I found it weird that my scars helped other people. At the time it felt like I was getting beat down by life with a lead pipe. I didn’t think the pain would be useful at all. Not to me and dude, certainly not to anyone.
I was just trying to survive the moment.
But then I realized that there were a lot of people out there trying to survive the moment and just wondering … how do I get from here … to there?
How do I peel myself off the floor and recover just enough to walk out of the house?
Writing things out, helped me sort my thoughts, and gave me some perspective. It helped find the funny when I couldn’t find my laugh. I realized I could write though things.
At different times in my life during the love relationship disasters of my 20s, family drama that parallels any Univision telenovela, motherhood failures that people can only imagine happening to them, sucky career moments with rejection letters that deserve framing, or entanglements with strangers that make you really wonder where Karma is at the moment. I have survived all these, and the scars were rough.
How do I recover from the loss of a loved one? How do I recover from a broken friendship? How do I recover from the dysfunctional craziness of my family? How do I recover from a shady chick who’s trying to take advantage of me and milk the system? How do I recover from a random Wednesday of being a mom?
I found this quote and I was amazed how someone captured it so well …
During suffering, find the human soul in that condition, and find a way into bringing grace … finding a simple compassionate movement in your own voice that took you out of the agony and into the tolerable … –Martha Beck
I found a way to do that without even knowing I was doing it.
I was able to get off the floor, after going 12 rounds and stay standing. I had scars and didn’t think the broken memories would help anyone at all. But I found recently that all that independent research I conducted, helped a really good friend over the weekend.
I won’t go into much detail concerning her problems, but it did have to deal with her expectation out of life. Her how-can-I-be-at-this-stage-in-my-life-moment when I should be there.
I know that struggle. I’ve backpacked across this disastrous trail many times. So I was glad I had something to offer. I was glad the Neosporin hadn’t erased all of them. The scars were meant to be permanent.
Not pretty, but permanent badges of life’s learning curve.