To be unwilling to accept any view that dims the stars. How dare I walk in the light now? To be straight-backed with a crown that reaches toward the sky. This womanness I’ve inherited was damaged before it could even be assumed. With these wounds that are now embedded in the fibers of my being, the audacity to heal my womanness is a much bigger task. I am quick to make a dermatology appointment, quick to “fix” what is not right about my skin, but I’m much slower to address the wounds that wait within. The physical scars, easy to see but difficult to look at, are addressed with urgency. Battles fought in the mirror and the bedroom, healing is to be conquered, to be met on the other side of this. Gone to war and come home, I’m a veteran in my own right. Scars become the badges worn by the honorable and the honest, audacious displays of what I’ve traveled through. I wear my acne scars now like they’re beauty marks, a sign of the healing I’ve done. I’m reminded of this when I trace the dots on my face. But underneath, there’s repair and revolution and a long, daunting road.
The woman you become, the one that is both real and imagined, has scabs thick, raised, darkened skin. What’s left behind is an unsightly scar, something to be minimized, covered, and faded. Something swells and grows to be much bigger than it should’ve been, making room where there was none. How do you heal when it’s all so heavy? It is not without risk to exist outside of this space we’ve deemed home finding a home in our healing is more difficult than we can imagine. We carry more than our own baggage, our minds a perpetual loop of unclaimed luggage. Healing is perceived to be a privilege, for the heaviness of our past weighs on us without relent. Some of us wait for a savior, while the rest of us are afraid to be the savior.
We build homes there and befriend the dark. Some of us find comfort in the quiet of our suffering.
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