Hidden Scars

The residence where I work recently allowed people on social assisted plans to come and live in our community due to an emergency situation which literally left these people homeless. I look at them and just know that they have had it rough. Perhaps they have deep wounds inflicted upon them in their childhood like I did. Or perhaps they fended for themselves all their lives. Or maybe they have been caught in the depths of addiction. Or perhaps they battle a mental illness or have been swept away by the cycle of poverty. But whatever it is, their pain is visible. You look at them and you know they are wounded people.

I have a friend who tries so hard in life but when you first meet this person, you can tell that there is something not normal for a lack of a better word. A lot of love and patience is required to accept this person into your realm and I am so thankful that there are people out there. But in a world where first impressions matter, I worry for my friend and about the dismissive attitude and treatment received because of visible wounds.

But you know, I am just as wounded and scarred as these people are. I am capable and gifted and smart, and I have worked hard over my life to be able to put on my professional face and to smile as if nothing is wrong. I had to celebrate my 13th birthday after a nightmarish night with my father. I had to speak as if everything was normal at the breakfast table and say that I had a perfect sleep when in reality I had been woken in the night and spent those painfully long moments praying that I would be left alone. No one forced me in one sense - but I knew inside that this wound could never be shared.

No one could know what happened to me at night or in secret. No one could know that something was wrong. I used to think that everyone looked at me with pity because they knew. I was determined to not let them find out that my life was not ok at home so I remember at church working extra hard to tell them how great my life was. If anyone found out the secret i was hiding or the wounds that were continually being inflicted, what would they say? what would they do? Would they really believe my words? Would this hurt my mother to know what her husband would doing? Would then others who were silent be next? I remember learning to pay attention to people's facial expressions so I could figure out how to respond without knowing exactly what they were saying. I laughed at the right times and offered a look of concern or a word of comfort when it was appropriate. My mind was elsewhere, probably dealing with the reality of my life, while I lived in some fantasy world before the person in front me trying to convince both me and them that my life was wonderful.

Sometimes I fool myself into thinking that no one can see through my tricks. No one knows that I am hiding huge secrets. And then I find out that I gave clues, both intentionally and unintentionally to let those around me know that really I don't have it all together. But then there are times, like the other day, when someone questions how I could possibly know what suffering is when I've never gone through anything. I still maintain some level of skill in terms of being able to hide.

But my scars are there. Some of them are visible and not so easy to hide. There are tricks though and I have scars hidden so well that only a couple of managed to see them. And others are not so easy to hide, but I try hard anyways. It doesn't take long to figure out that there is something not right in my life once you get to know me.

The typical getting to know you palette of questions include things like where do you work, and what do you like to do with your free time. I dread the moment it turns to family. I love to talk about my siblings. They are beautiful and wonderful. I have pictures of them up on my wall to remind me daily why I must keep going in life. When I hear stories of what they are up to, or manage to come across photos somehow, I get so excited. I am proud of them and long to be included in every moment of their lives. They are talented children too. Tonight at work the students and I played games and I discovered another person who has not only heard of but played "The Farming Game" with its stickers of bales of hay and grain and the fruit that seems to be effected by every drought and plague possible. I remember playing that every friday night and I was genuinely smiling as I reminisced about those times. But eventually, if a person sticks to conversation with me long enough, they find out that my family does not live far away, and then the moment that I dread comes -- "Do you get to see your family often?"

My heart sinks. Tears well up in my eyes. Not every person I come in contact needs to know the full answer to that question. But this is one of the parts of my life in which I am wounded most.

Christmas is coming and I always dread this time of year. It seems like everyone goes home for Christmas. Or everyone except those with a "good" excuse that is. Some of my friends have their own families. Others live out of province or half way around the world. Others still work or their parents are sick or no longer alive. The seniors all know I have a family whom I love dearly. And they all know I have siblings. The questions have started already. Am I going home for Christmas? Am I excited to see my family for the holidays? What are you doing for the holidays?

Wounds. Scars. Hidden.

When this season comes and goes I will be able to sigh a breath of relief for many of these questions get locked in the closet with the Christmas decorations until next December. But right now and in the coming weeks, my scars are harder to hide.

Sometimes I wonder allowing my scars to be completely visible would make for an easier way of living. I wonder if the pain I carry inside, if it were to become part of the outside presentation of who I am, if it would be a less lonely life. And when your problems are obvious, you are not expected to hide them in the same way as those who appear to have it all together.

I wander the halls of the seniors residence where I am daily told how much I am appreciated and how much they like me. It's lonely. Because they do not see the hidden scars.

I am no different than those whose brokenness is palpable the moment you set eyes on them. I am just as wounded as they are.

Except - my scars are hidden.