Day 12 - write about a scar
I was careening down a sidewalk, hair flying, wind in my face, soaking up the last rays of the summer sun right before dusk-- and then everything was concrete, dark and gritty and painful. The wheel of my friend's Razor scooter had edged just off the sidewalk into the grass, putting an immediate halt to my solo antics and sending me tumbling over the handlebars where my face met the pavement. I was stunned. When I touched my face, my hand came away bloody and I was utterly alone in the neighborhood twilight. It took me a few seconds to gather myself and determine a course of action. I knew it would take quite a while for anyone to come looking for me and I wasn't sure I could wait very long, so I picked up the scooter and doggedly made my way back to my friend's house wounded pride and face in tow.
That day I took off about a quarter of the skin (and undoubtedly some of what was below) around my left eye. Mom cleaned it well and we did our best to take good care of it, but in spite of our efforts, I ended up with pre-orbital cellulitis; translated: a skin infection that hasn't yet reached the eye. I was terrified that it would scar horribly and the only reason people would look at me for years to come was because they couldn't look away - all the fears of a high school girl coming to fruition in one unfortunate accident.
Fast forward more than a dozen years and you would never know that a quarter of my face once looked like raw hamburger or that it got infected or that it took weeks of antibiotics, staying out of the sun at summer camp, and prodigious application of Vitamin E to return my skin to its pre-traumatized state. It didn't scar, but the experience certainly left an impression.
It reminds me of another experience (a couple actually) that left no physical scar, but certainly had a deep impact. I was 11 years old, exactly, and I was at the bowling alley for my birthday with a few friends. My birthday is not too distant from Halloween and apparently some people hadn't had enough ghoulish fun, so there were a few teens in their costumes that night. I went to the restroom with my friends at my mom's behest and we were followed in by two teens in rather scary get-up. I went into the stall with my friend because I didn't want to wait alone, even though I didn't have to go. The teens left and we came out, chatting and washing our hands. But when we walked around the corner, those two hadn't actually left - they were laying in wait. One of them grabbed one of my friends and my other friend and I, being the brave and noble souls that we were, took off running. I was utterly terrified. It was supposed to be a harmless prank - they let my friend go and that was that.
Fast forward several years to when my brother, being the younger sibling that he is, discovered that he could really push my buttons by scaring me. I was probably already a bit jumpy by nature, but after the bowling alley debacle, I was simply on edge. Nonetheless, when mom and dad were both at work, Zach got some kicks from trying to give me a heart attack. Let's just say it improved my reflexes and Zach learned to duck and run.
Fast forward another five to eight years and I realized I was probably more than a little jumpy. I was sitting at work in the copy room one day, doing some online continuing education courses and I heard someone walk in behind me, presumably to make a copy. I was aware they were there. I didn't turn around because I assumed they were there on an errand, specifically to make copies. They were, but as soon as the copier fired up, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Around the same time, I was in a counseling class where we got to take a few measures to help us understand how to help people with trauma. I scored with mild PTSD. At first, that confounded me. Yes, I had punched Josh once when he surprised me when I was brushing my teeth. Certainly I was easier to startle than most the people I knew. I had learned to issue warnings to people in situations where they might unwittingly scare me so they knew my reflexes were largely involuntary, but dangerous; but PTSD? Were they serious? Wasn't that for soldiers and survivors of bombings and mass shootings and such?
I was surprised, but the more I considered my reactions to relevant stimuli and how they compared to my friends, family, and acquaintances, I began to believe there was something to my score on that metric. Now, my issues are far less substantial than a veteran or sexual violence survivor or a host of others and the point of this musing is not the diagnosis - the point is that we all carry scars from experiences that, in one way or another, affect the way we live and the things we choose and the people around us. I'm thankful to have a husband that does everything in his power never to scare me - who whistles when he walks down the hallway toward the bathroom and snaps his fingers as he's coming in the bedroom when I'm occupied. In my last post, I mentioned how I have been supported and loved in many trials and circumstances and in this, too, I am blessed - I am loved.
Just like proper care and appropriate attention (and some supernatural love) healed the face of a teenage girl, calming her fears, the love and care of the people around me (and my husband in particular) have helped me calm the surge of fear that I experience in triggering situations. I am more secure, more at peace, more clear-minded. Love has a healing effect that can transform any scar into more than a reminder of a painful situation; the mark becomes a monument to redemption.
