I remember when I was a little kid, in my single digit ages, I always seemed to be wearing Band-Aids as if they were part of my morning getting dressed routine. A scraped up elbow or knee from falling off a bike or skateboard. A splinter in my finger from the handrail on our front steps. A fresh bite mark from my baby sister when I let myself get to close to teasing her. A Band-Aid across my nose when I missed a step running up the basement stairs because I was afraid the monster would grab my feet through the steps. Perhaps that is why I 'tripped'.
I remember as a kid thinking Band-Aids were cool. Someone would ask you what happened and you could tell them how brave you were when you turned the corner to sharp on your bike and wiped out. How you ran down the basement to get your mom potatoes for the nights meal and you tripped coming back up from losing your balance due to the heavy bucket you carried up for her. How you were sharing your treat with your little sister when she decided to take a bite of you. The injuries were always worth the stories you could tell about how you got them.
My best Band-Aid memory was when my mom and me walked up Lemon Street to Morningside Ave to the public library to get books to read for the week. We got up to the church along Morningside Ave that was along the way. I saw a bush of flowers and wanted to pick one for my mom because I loved her so much for walking me to the library. Turns out I should of used more caution as I grabbed the flower that turned out to be a rose with a stem full of thorns. It was a long walk to the library after that but before we stopped at the library my mom headed straight for corner of Peters Park and when she turned left at the stop light and we walked down past the post office I knew we were headed for the Dairy Queen.
I remember when we got to the Dairy Queen I showed the lady taking our order the three spots on my hand that got 'bit' by the thorns on that stem. She took me to the back, washed my hand and put Band-Aids on my wounds. When anyone asked me about my wounds I wouldn't have to make up a cool story at all, I already had one! Turns out the truth of the story of how I got my injuries was not one I should of told to my birth dad. In my excitement of the day I forgot that our walks during the day were forbidden, by his command we were never to leave our house beyond the yard. Not only did I received wounds a Band-Aid would never cover, so did my mom. At the hands of that monster we were taught a lesson we would not soon forget. It was from that day on I never again, not once, explained my injuries and how I obtained them to anyone.
It was from that day on that I discovered wounds and scars and pains that no size of Band-Aid could ever hide. Through the next seven years I would learn to hide my fear and pain from the world, including myself. From that point on a bite, a splinter, a scraped elbow or knee was minor compared to the bruises and broken bones you could hide behind your clothing. The black eye you got from your birth dad is a lot more painful to look at than the one you got when you ran into the corner of a dresser. From that day on both my mom and me suffered abuse at the hands of my birth dad. From that day on both my mom and me covered our wounds with denial. From that day on both my mom and me never spoke about what Band-Aids could never hide.
I buried my lifes 'ickies' for seven years. Scars on the inside that no one could see. Abuse so physical layers of clothing was the only Band-Aid I could hide behind. Abuse so verbal not even heavy metal music through headphones cold make the words fade. Abuse so ugly in a sexual nature that it knocked the beauty right out of any life I knew.
I learned at a very young age not to judge others because you do not know what they have gone through in their lives. We don't see the scars on the inside of others. We don't know their pain, whether it is self inflicted or by the hands and motions of others. We don't see the splinters in a heart, the bruises under the clothes, the scabs formed on on the memories. There are no bandages to see, to let us know that something is not right. There are no bandages that let us know to handle someone with care as to not hurt them more. No tears to give us a heads up to ask what is wrong, show them we care.
I can attest to the fact that the more abused you are, the more pain you have to hide from others, the better you become at it. In fact, you become so accustom to shielding yourself from the abuse you become somewhat of an expert of hiding it from people that are in your life daily. You can hide it from siblings, parents, spouses, family members, friends and even a therapist when you need to. Worst of all, you get to be an expert at hiding your pain from yourself.
Wounds heal and scars fade away, but the memories of abuse last forever, even after your abuser has left this earth. In some cases it gets worse when your abuser has died. You lose the fear of running into them again someday on earth. You know they can no longer hurt you physically or sexually abuse you, but the mental abuse seems to never go away. Since you no longer have your abuser to blame, you turn the blame onto yourself. You spend hours a day trying to figure out what you did wrong, what you could have done differently. You never forgive yourself. No matter how many times you are told by others it wasn't your fault. That it was his illness not yours. That you are a victim, you were victimized. Your therapist tries to help you sort it out, day by day, back another day until you visit the very first time you were abused. It only brings back all the pain, all the fears, all the denial.
A seven year old boy who told daddy how he got stuck with thorns trying to pick a flower for his mommy because she not only took him to get books to read she bought him an ice cream treat. A seven year old boy who never once got a hand laid on him before that day, who never got yelled at or called names by his daddy, who never had a hand laid on him in an inappropriate manner. And in one day he caused his daddy enough anger by disobeying his commands, breaking his rules, that him and his mommy got beat with a belt so hard it left bruises on their skin, scars on their souls, and broke their hearts. A day when three lives were changed forever, a day when a daddy and a mommy and a son would die on the inside. A day when a seven year old boy would learn that not only a Band-Aid could hide a wound.
Be careful and mindful in your life on how you treat others. Be careful in how you judge someone based on the outside shell that protects an inside scar. Be mindful of a past you have not witnessed. A kind word, a warm smile, a slight nod of the head. A handshake, a wave, a friendly hello. It cost nothing to give and its reward is priceless. Remember, you may not see a Band-Aid but that does not mean there is not a wound. You may not see a scar but a memory never fades. You may not see tears but someone could be drowning on the inside. Judge not, least you be judged.
STUFF HAPPENS WHEN YOU ARE A KID,
IT SCARS YOU FOR LIFE - Corey Haim
