This is a semi-random blog but I thought it would be nice to have something more light-hearted as a nice little break after I shared about my struggles with infertility. Those blogs tend to be a little intense, to say the least, and I need a breather. My website needs a breather. This blog was inspired by my cat who just celebrated his second birthday. A few weeks ago, Speculoos scratched me on my palm and it scarred. A few days ago, he scratched me on the same hand and this one will probably scar as well. I scar very easily. For the longest time, I was ashamed of all my scars. They’re unsightly. As my body grew with my nearly unstoppable weight gain (PCOS sucks!), I was confronted with a lot of stretch marks. I have angry red stretch marks all the way down my inner thighs and don’t get me started on the tummy stretch marks. My self-esteem took a dip and I find myself always covering up. I wanted to hide these marks. My body is tainted and ruined. As some time has passed, I got pretty annoyed at this trail of thought. It’s so incredibly tiring and I don’t have the energy for this bullshit. Who gives a fuck about some scars and stretch marks? I have other things to worry about. My scars are unique. They tell a story. My stretch marks show growth. They show my struggles and one day they will show that I carried my children. I should be proud of them. And so, I’ve decided to choose my top five scars and share the story behind them. Quite a bit of these scars have faded over the years, some you can barely even see anymore.
The wound on my knuckle is a fresh one that I got from gardening.
Long ago, in a distant land, a little girl was too short to reach the kitchen counter… The little girl…uhmmm…she…nevermind. I would’ve continued in this writing theme but I don’t know how to make this shit funny and I’m tired. I’ve talked about this scar before (years ago on my now deleted Instagram) and it’s still one of my favorites. I always wanted to help my mom and one of her biggest pet peeves was dirty dishes laying around. So, as a little girl, I would gather all the dishes and put them in the sink. By putting them in the kitchen sink, I mean throw them in because I can’t reach the counter. I had a little step and sometimes I would get the step so I could reach and other times I would just hope they don’t break. It’s a miracle that the glasses didn’t break every single time. On the day I got this scar, my brother was babysitting. We decided to clean up a little bit and I went around the house to collect dirty dishes. I threw them into the kitchen sink while my brother wasn’t looking. He, without checking, filled the sink with water and soap. I hopped on my little step and helped wash the dishes. A broken glass nicked me on my hand and I cried. I don’t remember it hurting a lot but it bled quite a bit and this scared me. I must have been seven at the time. My brother cheered me up and distracted me from my oouchie by making me a cast. Back then, I really wanted a cast. Someone in our life had a cast a while back and I thought it looked so cool. My memory is a little foggy but it could’ve been my dad? My brother’s DIY cast was toilet paper (to catch the blood) and clear tape. He wrapped my entire hand and for the rest of the day, I was quite happy to show off my cast to anyone who would spare a glance. I think I even asked him to make the cast again the next day. It’s a fond memory and over the years the scar has helped me a lot with directions. I’m super bad with telling you what’s left and right and to this day I will steal a glance at my scar to check. The scar is on my right hand. In school when we learned about directions (north, south, west, and east), I often used my scar to cheat on tests. My scar looks like an ‘O’ which stands for Oos (East in Afrikaans). I love this scar and would never dream of covering or removing it even if I could.
My nails were so pretty before I had to cut them because of you guessed it, gardening. Onno is off this week so we’re trying to finish our backyard. I will probably write a blog about it.
Scar number two is on my other hand. It’s a scar that I had more lows than ups with as everyone constantly thought it was a self-harm scar because of the placement. I self-harmed very briefly (I didn’t feel that much relief from it) but those scars never took. The scar is also a reminder of when things were bad and this used to bother me a lot. I originally got my wrist tattoo to hide this scar but the design didn’t quite work out because of the less than legit tattoo artist. I’m a bit surprised that now that I’m thinking about it, I don’t love this scar too much. It brings up some bad memories but I’m in an emotional and fragile state at the moment so it could be bothering me more than usual. The story of receiving this scar is a semi-silly one. I was eleven and over the weekends I would take over the dining room table and play with my barbies. I will play out a fantasy world and story and every part of the table was a different part of the world. I used to stick these little fairy dolls onto my barbie’s stomach with tape when she would be pregnant. I had a lot of fun. The dining room table was right before the front door and in the summer, we would often leave the door open for some fresh air. One day, a wind caught it and I saw the door start the slam shut. It’s one of those doors with a really pretty window in the middle and I knew that if it slammed shut and the window broke, I would be in a lot of trouble. So, I ran for it and stretched out my hand to stop it. My hand went straight through the window and it broke all around me and nicked my wrist. I remember I was too scared for being in trouble then upset about the pain in my hand. My stepfather at the time somehow blamed me for everything and yelled at me as I bit back the tears, cradling my bleeding wrist. While my mom cleaned up the broken pieces of glass, I cried in the bathroom and cleaned my wound…Yeah, maybe it isn’t the best memory. I normally don’t mind it as much. I barely notice the scar but when I stared at it as I was writing the story of how I got it…it’s a lot. It’s really sad. If I could remove it or cover it up, I will. I actually plan to eventually cover up my wrist tattoo and I will take that opportunity to hide it under the ink.
If you strain and really look you can see the scar. It’s incredibly faint and I’m kind of sad about it. Also, excuse the leg stubble.
