Alice Vol. 5 No. 2

I
t was the day after the eighth-grade spring fling. The night I
spent awkwardly dancing and running away from pubescent
boys trying to grind on me and and witnessed teenagers
drinking alcohol for the first time. I tied on my best PacSun
swimsuit, extra tight to avoid any embarrassing wardrobe
malfunctions and headed out for a day in the sun with my best
friend. I was 13 and almost a whole head taller than all of the boys
my age, standing at a lanky 5-foot-10. Of course, there were things
I was insecure about, but overall, I thought I looked great and I
felt even better when my crush pulled up to the pool in a golf cart
with all of his friends. My best friend and I waved the boys over to
come sit with us. My confidence was sky-high. He was cute with a
sweet smile and had a goofy personality, and he was the only boy I
knew that was taller than me. He sat down in the chair beside me,
smiled. Then he ran his eyes quickly down my body, landing on the
thick four-inch long scar sitting right below my belly button.
“Ew. What happened to your stomach?” he said, with a grimace.
I felt my confidence instantly deflate, and the heat of
embarrassment rushed into my face as I covered the scar with my
arms. Stuttering, I tried to explain the story behind the, apparently
disgusting, mark.
A moment that likely faded from his memory long ago, would
be replayed in my mind over and over throughout the years. That
“ew” would echo in my ears long after that day at the pool when I
was 13. Every time I looked in the mirror wearing a crop top or
bikini I would hear it. I would even hear it as I excitedly tried on
prom dresses, that excitement draining from my body when I saw
the indentation of my scar through the dress. People told me that
I should be proud of the scar left from the emergency surgery that
saved my life after my appendix ruptured when I was a toddler. It
was a badge of honor, and I was a warrior, but I didn’t feel like one.
I didn’t feel proud. I felt disgusting and ashamed.
In high school, I would watch my friends, eyes green with
envy, as they pranced around in their bikinis during the summer.
Stomachs smooth and scar-less. No one was staring, or asking
them, for what felt like the hundreth time, to recite the story of
what happened. They didn’t need to wear Spanx with their prom
dresses, and they didn’t have to worry about their shirts riding up
a little. I always felt that their lives must be so much better, that my
life would be so much better without this disfigurement. Standing
in front of the mirror, I would pull at the skin on my stomach, tears
streaming down my cheeks, trying to imagine myself with smooth,
unmarked skin. I hated my body and was horribly blind to all of
my blessings. I was healthy and had a body that allowed me to
walk, and run and do anything else that I pleased.
Over the years, I have battled a love-hate relationship with
my body but especially with my scar. My feelings toward my scar
change like the weather. Some days it’s sunny and I am genuinely
okay with it. On my best days, I’m even a little proud of it. However,
some days, it pours, and the thought of anyone seeing my stomach
makes me want to burst into tears. I’ve learned that self-love and
confidence don’t come all at once. It can’t be neatly tied up with a
bow. Sometimes it’s one step forward and three steps back, and
that’s okay. As for my goofy middle school crush, those feelings
fizzled long ago, and eventually, that resounding “ew” grew quieter
and quieter until it finally fell silent. Other people haven’t paid any
mind to my scar, or maybe I just stopped paying mind to those who
can’t find the beauty in someone because of a thing so arbitrary.
I wish I could tell you the secret to being confident and loving
yourself. I wish I could take away the searing pain of the words
that people say and the stares that make you want to crawl out
of your skin. Our loved ones try to comfort us. “Just don’t listen
to them,” they say, or “Don’t pay attention to ignorant people.”
They mean well, but simply telling us not to listen does not make
the words unheard, and telling us not to pay attention does not
make us unaware of the staring eyes. These sentiments come from
a place of love, but it often feels like no one understands. For when
you are feeling low, like no one understands, like you’re ugly or
alone, I will teach you a simple trick that my mother taught me.
Growing up, whenever I’d come to my mom with a trembling chin
and eyes brimming with tears, she would sit me down and make
me name three things I liked about myself. It could be anything!
The way my hair looked that day or that I helped someone out
in class, and before I knew it I was naming way more than three
things. I would have a whole list of things that make me beautiful,
on the inside and on the outside, and it would remind me that I
am truly pretty great. Even now, when I’m feeling insecure, I try to
find three good things about myself, and as I start naming them,
the insecurities slowly begin melting away. I challenge you to try
this trick next time you are feeling insecure. I’m willing to bet that
you will find more than three things that make you amazing.
I have come to realize that we are all scarred. Some scars are
physical. Some scars are deeply emotional, but none of them are
something we should be ashamed of. My life wouldn’t be better
with a smooth tummy, and yours wouldn’t be better if you didn’t
have the things that mark you. Your scars tell a story. They tell your
story. They show that you are strong, that you have overcome great
obstacles, and that you prevailed. Your marks show that you are
a warrior, and you should be proud of that. And in case someone
hasn’t told you, you are beautiful, not in spite of your marks and
scars, but because of them.
Spring 2020 51