In my 19 years walking upon this massive rock that perpetually spins through the vast expanse of space, I’ve realized that one’s self-image can be summed up in a simple mantra – “Every person has a scar.”
Seven of my first nine birthdays were spent in a hospital bed, trading cake and confetti for cold chicken broth and ice chips. Thanks to a congenital birth defect involving my bladder and kidneys, I underwent 41 operations over the course of my childhood, the majority of which was spent peering out of windows, watching my brothers throwing the football or having pinecone fights or doing any number of incredibly manly things. All the while I was in my room, withering away in my pale skin, shackled to my bed with plastic tubes and bags draining fluids from my insides. As the years passed, I would mark time by the growing number of surgical scars accumulating around my midsection, that ugly midsection.
I felt more like a science experiment than a real boy as a kid, being whisked around from frigid operating rooms to white, sterile beds where days would pass under an endless cloud of morphine. I was a ghost; a frail, pale, malnourished, pasty, gown-clad blob of a thing to be cut up in cross-sections by handsomely paid professionals at assorted university hospitals. In the times betwixt these green and off-white nightmares, I would watch the seasons float by like a living picture within the frame of my bedroom window. There was always a layer of glass between the world and me.
By high school I was through with my surgical career, but the scars stayed there. I was growing taller and stronger, but all the while I was that pale kid in the hospital gown, watching the leaves fall to the ground through his frosted window frame. Every now and then that kid would whisper to me. I remember days spent at the lake, afraid to take my shirt off for fear of revealing the fact that I was a walking scar.
Thick, deep red ridges of scar tissue weaved up stomach and back like poison vines. It’s the ugliest thing you’ll ever see, if you want to know the truth. You’d throw up if you saw it. I always feel like chucking up the afternoon’s Taco Bell every time I see my bare midsection in the mirror. My friends could have their fun waterskiing and tubing, I would gladly take the disguise my shirt provided. I know I’m saying all of this at the risk of sounding petty, but the scars were a big deal to me. In a way, they were dictating who I thought I was. It was so obvious. I was a slab of scarred meat. Nobody was going through what I was going through!
Then it happened. I learned the truth about scars driving to a concert in Asheville, N.C. One of my best friends was accompanying me to the show. She was driving and I was sitting in the passenger seat, noticing how quickly the blurred ground seemed to be moving as we barreled down the highway. She’s quite beautiful, really. She reminds me of Marla Singer from ‘Fight Club’, a skinny bundle of youth, forever puffing on a cigarette and half-smiling. She’s my kind of lady.
So the topic of my surgeries comes up, and I start telling her about these disgusting scars and how they make me a monster and how she was the first person I’d had the heart to even tell about the whole mess because she had a kind face and the music playing in the car fit the mood.
“You’ve got lots of scars then?” she asked. “Yeah, I do,” I said. “Are they big? I mean, do they look like battle wounds?” she asked, getting a bit excited. “Well, sort of,” I replied. “Let me see!” she almost shouted, tugging at my shirt. Not thinking, I lifted my shirt and showed her the history laid out on my stomach, certain that she’d turn away in horror. Her jaw dropped. Her eyes widened. “That is so badass!” she said with a genuine smile on her face, showing those perfect teeth. “Badass?” I was dumbfounded. “Badass. They’re you, Ongie. They’re you. They’re proof you’re still here! Battle scars, man. They’re badass. Look!”
The next thing that happened was simultaneously the most unexpected and amazing thing that’s befallen me in quite some time. Miss Marla Singer flipped her cigarette out the window, and then pulled up her top just above her waistline to reveal a set of scars of her own. Battle wounds. Badass. Then she dropped a little wisdom on me, “I’ve had 10 surgeries. I hate mine, too. But you know, maybe the reason we hate our scars is because we’re afraid of being known and being real.” And then she said a series of words that I’ll never forget, “You’re not the only one with scars, Ongie. When you think about it, everybody’s like you. They’ve all got scars. And I think yours are the coolest thing about you.”
I think the glass between the world and me shattered that night in Marla’s little Honda. I was too self-absorbed to see that it was never really there to begin with. Not everyone carries scar tissue underneath their clothing, but it’s certain that everyone has scars.
Your scar might be the mean words your father said while he was drunk. Your scar might be a gash ripped open from a previous relationship.
Your scar might be metaphorical or literal, but I’m here to tell you . You’re not the only one with scars. We’ve all got them. And I think yours are the coolest thing about you.

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