Ink and Scars

I was born with blonde hair, blue eyes, a small gap in my teeth, and a LOUD face.

I got my first scar in high school when I took a knife to my wrist. It’s a small scar, no one would notice. It’s not visible in photos.

Not long after, I started dyeing my hair red. That was certainly visible.

I got my first tattoo when I was 19. It’s on my foot, easily hidden with a sock.

Over the years I added more ink, collected more scars, but none of them affected how I saw myself in a negative light. I had 12 tattoos. My scar count was about the same, some accidents, some self inflicted, none of them major.

Until Luke.

Luke took away the use of my dominant hand temporarily. He left 9 puncture wounds that turned into scars. I regained the use of my hand, but the scars are still sensitive to this day. That was a major change for me.

Until New Year’s Day.

Luke took away the ability to talk and chew temporarily. He attacked my face, tearing my lip almost off. He knocked a tooth out. He changed the way I speak and how I express myself. That change was the hardest to grapple with.

I look nothing like my childhood photos now. Most of the visible changes, like the beautiful ink I have, are positive and add to my personality. My gray streaks are considered beautiful and unique. But my face. My face has been the same except some added wrinkles.

I took that really hard. I’m disfigured. The truth is, those scars also add to my personality. They are interesting, a conversation piece. My expressions are different, but they are still mine. Our bodies change and grow throughout our lifetimes. None of us end up looking like our childhood photos. That’s beautiful.