Eight years ago, I had a birthmark removed. I still have a dark, bumpy scar where the incision was made. My knees and feet are pocked with marks from topples I’ve taken over the years. I have a prominent scar on my brow from when I was a preschooler with chickenpox. My body is physical proof of a life lived: the tumbles, the mishaps, and the decisions I’ve made.
My now-ex, Harry (yes, the “nice guy” and I broke up since he wasn’t as nice as I thought he was originally), told me as we were breaking up that he felt I held my past against him, that I came into the relationship with a grudge against every guy I’ve dated, but that I was taking all of my grudges out on him. He said that I didn’t start him with a blank slate, instead it was as if he came in holding my baggage. Continue reading Can you See my Scars?