Now, this is a good memory. I actually got the same scar twice because I’m really bad with directions. The first time I got this scar I must’ve been seven or eight. Back then I loved nothing more than taking a drive with my daddy on the back of his motorbike. It was just after my parents’ divorce and back then I would only see my father every second weekend. My father picked me up on one Sunday for a short little drive and he was running late to something on the way back and I quickly hopped off the bike, kissed him goodbye and went straight to my room to cradle my leg which I burned on the exhaust pipe. I remember being so scared my mom would be angry at me that I cried over the burn on my leg for a good ten minutes before a close friend of mine came into the room and saw my leg. She called my mom which then raced me to the bathroom to apply some cold water on it. My mom called my dad and he recommended to add some butter and ice to it. It left a scar that faded over time but just before it could fade completely, I climbed off the wrong side of the bike and burned myself on the exact same spot. Luckily, we were on our way to the doctors for my dad and the doctor quickly applied the correct treatment and I just sweated it out. It still hurt like a bitch though. The scar is quite faded by now but boy do I love this scar. It reminds me of my precious daddy and the fond memories we share over my childhood. I remember in Highschool this one boy actually recognized the type of scar and asked if I got it on a motorbike. We bonded over it as he had the exact same scar on his leg. He was quite impressed with my comfortability with bikes and it gave me a great ego boost at the time. I wish I’ve learned from my mistakes but I will most likely burn my leg on the exhaust pipe if I ever climb on a motorbike again. I’m really bad with my directions and I ALWAYS forget. My dad had his bike for a few years after the last burn and he would always climb off first and express that I have to climb off on the other side. On my defense, the exhaust is on the right and I’m right-handed…
I had to outline my scars because some of them were so faint they are nearly impossible to see. The mark next to the outline of a scar you can’t see is one of my birthmarks.
The story of how I got this scar is so funny. The scar has faded so much over the years you can barely see it so I’m actually going to deep dive in my old photos and see if I can find it. Wish me good luck! Okay, I’ve resurfaced one hour later and I’m wheezing and cringing at the same time. I went in deep and I only found one picture where you can kind of see the scar. I promise it was super prominent.
You can see it a bit more in this picture but back then I was tan all the time and it would blend in with my tan. It’s so strange to see myself before any of my tattoos. I was 15 in this picture by the way.
Before I jump in and tell you the story, I figured I should share some of my favorite pictures I stumbled upon when I went down the rabbit hole. The rabbit hole was so deep I even found some old selfies with the high school boyfriend.
Someone thought she was so edgy. I can’t. It’s so cringy. The unmade bed really takes it to a new level. I was fifteen maybe sixteen in this picture.
I laughed so hard when I saw this one. My dark past…the duckface phase. Burn it. I was eighteen in this picture.
AND NOW DRUMROLL PLEASE FOR THE BEST PICTURE THAT HAS EVER BEEN TAKEN OF ME. IT’S PURE PERFECTION.
I got this scar when I was thirteen (maybe twelve) years old and it’s another burn scar. Most of my scars are either from something sharp cutting me or something hot burning the shit out of me. For years I used to eat instant noodles after school. It was my favorite snack time and thinking about it now makes me feel so uncomfortable. Unhealthy is an understatement. This peculiar time, I made my 2min noodles (South African slang for instant noodles) and rushed back to my bedroom because my favorite show was on; Mew Mew Power. I sat down to quickly and the hot noodles spilled all over my leg and burned the shit out of me. It hurt like hell. It was a really bad burn, a second-degree burn. The entire burn was a big blister and it took weeks to heal. Unfortunately for me 2 weeks after I got the lovely burn, we had a school trip. It’s was a bit to early for me to swim but when I saw all of my friends swimming, I felt so sad that I couldn’t join them so I did and the grossest thing happen. The skin of the burn just slid off and disappeared into the filter of the pool. The wound was angry and pink. It wasn’t super painful but it scared all the boys and the girls got angry at me because the attractive lifeguard saw it and ushered me over to get first aid. Years after the wound, my friends would often tease me and call me 2min noodles. It was fun times.
Out of context, this picture is a bit strange. I made a funny because I posted a really nice picture of myself everywhere and this was the picture I send to my best friend. They were taken seconds apart. Anyway, you can see the chin scar in this picture so I get to share it publically. Yay!
This last scar is probably the one I felt the most self-conscious about mostly because one day a beautician pointed it out and said it ruined my face. I tried everything to lessen the appearance of the scar. I applied really expensive body oil which is supposed to make scars and stretch marks disappear almost instantly. The very same beautician that made me self-conscious of the scar was the one who sold this product so that’s great. Humans are great. I got this scar when I was fourteen years old and like most chin scars, I tripped over a loose rock and scarped the shit out of my chin on the pavement. It bled like crazy and I remember coming back home with blood all over my neck and my mom didn’t bat an eyelash. I’ve always been a little rough and would often come home with some wound. I simply rinsed off the blood and after my mom checked the wound and gathered that I didn’t need stitches, we cleaned it and applied a band-aid on it and that was it. The funny part (maybe only to me) was that I was chasing after a boy when I tripped. I don’t know why I find that that part funny. The scar might be prominent at times and I certainly hated it when I was younger but now, I don’t mind it. My husband has the same scar on his chin. He got his when he tried to do tricks in the pool and hit his chin on the edge. He was around the same age as I was when he got his chin scar and I find this fact so adorable.
And that is the stories behind five of my scars. Scars shouldn’t be hidden or seen as something dirty ruining a clean canvas. It’s the story of your life. It’s the bumps and bruises that shows your story. It shows that you’ve lived. The same can be said for stretch marks. You should always celebrate your ‘imperfections’, only then will you find your true strength.
Thank you so much for reading and I will see you in a click!
Before you go, I would love to hear the story behind your favorite scar.