You wanna know how I got these scars?
Maybe you do, maybe you don’t (and if that’s the case, this post isn’t for you).
Maybe writing this will allow me to get the closure of sorts that I need.
Maybe writing this will grant me acceptance because I don’t want to be ashamed of my body.
Everyone has scars, everyone. It doesn’t matter their shape or size, whether they are pink, purple or blue. It doesn’t matter if you can see them everyday, if they are physical or emotional. Everyone has scars.
Scars are apart of our lives, some stay visible and others are only there through the stories that we tell.
Regardless, the stories of our scars are always hard to tell.
So, this is my story.
I have scars, specifically 4 incisions that are now forever apart of my body from a surgery that I never imagined I would have. Since this surgery has changed my life, it has become something that I have gotten accustomed to talking about – even if I don’t want to.
When I woke up, the last thing that was on my mind was the scars that would be permanently on my body. I woke up wondering what time it was, why I was so cold, where was everyone, how did it go. I woke up and my whole life was turned upside down.
“There were complications.”
Those three words still ring in my ears, especially when the pain hits.
“We couldn’t do it laparscopically. We had to open you up.”
As she lifted up my gown to expose my abdomen, I looked down: honeycomb dressing, belly button taped up, hips taped. Tape, tape, tape.
It sunk in.
After a time, when the dressings came off, and the jagged red lines crusted with blood and stretching, I was overcome with a sense of sadness. No longer would I be able to wear a bathing suit or low-cut bottoms without showing off my newly acquired modifications. I realized that more questions would come when someone saw them: what happened? Did she have a c-section? Did it hurt?
It’s hard to look down and see them without feeling a little mutilated.
“We don’t want to get your hopes up. This is only the beginning. You might have to go through this again.”
Wait, what? Now I know that your first surgery after finding out you have endometriosis usually isn’t your last. It is a battle. It can grow back. It can get worse. And once the realization sinks in that all of the pain, all of the struggles that you had before could have all been from this silent disease that no one tells you about – ever.
“It will only get worse before it gets better.”
That stuck with me.
Because it is so damn true.
And I have to remind myself that these scars are apart of me and will always represent the battle that I continue to have with my body. They represent a pivotal time in my life. They represent pain, strength, healing.
And this can ring true for so many situations. How do I know? Because these aren’t my only scars. I have emotional scars that have lasted longer than I would like to admit. I have almost faded scars from a time in my life that it was easier to hurt myself than to talk about it. I have scars from falling down. I have scars from soaring over the handle bars. I have so many scars that represent so many moments in time. Moments that I have made me who I am today.
All of my scars, and all of yours, represent just how far you have come. That alone is something you, and I, should be proud of.
We are still here. We survived.
We are putting one foot in front of the other.
And even though every story is different, everyone processes their stories differently, there is so much that comes from our scars.
And even though I am still learning.
And even though I am still healing – emotionally and physically.
One day I will love these new scars.
One day, maybe soon, I will post them to Instagram or Facebook. Because everyone deserves to know that they are not alone in this.
You are not alone.