The other day, I counted the number of scars I had accumulated over my lifetime. I have four from when I ran through a plate glass door while playing tag as a kid. I have one on each of my palms from carpal tunnel surgery. I have a faded one on my forehead from scrapping it against a concrete pool wall while on a family vacation. There is a small incision scar from trigger finger surgery on my left hand. I didn’t even begin calculating the small knee and shoulder scars from arthroscopic surgeries. Yet, the two largest scars I have are on the front and back of my neck. They derived from a cervical fusion surgery I had a little over two years ago. The one on the front is close to the base of my neck. At four inches long, it goes along the natural crease on my neck and isn’t that noticeable unless you look for it. The only time it is bothersome is while shaving my neck. Then there is the one on the back of my neck. That scar runs from about an inch from the base of my skull all the way past where my neck connects to my shoulders. It is definitely the biggest physical scar on my body. I’ve been told it looks rather impressive, but I cannot see it since it is on the back of my neck.
Although I sport a number of physical scars, they do not compare to the amount of emotional scars I carry. Most of these were uncovered during many years of counseling, especially during the early years of my mental illness diagnosis. The one question that was explored thoroughly by counselors was WHY did I have these dissociative fugue episodes? Where did this pattern of behavior to “flee” high-stress situations begin? To be totally honest, I never had an answer. I knew there was no abusive trauma caused by my parents. I had a wonderful childhood with excellent and loving parents. There was no physical, emotional, or sexual abuse in my life that I could point to. It was very frustrating because there appeared to be no clear-cut answers at the time.
Jamie and I started working on a book about living with my unique mental illness about a year ago. We decided to start the process by writing about our lives until we started dating in 1984. I had no issues writing stories about my life until I reached middle school. As I began writing about that time period, I found my anxiety levels going off the chart. I felt immense fear, condemnation, and anxiety as I wrote about my seventh-grade school year. From kindergarten through eighth grade, I attended Nottingham Elementary, which was within walking distance from our house. I was not a problem child, yet I did find myself in trouble for goofing off in class with my friends. When I reached seventh grade, I had my first male teacher. He was a very tall, stern man with large sideburns. (It was the 70’s.) He called everyone “Mister.” or “Miss” using your last name. He only used your first name when he was very angry. He had a very low tolerance for goofing off and silliness from his students, and, needless to say, I had poor impulse control in that classroom. This behavior brought about a lot of yelling. Up until this point, I had never had a teacher who yelled on a constant basis. Sure, I had teachers raise their voices at the entire class for misbehaving, but not like this. In my experience, he was loud, tall, and intimidating, at least to me. I’ve talked to other classmates of mine who stated they admired him, but my experience was far from that.
For whatever reason, I was usually the focus of this teacher’s outburst. He would yell, humiliate, and punish me on a regular basis. His common statement was that he could not believe my sister and I came from the same family. She had been a great student in his eyes, and I was obviously such a disappointment. Honestly, I spent more time sitting at my desk writing spelling words during recess than I did going outside that school year. What made the situation even worse was the response I received from my mom when I complained to her about what was going on at school. She always told me that what I was saying could not be true because she knew this teacher was a deacon at his church. Her response cut like a knife because my Mom chose to dismiss my feelings about what was happening in that classroom. Soon, I stopped complaining and accepted that things would likely not change. Fast forward to adulthood, and here I am, a grown man, writing about this period and reliving all the hurtful emotions like yesterday. That is when I wrote the following:
“My anxiety skyrocketed as I walked to school each day. I knew I would get yelled at and just wished I could time travel to the end of the school day so I could go home.”
The emotional impact of this time period went through me like a lightning bolt. There it was. That was the beginning seed of what would turn into a mental illness. I know it sounds trivial to some, yet this was how my mind adapted to the trauma I was experiencing at school each day. I began disassociating, which became a lifelong pattern in my life. It was a bad response to an emotional scar on my soul. I see it now as the birthplace of my battles with fear and anxiety. I found it easier to crawl inside myself and not deal with things than to face them head-on. I’ve had to find the tools and strength from God to equip myself to overcome this pattern in my life.
All of this brings me to this point in my life. Last week, I would have celebrated my father’s 93rd birthday. It was a very emotional day for me, filled with highs and lows. I missed Dad immensely, but it was also my oldest grandson’s 10th birthday. As I went through the day, I was slipping into a funk of depression. I was surrounded by family at my grandson’s birthday, but I was consumed by grief and sadness. After returning home from the birthday party, I watched YouTube in front of my laptop. I was watching the video of Ryan Stevenson’s song “When We Fall Apart.” After my father’s passing, I listened repeatedly to this song, grasping for some kind of comfort. This time, though, I was struck by the lyrics in the bridge of the song.
“There is healing in the story of your scars.”
As I listened to that song, I found myself talking to God. Why did we have to go through things that hurt us? Why do we have to experience scarring in life? Why did God not heal us without leaving marks for people to see? I walked from the main floor of my house upstairs to our bedroom. As I sat on the edge of our bed pondering these thoughts, I felt the Lord speak to my heart. It was a very simple answer.
“Scars are there to remind you of how far you have come. Scars are there for others to hear your story. I don’t make them disappear, yet that doesn’t mean I don’t care about them or you. I didn’t even heal my own scars.”
Honestly, I teared up while sitting on the edge of the bed. It was true. In John 20: 24-29, it says this:
“One of the twelve disciples, Thomas] was not with the others when Jesus came. They told him, “We have seen the Lord!” But he replied, “I won’t believe it unless I see the nail wounds in his hands, put my fingers into them, and place my hand into the wound in his side.” Eight days later, the disciples were together again, and this time, Thomas was with them. The doors were locked, but suddenly, as before, Jesus was standing among them. “Peace be with you,” he said. 27 Then he said to Thomas, “Put your finger here and look at my hands. Put your hand into the wound in my side. Don’t be faithless any longer. Believe!” “My Lord and my God!” Thomas exclaimed. Then Jesus told him, “You believe because you have seen me. Blessed are those who believe without seeing me.”
When Jesus rose from the dead three days after He was crucified, He still had the scars on His body. He could heal Himself, but He chose to keep them visible for others to see. There was a story in those scars. The story of the Gospel is told in those scars that He who was perfect and sinless took upon himself our sin on the cross. He suffered, died, and then rose three days later. When we accept what Jesus did for us, we become perfect and sinless in God’s eyes. Those scars on his hands and on his side tell that story.
Yes, God heals our hurts, helps us through our pain, and brings us to the other side of our troubles, yet the scars of that journey remain. They remain to be a story. They remain to help others who are going through the same thing. It is a way for us to relate to each other and show compassion, truth, and hope. So, don’t hate your scars! Someone may need to hear your story of redemption.
