Scarred

"Your scar will be an inch long. Maybe two. In ten months it'll fade so much you won't even be able to see it," my surgeon told me. Ten months felt oddly specific. It was reassuring. Not six months. Not a year. Ten months exactly for my scar to heal to invisibility.

Except that it didn't heal. My scar is red and raised and angry. Sometimes, when I am feeling particularly hippie woo woo, I feel like my scar will be painful and visible as long as I'm carrying the psychological pain from my surgeries and treatment. Like my scar is my emotional barometer or something and when it is healed it will mean that *I* am healed.

When you are scarred, you get used to people not meeting your eye. Whether it be morbid fascination with my flaw, or avoidance because my pain touches a raw spot in them, I've gotten used to people not making eye contact with me.

I have a lot of scarves. A lot. I appreciate each and every scarf that has been given to me because they're given with love. But part of me feels defiant. Like covering up my scar is covering up me.

Sometimes I feel like hating my scar is frivolous. The cancer is gone and I am alive. Sometimes I just feel pissed that I have to walk around with my pain on full display.

Transient