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| Society is a funny thing.
I never really thought much about scars (in certain contexts, of course) until I visited a completely different society.
Let me explain. When I was in South Africa this past January, I saw and met many people who bore obvious scars on their faces, hands, arms, and legs, from various encounters with sharp objects, illnesses, and other skin-destroying elements. No one was ashamed of them, and no one tried to hide them. I was amazed at how beautiful these people were because of the way they responded to life (and death).
I realized that one of the most blatant differences between our culture and theirs is that we expect perfection in all things, especially in our appearances. Our ideal is perfect, flawless skin, and if anything interferes with that - scars, wrinkles, whatever - that interference is seen as an eyesore; a deviant; a freak of nature (or rather, something unnatural). When the default is smooth, anything rough becomes obvious, and the first reaction is to inquire about the source of that roughness. Curiosity demands to know how it got there, because it's not something that is often seen in the majority of people. Sure, this person has an appendectomy scar, and that person has one from falling off the slide as a child.
Where I visited, however, the norm and the default is the acknowledgment that everyone has blemishes, whether they're physical, emotional, spiritual, mental... and that life happens. When life happens, there are bound to be scars from it. No one even thinks twice about the scars on a cripple's legs or on the face of a dying man... or even on a cutter's arms. Scars are scars, no matter where they came from, and we all have them - there is no pretense of perfection or unblemished skin or souls. Scars hang out for all the world to see, except... in that world, no one is looking at them. Why place such value on a person's skin when it has no bearing whatsoever on his value?
That kind of perspective requires a great deal of honesty and authenticity, things which aren't terribly abundant in a society as obsessed with perfection and appearances as ours is. How much more fulfilling would our world be if we stopped asking out of an insatiable curiosity where the scars came from, and instead just accepted that they exist?
I am scarred. I have scars from dog bites, rocks, staples, and other more questionable items... and I'm tired of being asked where they came from just to satisfy a mental gossip column. What I want the world around me to understand is that we all have them, whether they're visible or not, and that drawing unnecessary attention to them is degrading and speaks against the worth of the human heart and experience. It's one thing to say, "these are MY scars and this is what is being done through them... what are yours?" and something completely different to say, "OMG, where did you get those scars on your arms?"
Sometimes I wish we could be a little more like South Africa, where the concept of humanity (ubuntu) and brotherhood and connection trumps the search for gossip fodder, and love covers every scar because it recognizes that each one is the result of living.
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| I used to
write a lot, back when I was passionate and deep. I often say to
people that I'm the healthiest I've ever been, but I'm starting to
wonder if I've accepted that well-being at the cost of being deep and
impassioned and subtly productive. I'm ever-so-slightly concerned that
I'm turning into the thing that everyone else turns into when they get
better - a normal person.
It's
been my dream for a long time to breathe easy and wear T-shirts and do
my homework like a good girl, and the day everything changed marked the
beginning of the realization of those dreams. But what if life is more
than T-shirts and dreams? What if what I desire even more than the
things I left the past behind for is in the past I left behind?
When
people get better, they forget what it was like to be sick. When they
grow rich, they no longer feel the misery of being poor, and when they
become full they can not remember the hunger pangs of an empty
stomach. While I do still want to be healthy, I don't want to forget
the feeling of being low and cold and hungry - I've been shooed away
from one too many rich and abundant tables.
I
see it happen quite often; a man, once so weak and down and fully
acquainted with the condition of the human heart, is loosed from the
bonds of those weaknesses, tilting back his head and giving him a taste
of stability. The taste is less addictive than that of sorrow, but
more pleasant. Why, when given a choice between drinking of oppression
and of liberty, would anyone not choose liberty? I understand... and
that's why I would rather be sad (and be able to have mercy on the
sadness of others) than be healthy and whole (and forget them).
I've
had to remind myself many times lately that I will not let the wrath
and opinions of others dictate how I will treat myself.
I
used to write a lot, when I wasn't afraid to share my thoughts about
myself and about uncertainty and about Jesus. Maybe just once more,
for old times' sake.
I
know a lot of people who rain down condemnation and cruelties on others
with a disclaimer of "it's done in love," thereby "justifying"
everything they say. It's as if Jehovah's commandment to love gives us
license to say whatever we like, as long as it's true. People say that
coddling and babying and watering down the truth isn't a form of love
at all, and that Jesus Himself went forth calling out the brood of
vipers and calling out sin where he saw it. He used harsh words and
rebuked. That must mean we can do the same.
