Thank God for Scars

I've never been the pretty girl, the thin girl, or the most desired girl in the room.  I have never had the nicest clothes or the fanciest accessories.  I never had the best hair, smile, or eyes.  Except for being able to sing soprano and being blessed with my mother's curves, I doubt most people would be able to distinguish me as female by my mannerisms alone.  This used to be a source of contention with me, but now I just chalk it up to my inability to conform to society's view of what a women is supposed to be. 

The one thing I did have the society still goes nuts over is "good skin."  I didn't have major acne outbreaks except for during pregnancy and now in my 30s (what is up with that?!), and with exception of some freckles and birthmarks, I lacked scars or unusual moles.  As I've gotten older, though, I have developed more scars and marks.  Many of them were inflicted at work, during moves, or moments of depression.  Some I have no idea how they developed.  Still, each on is a memory and a story about who I was and who I became from it. 

The earliest I remember is a V shaped stitch mark on my right palm.  That was created by me; in my obsession with one of my mom's office kits and the box cutter inside.  I thought it would be perfect to carve our rather old and boring banister into one of the intricate styles I had seen on "The Young & the Restless."  Armed with some inadequate woodcarving skills learned on PBS I set to work - in the wrong direction.  I ended up cutting the artery in my palm which I tried to stifle with a cold wet washcloth.  When the bleeding didn't stop, I had to get my mother.  Since there was no 911 at the time, my mom had to call my nanna at church to get one of the paramedics who attended to come get me.  I had to wait another 20 minutes for him and then another 30 for the clinic doctor to drive to our town.  I almost passed out.  However, in the process, I learned the difference between arteries and veins, how to make a tourniquet, and that I was really amazed by the inner workings of the human body.

I have several from working food and beverage at a local theme park.  A burn from a pizza oven on my left arm, a curved scar on right forearm from a knife placed in the sink the wrong way, and a scrape scar from a pickle tub.  Within weeks I was placed on cash register.  That proved safer, however, I did get a paper cut from new five dollar bills.  I have a great scar on the back of my left hand from a broken reflector I was holding at a retail portrait studio.  The reflector was broken by a obstinate child who kicked it out of my hands.  As I started to bleed, he just stared at me.  I smiled and just keeping taking pictures.  My non-reaction kept him still and quiet long enough for some great family shots.  I learned I worked well even in the most frustrating (and painful) situations.

The scar for me that holds the biggest wrench in my heart is a long, thin vertical scar on my right arm.  If you don't know it's there, you can't see it.  Many days, I forget it exists.  But it's there.  A haunting reminder of a time when things were very dark for me.  It was the last time I tried to commit suicide.  It may sound weird that I am grateful for this scar, but it was not something that came out of the blue.  I have battled off and on with severe ups and downs since I was 13.  I have downed way too many pills, gotten drunk to the point of blackouts, and I was, for a very long time, an active cutter.  The scary thing; I can't say I'm not a cutter.  If I get stressed, that feeling comes back; that desire to redirect my frustrations to a physical pain I can identify, cover with a bandage, and move on.  Then, I see the scar. 

That attempt on my life was, at the time, one of the hardest for me.  I was laid off from a job I loved, engaged to a man I loved who couldn't or wouldn't tell his parents, and far, far away from my family and where I wanted my life to go.  I hit a point in which I felt like a pawn with no control.  I wasn't really significant in my mind; obviously everyone in my life would be fine without me.  So I thought.  I had no impact, importance, or worth - even for myself.  Alone in my apartment, I sat in my closet with a kitchen knife, some vodka, and Elton John's "Don't Let the Sun Go Down On Me."  I wrote letters to my fiance, friends, and family.  I was done.  Just as I completed the first cut, my phone rang.  I was going to ignore it and go back into the cut to make it deeper - to make it final.  But it kept ringing.  Two calls in a row.  When I answered it, it was best friend letting me know I was on her mind, that she was worried and was coming over.  Then, there was a message from my fiance saying I was on his mind.  Next my mom called to see if everything was okay.  All received very sober and sedate responses of, "It's all good,"  "Nothing new here," but I think they all sensed it was a lie.  I felt flooded by love and could not go through with the second, final cut.  I stared at my slowly bleeding arm and just sobbed.  I was being selfish and a self-inflicted victim.  When Ria arrived, I had hidden my handiwork under a long sleeved shirt.  I didn't tell her what I'd done, but I did share how hopeless I felt.  Ria turned out to be the person I needed.  We went out and sang karaoke, danced with friends, and stayed up until 2am just enjoying the fact we were alive. 

