Ha! Ha! Ha! I have many scars each with a different story. Most of them bring a somber smile to my face. I have a small crescent scar on my middle finger or my left hand. I sliced through it accidently while attempting to cut limes after one too many shots of tequila. Next to it on my ring finger is a minuscule scar from camp 99. My left knee is where I took 13 stitches trying to play Daredevil. My right leg is a burn scar from a caramel corn accident.
I went to the lengths of all this for a reason. Because of my scars I am the person I‘ve grown into. But, there are scars you can’t see. I could go on about the many scars of my heart, but not all of them. It is an unending list of pain and hurt that no one really wants to hear or needs to see. Most of them are scars because they are healed. Some, a few, are fresh wounds that continually get ripped back open. Here are just a few that I want to share.
* Seeing family belittle themselves for drugs (drugs had many forms I’ll not list or pinpoint) in place of human emotions or limited pain.
* Watching family fight over a grave and expecting me to take a side.
* Knowing I’m an honest, clean, safe person, and yet, still not being trusted.
*Feeling alone in a sea of people.
We all have scars and wounds. Some of us share them to the world or to God and our church family. I prefer to lick my wounds in private, meditate on how best to heal, then move on… I makes things more personal for me. But, some such as those that I’ve shared today, need to be spoken if not to those who are hurting me, to those few who will listen. I don’t take very many pity parties, basically because I’m supposed to be the strong one. The eldest, I’m supposed to hold my head up high and prove through everything I’ll make it out alive. I guess I’m right one way or another. But, how do you describe the alive. What if I’m not alive, but simply undead?
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