My Scars Are Invisible

My scars are invisible, so sometimes it’s difficult to understand why certain things affect me. You see, the wounds I received took time, were slow and deliberate.

Some of them allowed me to see the world for what it was too soon. My innocence was robbed, and because of it I’ll never be who I maybe could have been, or even should have been, but the person I am I’ve still come to like. Now, I do, anyway, because she took time, sweat, blood, tears and determination to cultivate. I didn’t ask for them, but my scars are invisible.

Some of them allowed me to see certain people for what they were, in a light that’s dark and painful, and because of them it’s difficult to trust myself in my view of others. I trusted them and gave them my everything, but that wasn’t worth the weight in gold it was to me. My value was but of trash. My worth was but mere time. My place was but of a space-filler, and furthermore I was burdensome in the way I felt much of the time. I didn’t ask for them, but my scars are invisible.

Through every wound I fought back, I questioned myself, I asked for an answer as to why, but received little response. In the end, though, I healed. I didn’t ask for them, but my scars are invisible.

I’ve hated myself, hated others, thought life was unfair, dreamt of and wanted so much more, didn’t want reality to be so at times, screamed, cried, but in the end accepted what was. I didn’t ask for them, but my scars are invisible.

My scars are there, though they are invisible, and each one carries a different story. It’s not a book I keep on my coffee table for all guests to read. They are selective for when the time is right, if ever. Some stories replay themselves in the depths of my heart on occasion against my will. Some stories are just memories, but ones that affect relationships, even today. Most of my stories I wished were happier. Because of my stories though, and through the hard work I’ve done, I feel that my scars are now beautiful. They allow me to be:

  • Beautifully emotional, for I’ve recognized that my emotions are valid. They’re my body’s way of telling me something, and I owe it to her to listen. I am not too much. I am just right for the right people.
  • Beautifully responsive, for I’ve learned to read people well, and can empathize with them in many situations. I can tell when something is needed, or when something is too much. I can tell when I should open my heart to someone, or keep it closed. This lesson was a path riddled with pain, but learned from each step.
  • Beautifully caring, for I’ve grown to want nothing but the best for almost everyone I’ve come to love. If it were in my power and my budget I’d give the world to them all.
  • Beautifully loving, for out of my stories, my battles, my wounds and my scars I’ve still allowed my heart to love as if there’s no such thing as a broken heart.

I don’t always view myself in the traditional sense of being beautiful. If I were honest, I rarely view myself as being beautiful in outward appearance, but because of my scars I feel that God has made me into a beautiful person that loves well.

My emotions have given me strength and tell me whether what I’m feeling is true and clear. My stories are there as a reference now, and no longer as the master of my seas. I share my heart openly when I feel safe, and sometimes it’s met without understanding or gentle care, but I can’t stop sharing because then I’d be lying to myself again, saying my emotions aren’t valid, when they are.

It’s ok to not understand me, or even be frustrated with why something the world sees as small would would affect me with such great force. It’s ok to still be learning, as long as you’re actively searching and seeking to understand. It’s ok to ask questions. Just please, don’t write me off. Don’t walk away. I sometimes don’t even know the answers, but I’m willing to seek and try and put words to some things I maybe have never put words to before.

I’ll never understand why my own personal book was written for me, but I’ve learned to read it without shame. I didn’t ask for them, but my scars are invisible. And my invisible scars make me.



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