Beauty or the Beast

One winter morning in 1986 my mother woke up to the wailing of a baby girl. That baby girl was me. I had run a fever the previous day and she thought it would pass but it had persisted through the night. In the morning it had gotten worse and she decided that once she had prepared tea and breakfast for us she would take me to the clinic. What she did not know was that her decision would change my life forever.

My mother had placed the kettle with boiling water at the centre of the table where I wouldn’t reach it and went into the kitchen to make some sandwiches. Mischievous as I was (me being the then 2 year old queen of mischief and all) I pulled the table cloth upon which the scalding kettle was resting. The boiling water came gushing down, literally cooking my tiny body from head to toe. All panicked, my mother picked me up and rushed outside, forgetting to take off the pretty hefty jersey I had on which doubled as a pressure cooker on my body. A neighbour who heard her haunting screams came to her rescue. They got me to hospital. Needless to say I spent a good portion of my toddler years in hospital all wrapped up in bandages and resembling an Egyptian mummy!

Miraculously though, the accident left me with only a scar on my left arm. That gave me a complex. I literally wore my weakness on my arm. My mother had always discouraged me when I tried to hide my scar but I was never confident enough to show it, particularly when I was amongst strangers. I would wear a long sleeved Jersey even in hot weather while my friends sported cute sleeveless summer tops. I remember one such moment on my elder sisters’ 21st birthday party. I don’t remember much of what I was wearing that day, but I remember the long sleeved purple sweater I had thrown on just before I was to have my picture taken.

I became withdrawn. I was labeled the ‘shy one’ in my family. I kept to myself. When I hit puberty I was developing breast hips and thighs and hated every bit of it. The scar made the journey even worse. I saw my self as the scar. In a quest to cover it up I became “tomboyish” and totally rebelled against anything girly or feminine.
Today however, through all this journeying of growing up and self discovery I can safely say that at 23 I am easy in my own skin. The way I see it, I have only two choices. I can choose to be beauty or a beast. I can choose to sob about how hideous my scar is and how judgmental people can be about it or I can choose to be thankful to be alive, to have the full use of my arm, hell I am thankful to have an arm at all. As India Arie puts it: “ I am not my hair, I am not my skin but I am the soul that lives within.” I have grown up to be a beautiful, intelligent and successful young woman. I have a beautiful heart, soul and spirit. I choose to be beautiful but most importantly I choose to love and be me. ALL of me, from the tiny beauty spot on my face to the big scar on my arm.

lady Jaguar