Sometimes I forget….

Sometimes I forget that I am bad-ass.

And often I downplay it, because the sad truth is, a lot of people don’t like to hear stories of triumph.

It’s so easy to hide yourself, to feel sorry for yourself rather than to rejoice in what you’ve lived through.

When I was 14, I got this lovely scar you see pictured here.
Because you see, I have a version of this

And to get that lovely scar I had to have a muscle biopsy. What they do is cut you to the muscle just above the bone, without anesthesia. The drugs might interfere with the results.

The scar was once bigger and more noticeable. I hated it. I felt like it was a badge of shame, not honor.

But if I am honest with myself – I was fully awake when I had someone cut nearly to my bone – at 14. I was locked in a very cold, very sterile room with people I didn’t know, slicing me to the bone. I never screamed. I cried because your body just has that reaction. I even had a nurse whose sole job was to wipe my tears during the surgery.

After going through something like that there really isn’t anything one can’t survive.

A lot of people are lucky and they don’t have to live through any severe trauma. But if you are unlucky to have scars, like I do, don’t hide them. Being ill or being traumatized for any reason doesn’t put you on the fringe of life. If anything, it means that you have experienced more of the spectrum of life than most people. You have an insight that most lack and while that insight might come with visible or invisible scars, it’s valuable and should be cherished.

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