A Map of Me.

'You'll have a bad scar,' the GP says, peering down at my exposed tummy as I lie flat on my back on the nurse's bed. I shift myself a little, tearing the paper towel beneath me, to get another glimpse at my staples and holes. This has been the first re-dressing appointment when I haven't cried – but now I might.

I'm ashamed. Because my first thought upon hearing this was: I can't have another scar! As if I've filled my quota already, aged only 23? As if, indeed. I have a long way to go yet. 

I've gotten to know my body well, in recent years. And it's served me well, in recent years. It's taken the worst trauma and made it the brightest light; it's bounced back, seemingly quickly, but secretly it's been a hundred year fight. You can only just see the evidence – if I let you. The scars, the marks...they're part of me and they tell my story. 

There's the obvious, the dent and strip on my scalp. Hair doesn't grow along that line any more, and I hide it with a fringe. I loved it then, bloody and full of staples, and I love it now, hidden to many but always visible to me. I also have the classic school years scars; chicken pox puckerings on my legs, a BCG button, wriggling lines on my knees from the years falling over in the playground. Silver waves on my inner thighs catch the light and remind me of teen years, of growing pains.  

I have moles and speckles, too. One on the back of my right hand, a pair of twins occupying the same spot on each thigh, and one slightly raised on my arm with a tendency to sprout teeny hairs that I'll diligently pluck. Three make a triangle on my cheek. 

And let's not forget the ink. I have a lot of that, these days. Deliberate inkings that acted as protests and indulgences; me reclaiming my skin and taking back control of my body. The needles stabbed and scratched as they drew on me, I watched the artists frown in concentration and make the beautiful things appear. One artist grew flowers on me, one on my ribs and a bunch up my arm, spreading and blooming most perfectly. I gave another artist some words, in the unique handwriting of my favourite people – they were written upon me within minutes, and will be forever.

When the nurses were washing me, weeks ago, they read some of the words and they asked 'did that hurt?' I showed them some other inkings, bigger, heavier ones, and let them be fascinated. The gasps of amazement and nods of respect were delicious. 'They're worth the pain,' I said. 

My body is a collection of markings and memories. It's a map of me. Some lucky folks will see what's beneath the dresses and tights, the big scarves and heavy silver adornments – and maybe someday one will know the intricacies of the map like the back of their hand, and they'll be well versed in the language my mind speaks. They'll never own it, though. It's all mine, and it's where I belong. 
This scar forming on my abdomen will simply be a reminder of something else - yet another time I was brave, and my body suffered before healing, for me. 

I will someday leave this world, the soul I am will escape the skin, and I will leave behind a form of myself that has been loved, so loved, by myself and others – and it will have been lived in.