Scars

I have a tendency toward keloid scars. Keloids are, for those of you uninitiated into the realm of gross-but-non-lethal-things-that-can-go-wrong-with-the-human-body, enthusiastic scar tissue (Of course I'd end up with enthusiastic scar tissue. Jesus.). Keloids are scars that don't know when they're supposed to stop growing. As a result the scar tissue keeps growing past the point of the original injury.

It sounds very sci-fi doesn't it?

But like I said, non-lethal. But non-lethal doesn't necessarily mean that they're not painful. They itch, especially after showers. They're ugly and they're deeply embarrassing and I have three of them and I hate them with all of the intensity of a supernova.

Two of them are visible. One, on the top of my right breast, is from some small childhood injury. It's the one that makes me most self-conscious because it's not just visible, it's incredibly visible (Thanks, giant rack, no real way to draw attention away from the red lump on the top of you when you're calling so much attention to yourself). The second is on my left knee and is the result of a cycling accident a few years ago. That one I mind a little bit less because it's easily covered by tights, long(er) skirts, or crossing my legs. The third one, on the side of my right breast is, thankfully, always covered. That one comes from one of those particularly scary ohshiti'manadultandineedtofigurethissituationout moments.

I don't like when people ask about them (because people always do) not because of any particularly traumatic experience surrounding them, but because I hate being reminded of these small imperfections. I don't like to acknowledge them, to say Yes, these are a part of my past. I'd prefer to gloss over them, pretend they don't exist. 

While in graduate school, I spent several thousand dollars that I did not have for steroid injections into the scars in the hope that they would flatten out and fade.

It didn't seem to work. 

***

"Yeah, you got very huggy last night."

Michelle and I are out to breakfast the day after my birthday party. I'm a little rough around the edges, feeling like I should be wearing my sunglasses indoors and wishing to the gods that I could take all of the fucking silverware away from the child the next table over so maybe he'll just keep shrieking instead of shrieking and banging on the table with everything he can reach.

"What do you mean very huggy? I'm almost always flying in someone else's Soviet Airspace."

The kid at the next table over has now gotten out of his seat and is running around the table shouting "Pow! Pow! Pow!" I'm looking for the waiter. It feels like 200 years since we ordered coffee and if I don't get my biscuits and gravy (pepper gravy being well known for its healing properties) I may literally die. My organs will just give up the ghost.

"Yeah, it was worse than normal."

"Oh Christ."

The kid trips and starts screaming. I put my head on the table.

"Wake me up when the coffee gets here. Or I die."

"Sounds good."

***

 I've been weird about physical intimacy lately. 

Once again, I am emphatically not talking about sex. I'm talking about the back rubs, the hugs, the sitting-super-close-to-people-on-the-couch, the sleeping next to people intimacy that I love(d). I've been like this since . . .June? I can't figure out what the hell is going on with me. It's unsettling. And it's not that I don't want to be as close as I've always been with people, it's just that something's holding me back. 

I've been weird lately.

***

I'm on a dating time-out. 

It's been probably a month since I've gone out with Blah. We went to a sports bar to watch a baseball game sometime in . . . August? Afterward I pulled the fade-away, something I hate doing, but I just couldn't muster the emotional energy that conversation would have taken.  

I'm trying to figure out when and how you tell a guy that you're seeing "Oh, hey, so a year ago I had a nervous breakdown. I spent some time under a psychiatrist's care for OCD, anxiety, and depression. Sometimes I still have flare-ups, but for the most part I think I'm waaaaaaaaaaaay saner than I used to be. Who's your favorite Firefly character?" 

I haven't been playing well with others lately, and it seemed like an appropriate moment to put myself on a time out and figure out what I want and who I want and how the hell I'm going to drop what feels like an atom bomb on some poor unsuspecting schmuck. 

***

I want to start a relationship a month and a half to two months in. 

I want to skip all of the stupid, unfun getting to know you parts. The career summary without talking about the parts that interest either of us. The sibling listing. The "where did you grow up?" 

I want to fast-forward t the part where seeing their name pop up on your mobile makes you dizzy. The part where you gross out all of your friends with the dopey look on your face. The part where you know one another well enough to plan dates that are actually interesting and fun and engaging. The part where you go fifteen rounds over something you're both passionate about and then take forty-five minutes to say goodnight while you're parked in fifteen minute parking. The part where you can't keep your hands off of one another. 

I want to start a relationship there. 

***

During one of my rare moments of honesty with myself, I admit that my desire to go on a dating time-out and my lack of interest in physical intimacy are part and parcel of my unwillingness to let other people see my scars and my desire to start a relationship partway in.

I am petrified of getting hurt.

The idea of any kind of vulnerability--physical, emotional, whatever--is scary enough that I'd rather just sit it out. I'm ridiculously, deliriously happy with my life right now, and letting someone else in is just going to fuck it all up. Or rather, it feels like it's just going to fuck it all up. I know. I know. The right person won't care about your stupid scar tissue. Maybe they won't notice. And you're not as crazy as you used to be, and hell everyone's a little crazy anyway, you'll probably be one of the more normal girls he's dated.

Trust me. I know. I did go through therapy. I can do the pep talk.

But opening up means acknowledging the scars, letting someone see them, saying "Hey, I've gotta tell you something about the person I used to be." Instead it's just so much easier to keep injecting the steroids and hoping this time will smooth everything out.

Though, that doesn't seem to be working.