SCARS TO MY BEAUTY

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Speaking time- 4mins 48secs

I’ve always prided myself on my body and skin.

When people said ‘I wish I could change this about my body’, I would say “there’s nothing about my body I would like to change”.

I’m good, not my small boobs or my commotion causing arse, not my big nose or my one-sided dimple.

I didn’t always start out with so much love for my body. As a matter of fact, I used to hate my body because people hated it. Unbeknownst to me, they loved it subconsciously and hated that they didn’t have the same.  All that hate changed when I realised the farce society fed me or made me believe in myself.

Today when I say I love my body, it’s an understatement of how much I revere in my body. It can be distracting sometimes, especially when you hang around people with the same intent on your body, It’s very easy to think you are your body. I went through that process as well.

Part of what contributed to the realisation of my body type as well as its righteousness and iniquity was a close seat-mate of mine back in school who introduced me to the book; The Art of Seduction and Why you act the way you do. This led to the discovery of the woman in me.

This wasn’t the full-blown catalyst for the self-loving woman I am today, more elements are yet to be discovered. Hopefully, this explains my aftermath of self-admiration. If you come across me seasonally flaunting it, don’t get agitated. It’s just me paying homage to God for one of the numerous gifts he gave me some of which I’m yet to unearth.

I’m not always this confident just so you know.

My body came with so many flaws, one of which was my skin. Undecided which was worse for me back then; the fact that my skin was like ‘the mind of an elephant that never forgets’ or the fact that it was like Leonardo da Vinci’s canvas (skin pigmentation). Skin pigmentation VS Indelible scars as a result of my reckless boyish alter ego.  Funny even with it, when I fell in love with my body, I turned all into mental tattoos. I wore my scars like a tiara.

My accident altered my thoughts a little. After my accident, I ended up with two huge and deep scars on my left leg, the one leg that was spared from my midlife identity crisis. It hurt, but for a fleeting moment of which I cried and the tears from the injury dried up. What came next surprised even my brother who cleaned up my wounds.

He asked if it hurt and why I was still crying. My answer surprised him. “I won't be able to wear short skirts or dresses or shorts anymore….” Lol!

He laughed out loud. Anyone who knows my brother knows how deep and inciting his laughter can be. I laughed at myself as well.

I was crying because my skin was scarred, the smoothest part of my body was marked. For someone who didn’t like the idea of surgeries to alter your physical frame or physique, I actually considered it.

This made me feel bad about myself, most of all disappointed at my train of thoughts, but I wasn't having any of that self-love BS right now, I told myself. There goes any hope I ever had of returning to the modelling industry for whatever reason. I actually kept using bandages to cover up my scars even when it had closed up because I hated my skin. 

What was worse was people always asking me what happened and ending with ‘SORRY’.

Fuck, I don’t need you to feel sorry for me. ‘Sorry for yourself first’. I would say to them… in my head.

I would wear long dresses or pant trousers. Funny around the same time, a stretch mark developed on my skin. More reasons to hate my body.

I went out of my way to look for snake oil that my mom had begged me to use on my older scars growing up. Then castor oil for my stretch mark. I’ve never been one for a quick fix even though I considered it, thankfully I got out of that.

One day, I was streaming music online when Alessia Cara’s ‘Scars to your beautiful’ came up.

It dawned on me what I was doing to myself. Then I laughed at myself and from that day decided to never cover the scar. It’s lovely, my battle scar. It doesn’t make me, I made it. I lost myself briefly in thinking my scars were me. They were all I had and all I had to offer the world. Fortunately, I cured me of that mentality and fell in love with myself. My era of wearing shorts, short skirts, gowns and the likes of it are not over. * snicker*

If I do get rid of my scar it won't be out of shame but sports.

Do I love my body still?

*wearing bum short and a cropped top, flaunting my hippy bum, I say that with a loud and firm “YES, I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT ME”.