My life could be mapped out by the scars that I have: the one on my thumb from an operation at 18 months old, the one on my palm when my skateboard found a stone and stopped and I found another and didn’t, or the time where my hand went through a glass door and those are just one hand. Chickenpox, shingles, barbed wire, my brother’s mischiefs, bike-riding, cyst removal, mole removal and my first ante-natal stretch mark – some of the events in my life that all left their scar. But a scar is a reminder that a trauma happened, and although the body may have needed help, antibiotics, stitches etc, it took its time and healed itself, as best as it could. So although I may have scars they don’t define me and my life is so much more than a map of scars, as scars may be ugly at first but over time they can fade and be forgotten. I am me, despite my scars, and only sometimes because of them.
xx
