Scarred for life
Overcoming a negative body image can take years but is definitely worth the fight
When I was a toddler I was burned with hot water. The accident almost took my life and left me with scars on my arms and chest. I don’t actually remember what I went through at the hospital; what I do clearly remember is what I went through for many years afterwards.
For almost 20 years, I absolutely dreaded even the slimmest possibility of someone seeing my scars.
Telling someone who’s uncomfortable with their body that they shouldn’t worry about it is like telling a depressed person to stop feeling sad.
It started at primary school with kids making fun of me. I’d keep my uniform sweater on all day long even during summer. ‘Aren’t you hot?’ — teachers would ask — ‘You wanna take that off?’ I’d tell them I was fine and run away so they wouldn’t notice I was sweating.
I’d prefer not to play soccer with my friends because of the possibility we’d do shirts vs. skins. Showing my arms was painfully uncomfortable, showing my chest was unimaginable. So during recess, I would walk around the school on my own.
Even though I loved going swimming, I’d always worry about the short time between leaving the water and wrapping myself in the towel. I’d stay in the pool for hours on end waiting for the perfect opportunity when nobody was looking.
I grew up constantly experiencing these feelings.
When I became a teenager, the idea of having sex terrorized me. I had no issue with the sex part, but I simply couldn’t conceive of any girl going for it after seeing my bare chest. ‘I’m sure she’d be disgusted,’ I kept telling myself.
Even in university, if I was wearing a t-shirt, I’d automatically bend my arms to conceal the scars when someone approached.
I know it sounds stupid.
I know it was all in my head.
I know I shouldn’t have cared.
I know.
But self-acceptance is not about knowing, it’s about feeling.
My friends and family advised me not to care for years. I’m grateful to them, I know their heart was in the right place, but it didn’t help.
Telling someone who’s uncomfortable with their body that they shouldn’t worry about it is like telling a depressed person to stop feeling sad. Not only does it not help, in fact, it may make things worse.
Everybody said I shouldn’t care that much about my scars, so I felt embarrassed because I couldn’t stop myself. As a result, I found it extremely difficult to talk openly about the issue, and at some point I even started pretending I didn’t care as much as I did.
One day, during my freshman year, everything unexpectedly changed.
As I was walking through campus, it suddenly occurred to me that I must have seen a hundred people, but I hadn’t noticed a single arm. If I didn’t care at all about other people’s arms, why on Earth would they care about mine?!
I remember the exact place. The exact time.
I just stood there like an idiot, slowly stretching my arms with a huge smile on my face.
I’d gotten so used to feeling unattractive, to the anxiety and the shame, that I pretty much had accepted those feelings as part of my life. But once I realized my scars were probably a big deal only to me, for the first time in my life I entertained the possibility of not letting them affect me.
I visualized myself shirtless at the beach playing soccer with my friends with a beautiful girl cheering for me.
Could I actually become that guy?
In all honesty, at the time I was not at all sure I could, but I decided it was worth the fight.
From then on, I made a conscious effort to fight my old habits. No more long-sleeved t-shirts. No more bending my arms awkwardly. No more saying 'no' to swimming pool parties. No more hiding.
It definitely wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t as hard as I’d originally thought. Forcing myself into formerly unthinkable situations allowed me to discover that they weren’t that bad after all.
Every accomplishment made it easier to face the next challenge. At some point, I even started showing my scars to people. Once someone had seen my scars, it was out there, there was nothing I could do. And there was obviously no point in me trying to conceal them any more.
I started going to the gym. I stopped daydreaming about plastic surgery. I dared to feel attractive, hell, even sexy.
Today, after all those years, I wear my scars with pride. They are an ever-lasting reminder of my stubbornness to live, and the love and dedication of all the people involved in my recovery.
We never know what demons people may be fighting.
Next time someone trusts you enough to tell you they feel bad about their appearance, just listen.
Empathize.
I know a simple ‘yeah man, that must suck’ would’ve made me feel a million times better than the occasional ‘you should be glad you’re alive!’ or the all-too-frequent ‘you shouldn’t worry about it’.
If you’re currently dealing with body image issues, I feel you. I know how difficult things can get. How insurmountable they may seem. How absolutely ridiculous the prospect of ‘stop worrying about it’ may sound.
In my experience, writing about it can help a great deal. It allows you to disentangle that overwhelming mess in your head. How do you feel? What exactly is bothering you? What would be the worst possible scenario? What would you do if that were to happen? Once they’ve been written down, things may seem much more manageable.
If you’re constantly uncomfortable with yourself and your daily life is affected, talk to somebody. I truly wish I’d talked to my parents about how difficult it got for me. A little counseling might have saved me years of anxiety.
At the end of the day, only you know how you view your own body. It doesn’t matter how trivial your body image issues may seem to other people, don’t ever hesitate to take care of yourself.
Hekanibru
