The little bump on my left middle finger is a result of 10-year old me playing with a knife at my grandmother’s house. It was a curved blade, like a mini scythe and the scar is round, just like the injury.
My left thumbprint shows a distinct line in the middle. Stupid art class. We were carving patterns into potatoes, which would then be dipped in paint, and voila, stamp art! Instead, I nearly sliced my thumb in half (or at least, it felt that way at the time). I remember being strangely fascinated with the developing scar, it was crusted over with blood and pus for weeks.
Knives and I are not friends. I was 23 and cutting something up for dinner (for some reason, this memory eludes me a little), the brand-new sparkly knife slipped and went through my second finger on my left hand, right into the nail bed. My then-boyfriend poured vodka on it to keep the wound clean. One needs to be resourceful, yes?
(It must be a scientific fact that right handers have more scars on their left hand than their right, and the opposite is true of lefties.)
The faded ridge that look like deep scratches on my right knee is a reminder of my recklessness at 12. I was cycling far too fast, and skidded on gravel as I turned the corner, a few feet from my house. Years later, I would trip and fall on a road in England, tear my jeans and break open that same spot on my knee. Scar over scar.
The white lines in the middle of my right shin is courtesy of the time I fell into a deep storm drain.
One of the oldest scars on my body is 31 years old. On my right temple. Right where my head met the wall as I ran away from my brother, who thought chasing his 6 year old sister around the house, a fun activity. Lesson: look ahead when running.
A lesson I remembered as I acquired another scar when I was 15. The cross-like scar on my second toe on the right foot reminds me of the time I scraped my toes against the street, my flip flops failing me, as I ran away from a dog who ran after me for sport. Asshole.
The newest scar is two inches long, slightly raised, and a faded red, inches above my right hip. An appendectomy at 36, who’d have thought?
The deepest scars are invisible. They are life lessons, inevitable as a young girl navigating life. A broken heart, a messed up mind, a fragile ego.
All back in one imperfect piece.
What’s the story behind your scars?