I have scars; so many scars I am self-conscious of them. I had 15 surgeries in three years; 11 just on my feet. My feet were not the most attractive to look at in the first place, but who has pretty, anyway, right? I used to like to look at them with one eye closed and then the other, and in just the right light I would pretend they were Fred Flintstone’s hands.
Before my surgeries I could pick up a pencil with my toes, I was quite a talent. I would wear the highest of heels at least five days a week; now, I am relegated to ugly flat shoes, and for the life of me I cannot figure out how to “dress up” in a pair of flats. They just are not sexy. I have three scars on my right foot and two scars on my left one; some look worse than others because I experimented with Vitamin K and I think it must have worked.
Painting my toenails only draws further attention to the ugliness because I had to have surgery to remove my big toenails, so I have to paint the skin, and it just does not look “right”; at least to my critical eye.
I have other scars; I have a small one on my right forearm where my donkey, Cinnamon, bit me once when I inadvertently threw her hay on the ground outside of her stall and reached in to open her pen. I should have let her out first, and then retrieved her breakfast; lesson learned. My wrist is scarred from an ill-fated suicide attempt, but when I see it, I know how far I have progressed in my life.
My list goes on, as I am 44 years-old, and have not merely sat on the couch as life has passed me by; at times, but not every day.
However, the physical scars are not the marks that scare me the most; they are not the ones I run from or think others will run from when they notice; at least not people who matter to me. If somebody notices the scars on my feet, wrist, or any other perceived imperfections, I can imagine they are somebody I do not have time to waste on them anymore. I think I am too old for such a selfish attitude.
The other scars I carry, the ones deep in my soul, the wounds affecting my heart, my mind, and my spirit, they scare me. They have caused me to build walls, to close myself off to relationships, to walk away from people without looking back, and to be lonely.
I am flat on the outside, but I am bursting at the seams, trying to get out.