Why do I share this?  I just have a feeling that someone out there is cutting or ponder what difference they make.  It may be a group of people in on what they call "their little secret."  I know, I had friends I could discuss cutting with - how to cut to inflict pain but not injury, what tools to use, when the best time to cut is - and the same probably applies for some others out there.  Cutters are the least likely people and those at risk may seem like those that have nothing to lose.  In fact, they may appear downright perfect.  They're not.  They're hurting and they need help.  They are looking for an outlet and a release they don't think they have anywhere else.  I am sharing my story because maybe I can save a life.  The Bible says were are all here for a purpose.  Not religious, The Doctor of Doctor Who says he never met anyone who wasn't important.  Hate Sci-Fi, The Biggest Loser touts that everyone is worth it.  If that's not enough reason to stay alive, ask yourself who is going to make that great art/off colour joke/beautiful song/building project/highest score/dent in their parents' coach if you're not here?  You matter.  You're worth.  If you're doing great - awesome!  I just ask you tell someone who looks like they could use a little love how much they mean.  Wishing them a good day, or saying something.  You may make a difference just by being there and paying attention.  I don't think I ever told her, but Ria saved my life that day.  She saved me from myself, and I have the scare to prove it.

Speak Life

My entire life someone at some time has used that phrase; "Speak Life."  I was always sarcastic about it because I had figured no matter how hard you prayed/wished/thought about moving in a good direction for your life; no matter how much "life" you spoke into your life, you were stuck with what you got.  I became extremely skilled at putting on the smile, laughin loud, and making everyone think that I "Spoke Life," but when it came to me, there was no life to be had.  I was, and on some days still am, miserable.  Instead of "Speaking Life," into myself, I reserved that positive energy for everyone else.  And let me tell you, that is downright exhausting. 

As a woman, and I'm sure most mothers and women dedicated to someone or something else can agree, to give everything to everyone and everything else leaves you empty and wondering.  Wondering why you left your dreams behind to support your boyfriend/husband.  Wondering why you tried to obtain a certain level of education only to find out it's not what you really wanted.  Wondering why you always back away from something you desire because your money is "better spent" on items that could benefit the entire family/household.  Speaking for myself, I try very hard to see others happy; even if the cost is my own happiness. 

So, if I recognize this, why do I keep doing it?  I think it goes back to the saying, "It's the devil we know."  But, why do we want to know the devil if God has put us here for a purpose; one that is to lead us to an abundant life - a life of value, happiness, prosperity, and fulfillment here and after?  I am still trying to figure that one out, but in the process, I am trying to "Speak Life," into myself.  A networking partner of mine, Michael Cogburn, put it best today when he pointed out we don't HAVE to do anything.  We GET the privilege of worshipping how we want, meeting with people we want, and doing the things we want.  Not everyone can go to the grocery store.  Many can't afford to go to the doctor's office, afford rehabilitative care, or visit the dentist.  A great number in the world can't even read this blog.  A larger number may not even be able to read or write in general. 

It's time to realize I GET to "Speak Life," not only into others but also myself.  I have to admit I am worth it (and yes, I'm crying even as I type this).  I get the privilege to care for a healthy child who may not have been exactly where I wanted her in my agenda, but her timing couldn't have been better.  I get to work on and in my business, no matter how much of a struggle it may be.  It is mine, and I'm proud of it.  I get to love someone who has been able to follow his dream and find employment in it, even if the income and the area we live in are not always compatible.  I get the blessing to sing almost every Sunday and praise God for my existence and the lives of all those who I have been blessed to meet and those I will meet in the future.  After 35 years, I think I get it.  The saying that's always been there.  I think I'm finally learning to listen. and only Speak Life.