Battle Scars and Bandages

“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”- Maya Angelou

For the most part, I can recount the story behind my flesh wounds and the scars they left behind. Some of them a point of pride, metals of honor from life’s battles:

-The pale pink, slightly rougher patch of skin on my right knee takes me back to the epic face-off between the giant hill in Fairview Park and my-twelve-year-old-rollerblading-self.

-The teeny purple line under my belly button, a surgical scar that will always remind me of endometriosis’ unrelenting attack on my reproductive health.

Of course, scars aren’t only of the flesh. Most of us have some deep emotional scarring. And with all due respect to Queen Maya, if you are anything like me, you may remember the words or actions that caused these deep cuts. Words are weapons of mass destruction. I can still recount memories from my adolescence of shitty things I said and did, as well as the hate that was spewed upon me. It’s been twenty years since I left high school and I still carry that guilt; twenty years and I can still hear the snickering of immature bullies behind my back; twenty years and these recollections still make me feel sad. Try as I may to forgive all parties involved, I know I will never forget. The verbal pain I inflicted on others and that others brought on to me left some thick scars on my heart and imprints on my brain. 

But if scars are the remnants of old wounds, what do we call the good stuff? The medics who bring comfort to bloodied troops? Bandages? 

The adoption process is very intense. After Sonny was born, his biological mother had 72 hours to change her mind. My mind was a war zone where crippling anxiety fought to overpower the euphoric feelings I was desperately trying to cling to. I had already fallen so deeply in love with him; how would I ever pick myself back up if she changed her mind? In the final hours, the worst case scenerio invaded my brain and took over. I was sick, the tears wouldn’t stop. All I could think about were the “what-if’s”. Mike tried to console me, but at the time I needed to hear my mom’s voice telling me it would be ok. I called my parent’s house, my dad answered and informed me that she was working late. My heart sank and my voice cracked when he asked me what was going on. And bless his heart, because my emotional missiles were firing. I remember not being able to catch my breath as I asked him what I would do if she changed her mind. Honestly, vomit still rises to the back of my throat at the thought of it. I really don’t remember what he said, but I absolutely remember the calm that rushed over me when I finally allowed him to speak. His voice was soft and reassuring, and whatever it was that he said soothed my anxious mind. 

Funny how it’s easier to recall the words that hurt than it is the words that heal; but I do consider it a blessing that I can’t forget the way those words made me feel. As even the bloodiest most painful wounds can heal if bandaged properly, regardless of the scars they leave behind.