Someone recently asked me if I was bothered by my scars. "How could I be? I'm marked head to toe?" was my quick smiling answer. I am not an old soul with grace flowing with every breath. I walk into poles, walls, glass doors.
I was only eight years old when one day after school I sneaked into the TV room of our one story house. I should have been sitting on my bed sulking that I was on punishment (for grades as always). The moment the phone rang, I flew into motion to answer it. I knew it had to be my mom doing her daily check in from work. I ran with such determination I crashed through our sliding glass door. An inch thick of untempered glass shattered. With the phone still ringing, I crawled on my hands and knees through the shards. My sister came charging out of her room. "Robyn! What did you break now!" Poor girl. She screamed all the way to the neighbors. I yelled after her that I could handle the mess. She completely ignored me! I made it to the phone, but no one was on the other line.
That one moment makes up the bulk of my scars and I guess my character too. I wasn't cut up in a pretty Hollywood way with clean forehead lines that would fade in time. My face was cut completely open along with my feet. My mouth, chin, and hands were sliced open. I lost every friend I had and it was years before anyone said I was pretty again.
Since then I've accrued more scars (along with a few concussions and broken bones). I try real hard not to live as if my head were a battering ram, but just this past Christmas there I was in Toys R Us and a pole that had no business being the middle of the store!
The person who turned my thoughts back to that day, smiled and said, "How about your freckles?"
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