Scars

So we hear this crap all the time about being proud of our scars. I don't know how on earth to possible even begin to do that.

Having apple cider with my daughter one evening, I catch a glimpse of this ugly white vertical stripe on the inside of my wrist. A more angst-minded observer might think I had once lost all faith, given up, and applied a blade there.  The truth is, I think, somehow more sad.

He and I had just closed on our new house. The first couple of months were nice, fun even, as we tore out cabinets, spun, dizzily on floor sanders, collapsed into bed splattered with paint and laughing. The euphoria quickly wore off as contractors fell through, funds ran short, and tempers flared. Callie was a baby and celebrated her first birthday in a kitchen of bare studs and plywood floor.

One evening, after a shopping trip that culminated in an argument, we returned home tense and tired. He stomped ahead of me into the house with me on his heels and slammed the door, an old wooden slab with thing, cheap glass panes, in my face. Balancing Callie on my hip, I reached in front of me to catch the door but watched almost in slow motion as my hand continued straight through the glass as it shredded around my outstretched arm.  Speechless, I slowly pulled my arm back from the jagged hole and watched silently as the crimson thread unfurled.  Juggling baby, bags, and now dripping arm, I entered the house quietly, almost hoping he wouldn't notice, but he had.  The look of scorn and disgust was clear on his face, and I carefully avoided his eyes as I went into the bathroom.

This scar is embarrassing to me, and I've breathed gratefully as I've seen people glance at it and uncomfortably look away without asking. This scar reminds me of such a dark time, when I realized with acute clarity that I was mired in a ruthless, domineering relationship with a version of this man- a version I barely knew but whose dark, empty glares struck fear to my core. I'm not certain how healthy it is that I would rather a stranger think I had attempted suicide than to know I am someone who accepted blame for abuse, who stayed for years and tolerated the humiliation and degradation of both passive and aggressive control and pain.

Don't tell me to be proud of my scars. You look away and let me forget.