I have this little scar – it’s not even an inch, not even a centimetre, from a 45 minute investigative surgery years ago.
And it’s probably the most sinister thing I’ve ever seen.
It used to be much longer. It used to be much redder. It used to be purple with glue. It used to be covered in sterile strips.
Right now it looks little more than an extension of my navel.
But it doesn’t hurt any less. It still hurts. It’s…hard to articulate, how it makes me feel. It reminds me of a time when I was so accustomed to uncertainty I was numb to it. It reminds me of a time that I was told I was wrong, despite what I felt, and that I felt wronged.
It reminds me of a time that I felt isolated. Because how do I talk about cramps without people wrinkling their noses? This tiny wee scar has the power to humiliate me, to make me cry, to change how I look at myself.
I was intimate with my old partner when I wasn’t ready because I thought it would be important – good exposure, healthy, and I thought they deserved it. I cringed to look at it. I flinch if my clothes touch it.
Now – I want to take all that power back. I will gain ground on this little piece of fibrous tissue – even though I’m not quite sure I deserve to yet. This little scar is a layer of my life. I will learn to be gentle with myself. I don’t want to like it, I just want to be able to forget about it in the same way that I forget about the other one.
(There are two, by the way. Which makes this piece of writing all the more ironic.)
After this, I hope to think about it less and less. The purpose of this piece was exhaust my thoughts – to give a voice to my grief so my mind might be a little quieter. I’m not sure how long this might go on for, I imagine that it will take quite some time.
But I am not so worried anymore. Because if I have the courage enough to talk about it, then maybe I’ll have a wee bit left over to think about it a little less every day.
… thank you, for reading this far, if you have. And don’t worry about me – I’ll be more than fine.