I’ve got scars. Physical and emotional. The physical scars are the result of a childhood lived outdoors with little supervision. The adult scars are from both light and dark moments in my life. I have borne three sons,  two of whom survived. Those births were possible by caesarian sections. That scar is now a pale and silvery whisper down my lower belly and indistinguishable from the ravages of aging and yoyo dieting over the years. I love the bumpy texture of that scar and lovingly glide my hand over it in the shower and feel my mind go back all those years ago to the feelings of overwhelming love and thankfulness for my sons. There is a long faded scar that runs from between my rib cage to slightly below my naval and it is a crooked mile of bad road. I earned that one for surviving a motor vehicle accident with a freight train thirteen years ago. They tell me they cut me open fast, almost apologetically. .to mend internal bleeding and to remove my spleen. I have scars under my hair that itch in the summer from 100 stitches. .and removal of glass from my skull.
Scars under my hair at my temples from the brace  I wore following my neck fracture. .barely there. .nothings.
Scars on my side from the chest tube inserted when my fractured  ribs went through my right lung. THAT one still hurts…nerve damage they say.
I tend not to look at my body. I clean it, feed it, and am forever thankful that all my movable parts are moving, albeit more painfully as I age but it’s simply the object that holds inside it all my most treasured possessions. My heart, which loves too much and is torn and  forever broken  in small places from betrayals and losses. My soul which still feels so incredibly young. And my mind.
My scars are not who I am.  They are where I have been. 
Every one of them are proof of my story. Proof of my survival and a life lived roughly.
My Nigerian Doctor, who  bears the tribal scars on his cheeks of his ascent into manhood many years ago told me I am one of the bravest warriors he has ever met.
I’ll take that.

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