I never thought about visible scars being a blessing…
I think sometimes people look at me and think I’m too weird, too silly, too immature, or too reckless. But I think to have visible scars, people also think, “Wow she went through some trauma… Wow, she can laugh the way she does after going through all that? It’s surprising she can still smile the way she does… Oh, that makes sense now.”
Sometimes having visible scars justify my actions… sometimes…
Being a trauma survivor is what makes me a part of who I am. Having visible scars lets people know I’m a survivor without having to tell them.
Some people don’t have that luxury. The luxury of having someone look at them and know they are a survivor. There are a few who don’t have visible scars. Countless survivors went through a trauma that no one knows about because they do not have visible scars. People do not have visible signs of pain they carry. They do not have visible signs of survival.
What they do have are visible smiles. They have visible laughs. They have visible joy. Their joy seems like naive joy. The kind of joy that has seen no pain. The type of happiness that make people in misery envy. “WHY ARE YOU SO HAPPY! WHY ARE YOU ABLE TO EXPERIENCE HAPPINESS WHILE I SUFFER IN ALL THIS AGONY?”
People don’t know. If only they knew. If only they knew about the girl raped by her uncle. The scars are not visible. If only they knew he once had no eyebrows. The scars are not visible. If only they knew about this person’s battle on what gender to claim. The scars are not visible. If only they knew she watched her house burn down but her parents did not make it. The scars are not visible. If only they knew he grew up watching his mother get abused by his father. The scars are not visible. If only they knew she cried endlessly because they called her a slut for showing too much cleavage. The scars are not visible. If only they knew he couldn’t sleep at night from terrors that haunted him. The scars are not visible.
Her kisses are filled with passion as she is held deeply. She is a survivor. You just can’t see her scars. He counts every single hair follicle as they grow. He is a survivor. You just can’t see his scars. They won their inner-battle fluidly. They are a survivor. You just can’t see their scars. She grabs her diploma, moves her tassel and she looks out into the crowd to see her family. She is a survivor. You just can’t see her scars. He watches his wife push their daughter on the swing. He is a survivor. You just can’t see his scars. She puts on her favorite top and looks in the mirror smiling brightly. She is a survivor. You just can’t see her scars. He drifts to a deep slumber filled with inspiring dreams. He is a survivor. You just can’t see his scars.
People see me. I have scars. You can see my scars. You can see my pain. You can see, I am a survivor. But you can’t see everything. You can’t see all my scars. You can’t see all my pain. I’m lucky. I’m blessed. You see me, and you see a survivor. You see me, and you see triumph.
Not everyone is as blessed.
Not everyone can see.
Not all scars are visible.
Not all survivors are acknowledged.
Not all triumphs are seen.