars that are a little deeper and longer to heal.

For example, I hate wearing shorts or skirts unless I am wearing tights underneath. I have eschewed anything short in favour of wearing jeans and trousers for the last nine years - all because I have a scar - right below the knew - that I consider noticeable that I care not to share with the wider world. To me, it is a bright neon sign that something was massively wrong and so I hide it when I can. But in company that I consider more intimate, when I have had to bear this particular (and to me, grossly obvious) defect, few have noted it or made any comment. Strange how we imbue our defects with a much larger power over us than they actually have....

I have also got scars from injuries I am proud of because they speak of a life lived; some scars, like the one of my left arm looks like a cat scratch but actually came from negotiating some stairs that I did not know well, in the dark, after a night out with friends. Bumped against the concrete banister and as they say, the rest is history. Recently, most of my scars seem to be scrapes and cuts from arranging the shelves and closets in my space and bumping into wire shelves and sharp edges. But a tidy space is a happy space (at least for me) so I battle on against the choas.

I, like many people, have some scars so old, they have faded and I would not know where to find them anymore, even if I looked. And yet, the scars are indelible: all of them. All a reminder of a time and a place and an event and a moment that has happened to make a mark on me. After all, is that all scars really are?