On Being Branded

"I guess I should buy one of those bathing suits with the skirt bottom soon."

"Oh, for our vacation to the Michigan beaches?"

"Yeah, but I don't want people to think I'm wearing the skirt bottom because I think my thighs or ass are too fat. I just want to cover my scars."

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The above conversation was had with my husband during a walk at the park recently. Thinking about it, I wonder if other HS-ers chat like this with their spouses, friends, family, or even in their heads. Surely they do. But what really gets me thinking is how much the scars are a part of their daily lives. Are they as much of their lives as they are mine?

Did the sleeve of my shirt come up too high when I raised my hand?

Was the purple blemish on my breast exposed when I bent over?

Can she see the sink hole on my upper thigh through the slit in the restroom stall?

I'm in constant scar-check mode.

I have scars everywhere- under my arms, on my bottom, in the groin area, and on my breasts. Even my feet are plagued with scars due to being born with yet another anomaly. Scars are my life, yet for most of my life I've been running away from them. Buying clothing to hide them and not sharing them with the people I know. It is exhausting. While I am old enough to not care what people think in most areas of my life, I am still an awkward teenager when it comes to my scars. I'm constantly touching my scars the way I once obsessively ran my fingers over the red bumps on my teenage skin.

There is one scar that I have that I cannot hide. There is no denying the limp in my walk when I get tired. My feet are not like others' feet, so my stride differs when I can no longer put the effort into carrying my body. Inevitably, people ask, "Are you ok? You are limping. What happened?"

Deep down I know that their questions come from a place of sincere concern for me. They want to find out if I am fine, find out if I need anything. Yet, conjuring an answer to a question that seems so simple to the truly unafflicted ties me up in knots. How do I respond? How much detail do I give? How can I reassure them of my well-being? The answer to those questions varies depending upon my mood. Sometimes I shoot back a quick twisted ankle tale. Other times, I am frank about being born crippled and then, mostly, healed.

But with HS I go to greater efforts to hide it because I can. My exhaustion never gives me away. I do not wear tank tops or bathing suits around others. I do not raise my arms in fear of a shadow of a glimpse being eyed by another. A lot of time is spent wondering if I will accidentally let down my guard and then how someone would react.

How would I react to someone else's scars? After being branded with HS I have more compassion for others. So much is out of our control that to cringe from someone based on appearance is cruel and out of the question to me. Living with scars and the potential of adding even more each day gives you a certain level of tolerance for others. I make fewer snap-decisions about those around me, always thinking “You never know what’s going on under those clothes.”

Having earned my own scars early, I know that those who look at me with disgust will experience their own disfigurement. We are all branded in some way, be it on the skin, mind, spirit or heart. Life leaves its mark on us and I would guess that nobody escapes this world without their own scars. Because scars brand me with life, uniquely expressing that yes, I am alive, I am comfortable having scars. Sharing them? Well, that's between me, the bathing suit, and my therapist.