Battle wounds
My brother was born with a giant birthmark the size of a grown man’s thumb in the middle of his forehead. My parents had a surgeon remove as much of it as they could immediately. Years later he underwent multiple surgeries to remove whatever was left of the mark, and I remember my abuelas and tias praying that he would make it home without a scar. Dios mio! Please don’t leave behind a scar.
The first time I went under the knife was also for birthmark removal. As a teenager, I got almost a dozen moles removed from my body- four of them were on my face. I was fifteen at the time, and I had had it with the bullying at school and at home. Some kids had called me pizza face since the first or second grade, and my brother used to scratch at my moles with sticks or mommy’s knitting needles, saying offensive things like you got something gross there, or it looks like flies are landing on you.
Because of that, I begged my mother for years to fix my face- this, a phrase my brother used repeatedly when poking at me. After what felt like forever, my mother finally booked an appointment with a plastic surgeon whose office was on a steep hill, and who said he could remove my moles in one or two visits. I was thrilled, and surgery was scheduled for the following Wednesday.
My father was the only person around me who was sad to see my moles go. He had just as many moles on his face and body as I did- if not more, and said they were sexy. I disagreed.
After my surgery, I sat in my doctor’s office listening to him speak behind a big mahogany desk, giving my mother and me very specific instructions on what to do to avoid scarring. He told me to stay out of the sun for at least three months, to cover sutured areas with a bandage, and to massage my wounds often to soften the skin around them.
For three entire weeks after surgery, my incisions were covered with a skin color tape that didn’t match my complexion, never mind conceal the thread of each stitch. Because of that, I looked like- and felt like, an awkward teenage girl version of Frankenstein. When my abuelas and tias saw me, they begged Dios mio, please no scars. This time I joined in. I was so scared of scars that I followed the doctor’s orders to a tee. In fact, over the next three months I rubbed my face so much, that even today, over thirty years later, my fingers still find their way to my cheek, looking for tight scar lines to rub away at.
The next time I was on an operating table was my senior year of high school when doctors discovered a small tumor in my parathyroid glands. To remove it they had to cut through my throat, and since scars are the devil's work, my entire family got down on their knees to pray. Specialists at The Johns Hopkins Hospital guaranteed a clean tumor removal as well as a small scar, so my mother and I flew to Baltimore for my surgery. It was a no-brainer.
Once the surgery was over, my mother took me to the Towson Mall to buy some chokers and a pearl necklace- something pretty to cover the incision. Then, when I got back home to Ecuador, my nanny gave me a cream she said was made out of conch. It came in a cheap pink container shaped like a seashell, and I rubbed that on my scar every afternoon after school. God forbid scars.
In college, I struggled with anxiety, depression, and an eating disorder. I was the product of a broken home, and the effects of being raised in a dysfunctional world became too much for me to handle on my own. Sadly, rather than turning to professional help, I coped via sharp objects and self-harm. By the time I was a sophomore in college, I was damaged, lonely as hell, and had a particular scar on my right wrist that raised red flags and earned me a reputation with anyone who caught a glimpse of it.
I am pretty sure I was known as the troubled girl around campus- the one who no one wanted to get too involved with- never mind date. So, as a way of challenging that reputation, I got a tramp stamp.
Everyone in my family despised my tattoo because to them, body markings were for classless men and women. But that black ankh on the small of my back made me happy, mostly because it marked my body with something other than self-harm. To me, it wasn’t just a tattoo, it was proof that a mark on my body could be beautiful, and that was something I desperately needed to feel.
The following fifteen years of my life came and went with my depression my eating disorder and my self-inflicted harm leaving many scars in their wake- none that I was proud of. Then, in my late twenties, and thanks to the help of my psychologist and psychiatrist, I moved to NYC to start a new chapter in my life. It was there that I fell in love with running.
Moving through crowded city streets while listening to music as my feet pounded on sidewalks, eased my emotional discomfort in a way that cutting never did. Unlike episodes of self-harm that left me depleted and exhausted- a sad survivor of a one-man war, challenging runs made me a warrior. Someone who had the power to conquer anything and take on more- so I did.
