I Believe in Scars

I haven’t always been the person I am so proud to be today. I’m ashamed to say that I once took advantage of my parents at any opportunity. Whether it was lying about where I was going, who I was with or when I would come home, I did it. It was as if my parents were in my life to interrogate me and I was there simply to deceive them. Up until a few years ago, I never truly understood how blessed I am and what an amazing life I have.
In February of my junior year of high school, I was on my way to pick up a friend and go to the mall for what would probably be some pointless waste of my father’s money. It was raining that day, and while my mother told me she had a bad feeling about me driving the half hour to San Antonio, I reminded her of my flawless driving record to get the O.K.
The next thing I knew, I was falling in and out of consciousness with a massive headache caused by the booming bass of some loud rock music playing on my stereo. Most everything was black around me, and when I was able to make out the caved-in windshield, I knew something was terribly wrong. I couldn’t move my head to see around me and it felt as if someone was pulling me by my hair against the seat. When I reached my hands to the bottom of my ponytail, I felt gravel, grass and the roof of my car--I was pinned upside down inside my truck.
I woke up to my father standing to my right, holding my hand and looking slightly nauseated. A nurse was on my left, and seemed to have a personal vendetta against me as she stitched up a gash on my elbow. My dad told me that my mom was outside, that she wouldn’t be able to handle seeing me like this. Apparently, I had flipped my truck twice and broken almost every bone on the left side of my face. I had severe lacerations to my forehead and skull, which would require staples and more than 100 stitches. My dad wouldn’t let my mom see me because they had yet to stitch my forehead together.
The months following my wreck, I wore a hat to cover my face and constantly checked mirrors to make sure my makeup was still there. I became severely self-conscious and overly paranoid that people were only looking at my forehead when they talked to me.
Finally one day I just got tired of hiding who I was. I realized the scars were there whether I liked it or not, and with the support of my family I was able to eventually overcome my daily anxieties.
Today, my physical scars can hardly be seen, but the emotional scar I retained is apparent in everything I do. My wreck five years ago was a blessing in disguise and allowed me another chance at life. As cliché as this sounds, I try to live each day as if it is my last, or even my friends’ and family’s last. I say, “I love you” probably too much and try to make sure those around me know how much I appreciate them.
I once hid what I’ve come to realize was my saving grace. Rather than dwell on my scars, I decided to thank God for saving my life. I now believe in scars because they have the power of change. They can make a person negative and bitter over what has happened, or they can make them appreciative and eager for what is yet to come. I was fortunate enough to experience an event that would change my life forever. I was fortunate enough to have a second chance.