Scar Tissue

"It has been said that time heals all wounds, I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue, and the pain lessens, but it’s never gone." -Rose Kennedy

Emotionless, void, and broken. Feelings or notions we're all too familiar with. As I lay here, weak and bruised for about the millionth occurrence in my lifetime, I contemplate this concept and realize how sadly true it is. Perhaps I only feel this way because it applies to my very situation. I have come to the conclusion that this generation believes in bottling up feelings and preaches smothering your thoughts let alone realities will leave you better off. Pride runs expression and thoughts control emotions, sooner or later I guarantee it will all come crashing down.
In my case, it hit home a little sooner. Saying it hurt was an understatement. At this point nothing matters anymore, not even the fact that the only thing between me and a complete break down is the thick layers of artificial skin I've reluctantly coated myself with.
Hearing his dense yet heavy foot steps paced exactly in time with my raging heart beat, I realize its only time to re live what has been going on for years. My life has become your favorite childhood story with a twist. Predictable, because you've read it so many times you can almost say it word for word now, yet disturbing and bitter all at the same time. Bracing myself, my old wooden door slams open so fast it didn't make a sound in between it crashing open and hitting the old worn out walls. My fathers harsh voice fills the room with barely audible rambles and commands. After awhile you hear something so often, you don't even listen, you can't even hear what the other person is saying, because you both know what’s coming.
Grabbing the back of my brown dishwater colored hair; he lifts me up using all of his blunt force. My limp body is flung across the room like an old useless rag doll no one loves anymore. Shutting my eyes to block out the after shock of hitting the wall, I go back even further into the past. Most people say going back is a negative. For me it’s a survival technique, pivotal and deep, a happier time, it works as an escape route. A place where the atmosphere around me isn't cold and shattered. Smiles exist and survival is a given, not something you have to fight for.
After my short lived freedom I am snapped quickly back into reality, he’s violently kicking me, a new yet old sharp pain coming back to haunt me. The feeling arises swiftly and hits me like a freight train with no intentions of stopping. I stop for second to wonder what minor none the less non existent mistakes I made today.
Mentally I am the least bit phased by this abuse but physically my body portrays a whole different image. Blood spattered across the floor, shaking and convulsing, piercing screams all let out from something so weak and fragile. My fathers cold rough hands pick me up once again. We make eye contact for a split second, just enough time for his flaming radiant hazel eyes so look deep into my soul and send chills straight down my spine. He sees the lost and dead look in my eyes, only from his point of view it probably looks as if I'm bored. This only frustrates him more. Throwing me into an old antique vanity my mother had bought me just before she had passed away that summer; he then walks out of the room, not looking back once. Gone, just like the feeling of warmth that's supposed to be present in every home.
The mirror crushing my fragile bones, laying there for another minute and just space out, no apparent thought comes into my mind. All I feel is the sharp pieces of glasses willingly work their way through my skin. I push the broken vanity off of my body. Barely able to stand I use all my force to walk over to my bed but I decide to settle for a corner because I just don't think I can make it anymore. Balling up into the small lonely place, I am still able to see my bloody porcelain features in the broken mirror.
Beaten, torn down, and vulnerable are all three vague words to describe my appearance. Not in the way you think though. This I believe is only my outward look. On the inside something that night happened, everything changed. A shift in my mind set. Almost like an apocalypse began. Never striking me as significant before I wrap my rattled brain around the thought that one moment, one event, one happening can change everything forever. One is all that it takes and that's all it will ever take.
Here I am, fifty years later going back to that fateful night for the thousandth time. I lay here weak and vulnerable once again, only this time I have a new attitude, I know I will be able to get through it. Cancer isn't something to be taken lightly but then again neither was my fathers hostile brutal mistreatment towards me. Slowly, with much hesitation I pull up the sleeve of my hospital gown. Looking past the wrinkles there are faint scars that paint my body to remind me that pain will always be there, but in time it will lessen. The scar tissue covers it so visibility is less to the naked eye almost like how people blindly watched me hurt for all those years.





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