Your own scars can be a scary thing to write about. Each scar is a story, and, more importantly, a moment of vulnerability. Telling the story of a scar is, in a way, reopening that vulnerability. Especially in a public format, like a blog, to tell a scar story is to say "Here, this is part of who I am. Judge or not, as you will."
Most of my scars come from a period in time about five years ago when I was dealing with BPD - Borderline Personality Disorder. Though I have recovered (and that's another story!), I still carry the almost-shame of that time. In moments of introspection I realize that I wouldn't change anything; that time of hitting bottom helped me realize myself and define who I am. I like who I am. So, why the fear? Is the need for acceptance so ingrained that to voluntarily jeopardize it will always hold a tinge of 'wrong'?
The strongest people are those who can show weakness. This paradox is well worth remembering as we are asked to tell our scar stories. Can you laugh at yourself? Can you face where you have been and say: "What a time. It broke me. It defined me. I'm better for it."?
2 comments:
The strongest are the ones who can show weakness, huh? That's a very feminine viewpoint, not that there is anything "wrong" with that, as in women are more likely to talk things out. I think for guys they would skip over that statement and move straight to "suck it up," even if they don't fully understand themselves (theirselves?).
Anyway, my fear stems from shame, as in I wish not to show things because of judging not of the situation, but of my revealing of it. I presume others would find shame in my exposure
simply because they may think I'm looking for sympathy or some kind of gratification from others. In this way I am making my way as an artist- every bit of me is revealed and I am still having a hard time preparing myself for peer review.
Ok, I don't have any really significant scar stories, but I saw something today that reminded me of this.
Passing through the woods in Chewacla, I saw several trees that were dead and rotting by layers, from the outside in. The only thing that stood out to the tree's original diameter were the knots, the scars of whatever damage had happened over its years. All record of the stable places of the tree's life would soon be gone, but the parts where hurt and healing had occurred would stay around longer.
There's something poetic in that.
Post a Comment