What I think is interesting is how many times people will say terrible
things to each other and defend those things because they're "doing it
in love" or "just speaking truth." Obviously none of the rest of us can
judge whether or not that's true, as we don't know each other's hearts
well enough, so the phrase "doing it in love" almost seems to be a free
pass or justification to say whatever one wants.
But I firmly believe that Jesus was discerning and deliberate in whom
he chose to treat that way. He didn't go around indiscriminately
calling people vipers, but reserved it for those whose arrogance made
it impossible for them to respond to any other method. Jesus knew
exactly how his words would impact people, and he chose the right words
and the right demeanor for every situation, and I think we need to do
the same.
I
don't want to believe in the modern WASPy version of Jesus - if that's
what it means to be a Christian, I'll pass. The one I'm in love with
(the one I cry out to in the shower, where the water drowns out every
noise from outside and muffles the strange and foreign sobs that seem
to come from my throat) is different not in a way I can explain, but to
the extent that I know him when I encounter him. And that's what
Yeshua said about his sheep - they know his voice and follow him.
Maybe
I don't hear him in the same way as everyone else. Maybe his voice
sounds different to me than it does to you, whether that's because of
circumstances or life experiences or just because he is so unique for
each one of us (yet eternally unchanging in his identity and
character). Isn't that what having a "personal relationship" with him
is about? Maybe everyone sees the same shepherd in different ways, and
each of us knows his voice in a way that is unique to each one. I
can't tell you what it sounds like to me, because the English language
lacks the expressiveness... but I know it when I hear it.
That's
the version of the Messiah that I want - the one whose voice I hear
(and recognize) over the water pressure... even over the breath that
catches in my lungs during a long-overdue sob.
<3
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| Healing comes gradually sometimes.
I didn't realize that until recently, when it dawned on me how far I've
come in the last six years. A year ago, I thought I'd grown
tremendously since the year before, but now that amount seems to have
multiplied exponentially. When did I get so healthy?
I was lazy. I was self-indulgent. I was so obsessed with my illness and
with finding something to blame it on (so I wouldn't have to blame the whole of who I am)
that I was literally driving myself crazy. I racked up the diagnoses
and I made snow angels in the excess of my self-destruction, and for
what? So that I could feel like I was the best at something or the most extreme in some area of my otherwise mediocre life. No one was quite as good at this thing
than I was. I feared the danger in getting better because that's the
kind of thing that swallows people up, and as often as I said that I
didn't know who I was, I didn't want to lose my identity. I didn't want
to be just one face in a crowd of people who were okay. If I recovered,
there would no longer be anything that distinguished me from anyone
else in the world.
This was at the time in my life when I would comb the DSM in hopes of
finding an explanation of why I was the way I was and keep a written
record of how many milligrams of meds I had in my room, just in case I
wanted them all at once.
But I don't obsess anymore. Few of the diagnostic criteria I clung to
only a few years ago even apply to me anymore, and for the first time
in my life, that's okay. Maybe it's because I experienced what real
contentment is like (thank you, ZA), or maybe it's because I've learned
that it's okay to heal. Or maybe it's because I've grown up and
realized that I can't indulge in the same things I let myself succumb
to as a teenager. And I no longer desire to.
Perhaps I encountered myself for the first time at some point on the
path I've blazed and decided that I'm not as terrible a person as I
initially thought. I don't keep count of my milligrams anymore. I don't
know how much a pack of razor blades costs anymore, and I couldn't tell
you how many days I've got under my belt.
I had to come to a place where I recognized that being healthy is not a
terrible thing, and that while recovery can be painful, freedom is not.
The day that I can claim complete recovery, I'll still be unique and
there will still be something that sets me apart from everyone else.
I'm still lazy, and I'm still self-indulgent. And at times, I'm still just a little girl.
But I'm healing. | | |
| On Returning to Childhood
Half a dozen kids are playing
Half a dozen yards from home –
Children coming back to linger
Though the yard is overgrown.
Children playing tackle football
Beg their winter selves to stay,
Big brown eyes and grand ambitions
Lost on those forgetting May.
Thirst for innocence has sent us
Running over miles and time.
Pressed are we for some reminder
(Youth the thing that will remind).
August souls may quell and conquer
Long before October nears;
Thus the threat of adolescence
Looms in those midsummer years.
Winter tramples on our fingers.
April doesn’t ease the pain,
Though the children are returning
Drenched in artificial rain.
Though we’re aging, though we’re weary
With December in our bones,
Still our souls return to linger
Half a dozen yards from home.
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| Why am I now so incredibly sad? | | |
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