Look at the Scars...

We all have scars.
The skinned-knee scar is an instant reminder to tie my shoelaces when bike-riding. The small, round scar, just below my 3/4 sleeve-line, a reminder of the chicken pox I had at nine years old. The C-section scar, a reminder of exactly when I really fell in love for the first time.
These are the scars that people can see; that, perhaps (depending on where they are), people inquire about. The scars that aren't so visible to others run much deeper; some are still painful and some still turn my cheeks red with shame or embarrassment, anger or humiliation. We all have them; they are the scars we don't talk about but we feel them and live with them every day.

For the last month, I've had time to really look at my scars-- some old and some new; some healed and some wide-open and painful. As I write this, I am keenly aware of a knot forming in my stomach and I am, right this very minute, trying to figure out if it's because I hate telling anyone about these invisible scars or because this is the way I always feel when I look at the most recent, still painful ones.
Also, examining these scars means that I have to acknowledge the role I played in creating them. This is really hard because, given a choice, I would rather like to think that I was just a "victim." But, I'm not a victim. Most of my invisible, emotional scars came at my own hand-- a bad choice here, a consequence there. Sometimes, preventing these scars would have been as easy as keeping my mouth shut. Other times, as simple as walking away from someone or something.
So, why spend a morning blogging about my emotional scars?
Because, even though no one else sees them, they are here. I know the shape and severity of each and every one and, if they were visible to others, I could run my finger over each and every inch of scarring and tell you how and why it is here. And, despite often feeling very alone in my emotional scarring, I know that we all have this kind of scarring. It is not something to be ashamed of or afraid to talk about.
I, also, know that the healed scars have made me smarter, stronger, more sympathetic, or less naive. Some have even faded, as if plied with coco-butter and vitamin E daily, over time. Thankfully, none have disappeared because, while I am not defined by these emotional scars, they have made me who I am and I like who I am. I do not always rarely make the right choices or say the right things at the right times. I am not the smartest or wealthiest or prettiest. I make mistakes. But I am a good person and this is what matters. I feel things very deeply.  I love my family and friends very deeply.  I take things to heart and I take things personally and I am not sure that I would change this if I could. I like doing for others. I like giving. I believe in God and I believe that, if He were to look at my life, he would forgive me my mistakes and judge that I am a good person. I, also, believe that, when it is my time to go, my friends and family will say, "She was truly a good person." And, this makes me happy.
The scars that are newer and haven't yet healed will serve a purpose, too. I am not in a place where I can see what that purpose is but I have faith that, after some time, I will understand it. Until that time, I won't scratch-at or pick-at these wounds. I will let time heal them and, one day, I will run my finger over these scars and say, "This reminds me..."