Scars and Cerveza Negra

I have a scar in my lower right lip. I don’t know if some of you may notice it but somehow, it merged so well in my lips that it becomes so unnoticeable to others who really don’t pay attention to my lips. However, it brought me a lot of insecurities back then. I had to hide my smile and try not to pose too much in pictures. Some would make fun of it and call me “Burot! Burot!” I hated my lips. I hated it so much I was actually thinking of saving back then for surgery to have it taken away. Crazy, right?

How did I get it? This must have been my earliest childhood memory. How young was I back then? I couldn’t recall. But I remember I just knew how to read. So I read everything in the house from newspaper headlines to letter headings to product names. We had miniature beer bottles back then so I read slowly the product name and “kerveza negra.. (cerveza negra). My brothers guffawed and we were saying, whoever catches the other will become negra (no racism intended). So, we were running around like crazy—I was ahead of my brothers Nino, Nanie and AG. AG was so small, he might not know what were playing. Anyway, one of them tripped and the next thing I know, I also tripped and fell into the base of a standing fan. I was bleeding but no one noticed at first. My strict grandfather, seeing all of us on the floor, shouted and spank each one of us, including the bleeding me. He then saw me bleeding, it must have been a horrifying site. I remembered him shouting and calling my Mom and they were talking about hospital and stuff.

I remember being in the operating room and the nurses telling me that it’s going to be all right. I was crying and crying at the sight of blood and at the sight of my grandparents and Mommy so frantic. I remember that I was groggy and sleepy and the next thing I know, I was at our house already with a big patch in my lips. It had to be sewed as it cracked open. I couldn’t eat or drink properly so I had to have liquid food and drink from a straw. The good thing about this is, my seemingly-notorious brothers treated me like a princess. They didn’t quarrel me for the time being, my parents would give me anything I want and I could command my brothers (hahaha!). But well, like the anesthesia fading away, so did the special treatment. Eventually, my patches were gone and what was left was this big scar in my lower right lip.

Growing up, I didn’t have lots of friends. My brothers’ friends were my friends. I didn’t go to girly overnights or have girl bondings or whatever, not until later in my life. There are a lot of insecurities, yes, that scar included, that have somehow stopped me from mingling with other people. Of course this was heightened with some people telling me, “ewwww, what’s that on your lip?” or some people without saying a word, giving me that look. It was then that I knew, words can hurt. But what hurts more is being judged without really getting to know me as me. But there was this one friend who changed everything. We were at a zoo and we ate ice cream with other friends. He was taking pictures and I sort of bit my lower lip. He asked why I do that. And I told him, “I don’t want people to see my scar”. And he said, “What scar?” I pointed it out to him and he said he can’t see it. And I said, “It’s there!!” And I said, “I don’t care. I CHOOSE NOT TO SEE IT”.

His name was Carl. I told you about him in my latest article, prior to my writing hiatus.

Another friend noticed my scar. He noticed me covering it from time to time and he said, “You know what my most favorite thing about you is? “ And I said, “What?” He said, “Your lips.” And I said, “Are you kidding me?? I hate them! Can’t you see the scar?”  He said, “Oh yes, that’s what makes it more beautiful.. “

The friend’s name is Lito, yes, the same Lito who I married and who I take care every day and love more and more each day.

Do you know why I can still stay positive after everything that has happened to me? It’s because I surround myself with these people. Carl and Lito were the first among my many real friends who has taught me that imperfections are there in each and every person. We are not perfect. We each have something to be insecure about. But do you know what erases that insecurity? People. Friends. Loved ones. People who choose to see past those imperfections and see you for who you are.  People who do see your imperfection, yet, do not cripple you to focus on that. Instead, they hone you, entice you to be more than the scar, to be more than the imperfection or better yet, make something out of the imperfection.

That makes me truly, truly blessed.

Sadly, there are those that are not as blessed as I am.

Many times have I encountered suicidal people. People who’d rather choose death because life becomes too unbearable for them. It’s sad. Sad, because, it’s not the situation that pushes them to get that blade or drink those pills. It’s the fear of rejection, the fear of being judged, the fear of not being enough, the fear of not being accepted, the fear of not being loved. They feel that death is a better option with the thinking that, hey, they might notice and remember my worth when I’m gone. I would like to say, that is sooo wrong! Yes, they will remember your worth. But you know what else they will remember? They will remember your mistakes, they will remember that even to the last second of your life, you decided to be a coward, you decided to waste life and not face it head on.

I say, the best way to get past those fear is—be a better person. Show them that you are far better than what THEY think you can be. Surround yourself with people who make the best out of you. Stay away from those that try to belittle you. Sometimes, we bank our happiness too much on others that we do not know how to love ourselves on our own. How can you ask others to accept you if you yourself cannot accept yourself? If anything else, there is a GOD who will always accept you for who you are. Turn to Him. Love Him. Open your heart and let Him feel that immense love.

My scar is still there but well, life goes on and I don’t mind it at all. True enough, it blended like it’s part of me. Somehow, it is a part of me. I won’t have that surgery even if I can afford it now. This is me and I love my scar. People who mean to me do not mind it and love it as well.

Life is like that too, I guess. Life wounds us again and again and again. Eventually, they will become scars.  And unlike external scars, they can’t be taken away with surgery or with creams.  They don’t go away. It remains and becomes a part of us. In my own personal principle, it’s a matter of choice—let it become a part of you or let it wound you for the rest of your life. Life passes by, fleetingly. Good things and bad things happen. Good things won’t last. Same goes with bad things, they won’t last too. All we can do is surround ourselves with people who bring the best out of us, appreciate what God has to offer, give something back to life and most of all—live each day that we are given the best way we can, not unscathed but scarred.

Scarred people are beautiful. You are beautiful.