Preciously Scarred

You’ve traveled, you’ve wandered, your scars tell the truth-

You have no place to hide.

The sneers and scorn make sharing impossible.

You’ve kept it locked inside.

The wondrous treasure that you are

Has ever had to retreat,

Till someday upon your road

Grace, unearned favor, you’d hoped to meet

To lighten your grievous load…

To grant another chance…

To give a grief-crippled warrior

A stronger stance.

For warrior you are.

Great wounds you bear.

Each gives those unworthy

An excuse to point and stare.

Is this journey now the burden

You never thought it would be?

Have tears and sweat blinded you

To the beauty you wish to see?

You should know by now

The great strength that, inward, lies.

In your heart and soul is where

True power resides

Growing strength is beauty.

Beautiful you’ve become.

With everything you are

Each scar is a precious one.

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Mind-dusting and treasures

I could post this in the profile section of my blog, but it feels redundant to do so. Since everything I write will be very personal, I'm going to the meat of everything. I am a walking psychological disaster and a grateful medical miracle. I've messed around with death throughout my life. Sometimes by choice, often not. At nine years old I was spinning around on our cushion-less floor with my younger brother and older sister. The goal- get dizzy, fall over, recover, repeat. I'm sure this was a game we'd played many times before. This time when I fell down, I hit my head. My siblings laughed and told me to get up. They thought I was playing a game. I was a very happy, fun-loving youngster growing up (truth be told, I've never really grown up. Thankfully my grasp of vocabulary has outpaced my fluctuating level of maturity), so it was natural that they thought I was just having fun. But I didn't get back up. They called for help; I think it was my Dad who came. Cold water and ice in a washcloth on my forehead roused me. Thinking that I might have a concussion or some other damage done to me, my father took me to the hospital. An x-ray scan revealed no damage. However, the doctor (radiologist?) told my dad that he needed to see something on the scan sheets. My dad was shown first the scan of someone else's brain. The doctor then put my brain scan up next to it. The difference was glaringly obvious. My blood ventricles were four times the size of the other person's. A follow up scan called an MRI was scheduled. A brain tumor was blocking my blood flow.

It's been twenty-three years.  Now seven surgeries, a number of mental breakdowns, so many grace-touched interventions, various life-perpetuating medications, and lots of help from many sources later, I want to share.  I cannot share my experiences directly, or in a way that you will experience them exactly as I did.  I can, however, open up the reservoirs and let out whatever will.  Know that there are many things that are not easy to share, and probably things that some will not want to read.  If what I post is hurtful, please, turn away.  I see my scars as precious; I have learned and grown so much in the gaining of them.  I hope that, in some way, these things can help you.
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