Scars

My brain looked out for me

By releasing my memories.

Like fairies flying in at night, sprinkling me with moon dust and magic,

doing their best to keep away the horror,

and infuse me with light.

Slate wiped clean,

like a dirty window, now shiny.

Like water going down the drain,

memories released to heaven.

Wiping off the data of trauma, the virus of trauma, the nightmare of trauma…

wiped out other things too -

Things used in everyday life. Permanently. No ability to restore.

If my brain drains, when I feel safe, like in therapy,

I can swim in the emptiness of nothing -

as my therapist caresses my energy with soothing tones,

and maybe open the door a crack to let in some of the pain, jaw aching.

And cry, feeling the little-girl sadness that swims there too,

in the darkness of the pool.

I need

fingers for counting -

notes as reminders.

recordings on my phone.

When presenting, will words come willingly?

In conflict, will facts be made available?

Relaying an event, will chronologies hide behind trees?

Will timelines and dates peer out from under a rock?

Will I remember names when making introductions?

And punchlines to jokes?

If expected to perform in some way, I may run, get mad, say I’m overwhelmed, confused, sorry —

and back out like a beeping truck.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Ancient energies tip toe back in -

shame, embarrassment,

dumb.

And they find their spot in my gut.

I have a scar on my calf from sliding into a beer bottle in a soccer pick-up game.

When I tripped as a child, I got stitches on my chin.

When I blew out my knee and my achilles (soccer again) I got stitched up.

Scars.

It reminds me of one of my favorite movie scenes. It’s from the movie, “Jaws.”

The fisherman, scientist and police officer compare their scars - rolling up pant legs and sleeves,

displaying their limbs on the fishing boat table with pride,

laying their scars on the table - like a hand of cards,

joyfully competing over who had the best hand.

Life’s battles making their mark on skin -

shark, eel, USS Indianapolis,

a broken heart - with a toast and laughs.

Honoring scars.

Kintsugi is the Japanese art of repairing broken pottery.

Kintsugi is based on the idea that embracing flaws and imperfections can make an object stronger and more beautiful. The cracks in the object are highlighted instead of hidden, and serve as a record of the object's history. - Photo courtesy of Christian Faur - www.christianfaur.com

So why should this scar be any different?

I earned this scar.

You may not see it at first - but in time it will likely be revealed.

My brain processes things slowly when I’m nervous.

Or pauses completely for a bit.

I am not dumb. It’s okay to go slow.

It’s okay to pause.

I can learn.

I can learn. I can understand.

I love my brain.

I love all my parts.

It may be slower than some - sometimes.

I may not remember things like others - other times.

It hurts the most when someone thinks they know it all.

“Yeah, I know. You don’t remember.”

In an exasperated voice.

When someone uses it against me.

Like ammunition - proving I’m less than.

Because if I don’t remember,

what’s the problem?

If I don’t remember,

then it wasn’t that bad.

There’s no competition here.

For who had it worse.

Even with the fairy dust,

and the dirty window buffed nice and clean,

nightmares,

screaming in my sleep,

startle response,

food for comfort,

not trusting myself,

feeling scared,

not safe in the world,

always moving,

people pleasing

living in a dream world

all those other things -

sneaked through.

Memory or no memory,

trauma persists.

But just like the stray cat that shows up at the door,

we can engage with loving tones,

nourishment,

create a safe space - a healing sanctuary

and in time - learn patience and compassion -

for the scars.

We hold them close

and feel their purr.

I don’t need facts and figures to know what’s real.

I don’t need an academic study

or a peer-reviewed journal

or data analysis.

I don’t need to prove

that I have

a scar.

I can feel,

know,

experience,

and care.

And go slowly

from

time to time

and even pause -

maybe learn to love - an extended pause

as beautiful.

as a silent elevation

in flight.

Slow is good in this frenetic world of ours.

Slow doesn’t mean dumb - even if my child self thought it so, poor thing.

and my adult self,

in all honesty.

Love the scars.

Honor them.

You earned them. Wear them with pride.


Illustration by Lily Moon, from my memoir, “Field Notes on Letting Go - a memoir of truth-seeking, healing and personal freedom. Learn more and order here. Learn about the 13-part, on-demand, Read, Write & Release Workshop, combining themes from the book with kundalini yoga and writing prompts - at a pace that works for you. Perhaps slow. :)