The more I ran, the more I wanted to run, and within the next three years, I had run a full marathon, my fastest 1-mile race ever, and everything in between. With all that mileage came blisters and calluses, and my feet began to show my journey.
The idea that proper ladies should have pretty feet was a lesson indoctrinated in me early on. Because of that, I would give myself at-home pedicures before getting real ones, and scrub hard to erase the marks that miles upon miles of running were leaving on my feet. God forbid scars.
One gray day in January, I had a spontaneous lunch date with one of my best friends. After some Aperol spritz’s and salads, we dipped into a salon for one of those cheap-but-not-so-cheap mani-pedis. I hadn’t pre-prepared for this, so while we sat and gabbed with feet in sudsy water, I rubbed mine together nervously, hoping the tough skin surrounding my heels would soften. Two women rolled over, and just as they grabbed a foot file my friend said, oh not for me. I run marathons and these are my calluses. The woman was impressed. WOW! MARATHONS?! She repeated with a thick accent. I, on the other hand, was shocked. YOU KEEP YOUR CALLUSES!
I had never thought of a callus as a badge of honor to hold on to. I thought bodies- women’s bodies especially, had to be washed clean of any impurity, and here was a friend whom I admired and respected teaching me that wasn’t the case. That afternoon we left the salon with our calluses intact and I had a new appreciation for the marks my life had left on my body.
In the years since then, I got pregnant and gave birth to a baby girl. My body told a whole new story after that, one of long labor and little sleep, of breastfeeding, and hair loss, of stretch marks and loose skin. We are not told to love our bodies and the marks that motherhood leaves on them, so I struggled to accept my markings.
Three years after my daughter was born, I faced the worst bout of depression I had ever experienced. I turned to intense therapy and I ran, but it wasn’t enough. No matter how many finisher medals I got or how callused my heels and toes were, I felt as if the warrior in me was losing the battle.
One evening after work I sat in West-side Highway traffic with my husband and told him that I felt as though all the therapy and all running in the world wouldn’t help me. As I cried I screamed I need the physical strength to climb out of this dark pit. A month later I took up boxing with a trainer who had won the golden gloves and wore a hat just like Rocky Balboa. We trained in a basement gym that reeked of sweat for a couple of weeks before he put me in the ring with someone else.
Being a warrior took on a whole new meaning in that ring. Every punch- both thrown and received, made me stronger. I wasn’t just fighting to stay on my feet and to persevere until the bell rang, I was literally fighting my depression, fighting the darkness, and looking for the light. Boxing brought me back to life.
During my first two years of boxing, I got black eyes often- the worst from a woman whose face I don't remember but whose socks came up to her knees. I never covered up my black eyes with makeup or sunglasses, but instead, I wore every single one of them with pride because they meant I had fought, and that was something to be proud of.
One evening, when my daughter was taking a bath, she asked me to join her. We sat together in lukewarm water, surrounded by floating toys, and she studied every inch of my naked body. She asked simple questions at first, Mommy what’s this? She was pointing at my collarbone. Your hair is heavy, she said as she lifted it, tangled it, and let it fall back to my shoulders. Then she looked at my throat and rubbed her finger over my scar. What’s this? I told her the story of my surgery. Her eyes then traveled to my callused knuckles- one of them bruised from the punching bag. After that, he turned over my wrist- one side has a scar that normally needs no explanation, and the other side has a tattoo of her name in cursive. Then, she traced her finger down my leg and calf, more lines- some more visible than others. When she asked me what those are, I said, those are Mommy’s battle wounds.
Today, I consider every one of my marks a badge of honor. I remind myself to wear each one of them with pride- even on days when it’s hard to do that. Every fall, every missed step, and every fight has made me who I am. The marks on my body serve as a reminder of the life that has built me. They are proof of how far I have come and most importantly, proof that I know how to persevere, no matter how thick the darkness surrounding me got. I am growing, learning, and most importantly doing. I am proud of that and will let my body tell my story.
My daughter skinned her knee recently and proudly referred to the scab as a battle wound. I am glad that I can teach her to be proud and confident in her body even after a fall. If we are able, then we are blessed.