Scars

Every scar tells a story: a story of a life lived--of experiences, both pleasant and not-so-pleasant.

I have a roadmap on my body of scars. A scar on my forehead from when I was given a piggy-back ride and dropped. Scars on my knees from learning to ride a bike. Scars on my chin from when I split it open twice while learning to walk. A scar on my left hand that I gave myself while nervously writing my Honors Program thesis. A scar on my left wrist marking a moment of despair. Scars from childbirth, scars from ironing, scars from gardening, scars from baking. There's evidence of biopsies and a repaired belly-button from a laparoscopy. The scars speak to lovers and observers of past experiences…of where I've been and what has happened. Imperfections revealed through careful observation. They don't tell you who I am, though. Just where I've been.

The scars that shape who I am are the ones you can't see. These are ugly scars and the most glaring of all. Scars from hurtful words tossed around, from crushed feelings, unrequited love, and broken dreams. Scars from painful experiences: myriad rejection scenarios, a heart broken too many times, stinging commentary and observation from more perfect people, the residuals marking violent, hurtful situations. These scars cause self-doubt and self-loathing. There the ones that make you compare yourself to others and find yourself woefully lacking. These scars cause the bitterest of tears at 3 a.m. while the city sleeps. These scars tell you a lot about me--of the me that I reveal to a cherished few. They’re not who I am, either. Unfortunately they influence who I am as painful remnants of rejection, so when I tread softly and tentatively and hide my feelings until I know I'm relatively safe, please understand.

There's no airbrushing here--what you see is what you get. A me in a natural state--raw emotion, frank communication, sans phoniness, devoid of hypocrisy. If I say I will help, I will. If I say I will do it, I do. If I say I will get around to it, I will--eventually. Appreciate me for my intelligence, for my kindness, for my humor. There's fire brewing underneath the surface. I have opinions, and I'll express them...usually with tact. Realize I don't play games, nor do I want to be played with anymore. Don't pity me because I often tell you how it is. What's the point of facades, anyway?

I don't judge the airbrushed people, but I do feel sorry that's what's preferred. When keeping it real keeps you lonely, I often chide myself for being who I am. The constant struggle: should I be like the popular--concerned about reality TV shows while knowing little about world events, obsessed with the latest fashions and home decorating trends, headed to yoga with my perfectly coiffed hair in my cute matching scunchy, engaged in little girl talk so intelligence is hidden? A perfect woman waiting for the perfect man to give her a perfect life. You like perfection; it's what makes your friends' envious and makes you feel like a successful man. It makes sense to seek the swans; you are content enough gazing at their beauty and perfection.

Admit it...if not to me, at least to yourself: you don't want a challenge. You're afraid. Perhaps you should be. Sitting in your perfectly safe comfort zone not challenging yourself, not growing, disengaging from the world, you feel superior to the flawed as you live a life where no scars are discussed. Someone of my ilk will only make you feel unsettled and challenge you. So you pass me over for what's safe, what's known, what's scar-free: a perfect creature that fits the mold. You tell me I'm not good enough--different isn't appealing. If only I would change and be more like the others, then perhaps I'd fair better.

An ugly proposition: give up the real "me" for the sake of a "we." It's not a deal I'm willing to make.

So I wait alone picking at my scars. I'm far from perfect, and even though it causes me heartache and grief, I'm going to be me. If you're man enough to accept that, then give me a shot. I don't disappoint.