When I was younger, a lot younger, I had to get minor surgery on my toe.
I had apparently worn shoes that were too tight, and my nail cut into the skin, and the toe got infected, and long story short, they needed to cut out a chunk of my toe (literally), so it could grow back normally. I got a local anesthesia, a nurse sat on the bed and lay across me so I couldn’t see what the surgeon was doing, and the entire procedure lasted about 15 minutes. So I went home with my foot wrapped up as thick as could be, and I was told to come back in about a week for them to clean it and re-dress it.
The first time I went back to the hospital and saw what my toe looked like, I believe I cried. They hadn’t told me that’s what they were going to do, and I assumed they just wanted to cut out the infection that had grown into some disgusting thing. So when I saw my right big toe missing this huge chunk of flesh, I assumed that’s how it’d be forever. Meanwhile my dad was trying his best to stifle his laughter as he explained that I had no reason to worry, as it would heal and “grow back.” I didn’t want to hear it at the time, but he was right. It did.
When I look at that toe now, I can immediately spot how different it is from the other one. It’s subtle, but it’s also plain as day to me. I can see the scar from the surgery, and I can point out how different my toe nail is. But back then, when it first healed, my dad used to always say he couldn’t tell the difference, and it annoyed the life out of me. Whether he was saying it to make me feel better or he genuinely believed they both looked the same was irrelevant to me. I didn’t agree with him, I didn’t see how he could possibly say that, and so I didn’t want to hear it, however noble his intentions may have been. Besides, it is my scar. And how dare you tell me my scar is unreal, right? Lol
I was thinking about that earlier because it reminded me of how we tend to treat our own imperfections. The parts of our story we’d rather keep hidden or erase entirely if we could. The imperfections we’re forced to live with. Others may not care about our scars, internal or otherwise, but we hold on to them nevertheless. We demand that people who would be willing to look past our imperfections acknowledge them & nothing else, because that’s all we can see. Even when those who were present at the formation of those scars believe they’re not as bad as we think, we disregard their views, because our scars mean that much to us.
Isn’t it ridiculous? I’m all for scars telling a story… But not for scars defining who you are. And sometimes, it’s just not that big a deal. Let go.
I’m making a commitment to whoever reads this blog (yes, I’m speaking to all 12 of you) that I’ll post something new every week. Even if I don’t actually write something new every week, at the very least, I have enough posts in my drafts to last me a couple of months. It might come on a Monday, or it might come on a Friday. But in every 7 day Sunday-Saturday period, I’ll publish something new. Hold me to that.
Music recommendation: Bryan x Katie Torwalt – Glorious. For when you’re quiet inside. For when you don’t want to be quiet much longer. For when you’re full of appreciation.
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