I was careening down a sidewalk, hair flying, wind in my face, soaking up the last rays of the summer sun right before dusk-- and then everything was concrete, dark and gritty and painful. The wheel of my friend's Razor scooter had edged just off the sidewalk into the grass, putting an immediate halt to my solo antics and sending me tumbling over the handlebars where my face met the pavement. I was stunned. When I touched my face, my hand came away bloody and I was utterly alone in the neighborhood twilight. It took me a few seconds to gather myself and determine a course of action. I knew it would take quite a while for anyone to come looking for me and I wasn't sure I could wait very long, so I picked up the scooter and doggedly made my way back to my friend's house wounded pride and face in tow.
That day I took off about a quarter of the skin (and undoubtedly some of what was below) around my left eye. Mom cleaned it well and we did our best to take good care of it, but in spite of our efforts, I ended up with pre-orbital cellulitis; translated: a skin infection that hasn't yet reached the eye. I was terrified that it would scar horribly and the only reason people would look at me for years to come was because they couldn't look away - all the fears of a high school girl coming to fruition in one unfortunate accident.
Fast forward more than a dozen years and you would never know that a quarter of my face once looked like raw hamburger or that it got infected or that it took weeks of antibiotics, staying out of the sun at summer camp, and prodigious application of Vitamin E to return my skin to its pre-traumatized state. It didn't scar, but the experience certainly left an impression.
It reminds me of another experience (a couple actually) that left no physical scar, but certainly had a deep impact. I was 11 years old, exactly, and I was at the bowling alley for my birthday with a few friends. My birthday is not too distant from Halloween and apparently some people hadn't had enough ghoulish fun, so there were a few teens in their costumes that night. I went to the restroom with my friends at my mom's behest and we were followed in by two teens in rather scary get-up. I went into the stall with my friend because I didn't want to wait alone, even though I didn't have to go. The teens left and we came out, chatting and washing our hands. But when we walked around the corner, those two hadn't actually left - they were laying in wait. One of them grabbed one of my friends and my other friend and I, being the brave and noble souls that we were, took off running. I was utterly terrified. It was supposed to be a harmless prank - they let my friend go and that was that.
Fast forward several years to when my brother, being the younger sibling that he is, discovered that he could really push my buttons by scaring me. I was probably already a bit jumpy by nature, but after the bowling alley debacle, I was simply on edge. Nonetheless, when mom and dad were both at work, Zach got some kicks from trying to give me a heart attack. Let's just say it improved my reflexes and Zach learned to duck and run.
Fast forward another five to eight years and I realized I was probably more than a little jumpy. I was sitting at work in the copy room one day, doing some online continuing education courses and I heard someone walk in behind me, presumably to make a copy. I was aware they were there. I didn't turn around because I assumed they were there on an errand, specifically to make copies. They were, but as soon as the copier fired up, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Around the same time, I was in a counseling class where we got to take a few measures to help us understand how to help people with trauma. I scored with mild PTSD. At first, that confounded me. Yes, I had punched Josh once when he surprised me when I was brushing my teeth. Certainly I was easier to startle than most the people I knew. I had learned to issue warnings to people in situations where they might unwittingly scare me so they knew my reflexes were largely involuntary, but dangerous; but PTSD? Were they serious? Wasn't that for soldiers and survivors of bombings and mass shootings and such?
I was surprised, but the more I considered my reactions to relevant stimuli and how they compared to my friends, family, and acquaintances, I began to believe there was something to my score on that metric. Now, my issues are far less substantial than a veteran or sexual violence survivor or a host of others and the point of this musing is not the diagnosis - the point is that we all carry scars from experiences that, in one way or another, affect the way we live and the things we choose and the people around us. I'm thankful to have a husband that does everything in his power never to scare me - who whistles when he walks down the hallway toward the bathroom and snaps his fingers as he's coming in the bedroom when I'm occupied. In my last post, I mentioned how I have been supported and loved in many trials and circumstances and in this, too, I am blessed - I am loved.
Just like proper care and appropriate attention (and some supernatural love) healed the face of a teenage girl, calming her fears, the love and care of the people around me (and my husband in particular) have helped me calm the surge of fear that I experience in triggering situations. I am more secure, more at peace, more clear-minded. Love has a healing effect that can transform any scar into more than a reminder of a painful situation; the mark becomes a monument to redemption.
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