I have stretch marks. They run along the line of my belly button, several sets of three of four lines about five inches long across my abdomen. At my first glance, they looked like slashes. Light pink claws marks with tiny tendrils of red left my skin scarred. I wish that I could tell you that I loved them immediately. Most people would not call stretch marks attractive. Creams are sold to lighten them across the world. Many don't talk about what they symbolize. They are so much more than "flaws" to treat. I would never get rid of them for anything now, because I have finally realized they are not only a part of me now, they are a part of my story.
Living with stretch marks generally means that you have to cover them up. No one wants to see them or to even acknowledge their existence. I never have felt brave to wear a bikini, mainly because of my stretch marks – and also because I am way above the sexiness quota. They remain hidden, tucked away from sight, but even in the dark you can still feel their presence. No longer are they a foreign presence that mar my body – they are a part of me.
They first appeared on my body after a breakup. Instead of channeling my pain and sadness of their absence in my life, I ate. I shirked my health by eating those feelings and gained weight. This left me with the red slashes on my abdomen, almost like my pain had scratched me from the inside out. The stretch marks became my own personal stitches, my body's way of trying to hold me together. To me, stretch marks then became a symbol of never letting anyone get close enough to hurt me like that again. Too bad, because I think my body had a different plan for me.
Stretch marks don’t really simply symbolize a time in one’s life where you become a little out of control. This is what I thought them to be. Instead, they became my body’s permanent reminder that I have been through hard times only to come back stronger. Many women today might have stretch marks for various reasons. They are common after childbirth, a little weight gain and sometimes they just happen. Really, they are much more than little marks which plague your body. They stand for the fact that you have survived. They are the scars taken in the battles of life. Now, when I describe my stretch marks, instead of slashes I consider them paint droplets from the masterpiece of my soul.
Stretch marks, I love you for all that you have done for me. I love you because you remind me that I am a survivor, and there is nothing quite as great as that.
