The Scars We Bear

An acquaintance of mine once confessed that, having begun a relationship after years of being single, she was planning a surgical procedure to remove a noticeable but hidden scar prior to being intimate with her new beau.

Not wishing to offend her, I merely nodded in response to this confession, although I found it hard not to hoot with laughter. I myself had a handful of intimate relationships in the first decade following the demise of my marriage, and at no point did I ever consider it a problem that I have a broad C-Section scar that stretches from hip-to-hip, nor another scar from a breast biopsy that wraps around a nipple. Any male who found my scars off-putting wasn’t someone with whom I needed to be in a relationship, anyway.  I am proud of my scars, including the five new ones from my cancer surgery, which my daughter calls, “Triumphant Scars”.  My stretch marks mean that I proudly bore a wonderful daughter. My scars tell anyone who looks upon them that I am a survivor.

As I see it, the real problem with my acquaintance’s attitude is the predominant and culturally-encouraged belief that we, both men and women, are somehow not good enough (for a relationship, for friendships, for any social interaction) unless we are physically perfect. Encouraged by ads and articles and commercials, by dolls and cartoons, by the glorified unreality of television and movies, we “know” that we are unsuited for love—emotional or physical—unless we have shiny hair, perfectly straight, white teeth, strong muscles and a flat stomach, glowing, blemish-free skin…the list of features we must perfect is painfully endless.  We are instructed in countless ways to reduce or erase our “flaws” and “imperfections”, from that first sentinel wrinkle to baggy knees.  And heaven forbid we age!

I’ve reached that stage of my existence, though, in which “imperfections”, no matter how bravely fought, are inescapable. Wrinkles, sagging flesh, age spots, whitening hair, are simply facts of life, as are slowly softening muscles and deteriorating sight and hearing and strength. And what I have learned from this is that no part of my physical self makes me in any way unacceptable.

In my years on this planet, I have been appreciated, complimented and loved despite a nose that extends like the prow of a ship, teeth that are neither perfectly straight nor white, skin that has never stopped being prone to break-outs, and a tummy that’s always been too round for current cultural perceptions. I’ve had a number of intimate relationships no matter that I bear scars, and no man has ever commented upon them except once, to ask me considerately  if the scar was sensitive.

Every mark, every healed wound, upon my body is a story in its own right; is indicative of my ability, not just to survive, but to thrive—physically, mentally, emotionally. This body that I live in is, therefore, not perfectible, but already perfect.  And anyone who cannot accept that, accept me, precisely as I am is undeserving of being included in my life

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