I’ve been thinking a lot about stretch marks this week. I have my own on my thighs and my hips. I got them when I was 18 and spent a year in Europe…and gained 50 pounds! It was one of the best years of my life but that was a side effect of good food. I remember the first day that I saw them and hollered to my roomate, “What is this???” I had no idea!
For quite some time – years – I was hesitant to wear shorts or bathing suits. I still think about them if anyone comes close enough – especially beautiful or seemingly perfect people.
As a massage therapist, I see them ALL THE TIME. Men and women. I see them on the low back and hips, thighs, chest, stomach. Especially when the person is skinny, I wonder what story lies behind those stretchmarks…what was going on in their life?
I googled “stretchmarks” today and two quotes stood out to me. First, it is scarring that takes place when skin cannot resume normal form after intense growth, like pregnancy, weight gain or loss – both positive AND negative things. Second, the quote says it can cause problems with self-image and anxiety, affecting day to day life. Interesting. And so true in my own life.
I’ve been wondering…if you cut me open, would you see stretchmarks on my heart? And on every heart of every person I meet?
Some stretch marks are self-inflicted, like when I overate. Others are somewhat forced upon you, like pregnancy. My heart has stretch marks from my first marriage and divorce, the ones not self-inflicted. They’ve lessened as time goes on, not as obvious, like the ones on my thighs…but they are still there…a reminder of a time of intense pain and growth. Being stretched to my limit.
I struggle with seeing ugliness in my physical ones…don’t look too close. And I’m ashamed of the ones on my heart. When it was time to start dating after my divorce, I told my best friend that when the time came, I’d be humiliated to tell my story…to share what I’ve been through, what I was blind to, what I put up with and accepted.
But again, the above quote is true. I got my stretchmarks from a period of intense growth.
The word “divorce” is a stretchmark on my heart that I want to hide. I hate using the term ‘ex-husband’. To me, it screams that I am a failure. I’m ashamed of it to this day. There are other words too…ex-wife, depressed, evil step mother, cutter, suicide-contemplator, selfish, liar, awful mom, knee-jerk reactor (emphasis on the latter), screwup…again, some of these I had no choice but some are self-inflicted – whether I actually do some of these things or I tell myself that is what I am. Sometimes the ones that you tell yourself you are…those are the hardest ones to accept, to live with.
To play the constant soundtrack in my head telling me I’m a screw up is to take the knife out of the kitchen drawer and carve the scar into my own flesh.
I want to cover them up all the time…wear pants…just show my prettier parts.
Same with my heart ones…I wish there were pants for those, too, so you could just see the parts of me that I want to put on display. But for each of the stretch marks on my heart, there have been times of intense growth and in the end, I hope I never want to cover them up…they each carry a story and they have made me who I am.
Why would I be ashamed of something that God used or is using for good?
And for the ones I self-inflict – like telling myself I’m a screwup – there is a choice to put the knife away, back in the drawer where it belongs and stop the cutting…stop creating scars.
I get ashamed when I am in public somewhere and we appear to be a normal family…until one of Ted’s kids calls me “Nancy”. I die a little inside. You may think nothing of it, but I feel like people around me are thinking, “Ohhhh, she’s not their mom. She’s their STEP mom…she’s a screw up.” But when I look closely at that stretch mark, I see the 3 year journey that I have been on to learn to love those kids as if they were my own flesh and blood. That has been a fight and a struggle…but one that I haven’t quit yet.
Why is that something to be ashamed of? Why do I want to hide that? In the end, I hope I never want to cover them up…each one carries a story…they have each made me who I am.
Why would I hide it or cover it up? Did you see that picture of my bum? My stretchmarks and cellulite? That picture was taken after I ran 30k. Those stretchmarks don’t determine who I am or what God can do in and through me. They are just a part of my story that God used to bring me where I am.
What are the names of your stretch marks? What have you been cutting yourself with? Were they made with the hand of God?