Madvoice Scissor Hands

If you haven't guessed by now I am not to be trusted with sharp objects. Scissors are best kept far, FAR away from me. Preferably in a locked box, six feet underground, covered in lead and encased in a cement mausoleum. However, my youth was misspent, often unsupervised and inclusive of sharp objects. Particularly scissors of the left handed, red handled variety.

I was in grade 3 so I would've been 7 years old (on account of starting school early due to some birth date loopholes). We were doing arts and crafts and were making those snowflakes by folding up paper into triangles and snipping out bits and unfolding it to see our finished masterpieces. Unlike many of the other children who had safety scissors, I had absconded with my mother's left handed, red handled sewing scissors. I'd somehow become rather fond of them even though they had already blooded me once before.

I was merrily snipping away at my latest creation when the classroom bully interrupted me. I politely told him to 'sod off' (though there may have been more sterner expletives uttered to the limits of my then 7yo vocabulary - which was rather extensive despite my age) to which said classroom bully took umbrance to my complex verbiage and decided to give me a rather dead arm by way of his fist.

In the process of me getting a dead arm, my hands slipped and instead of cutting paper, these scissors were out for blood again and cut into my left palm. I'm not sure if they were protesting at the fact that I was using them in my right hand (which was not their intended purpose) or that they had some kind of sick vendetta of trying to even up the score as it was my right arm that they blooded last time.

The pain of the punch to the arm at the time outweighed the pain to the palm of my hand. It wasn't until I noticed the distinct drops of claret dripping on my desk that I became aware that I had in fact broken skin. I inspected my palm to note that there was a U shaped cut just above the fleshy part of the base of my thumb. For my troubles I was sent to the sick bay to receive a rather poorly adhered Band-Aid and told to be more careful. The classroom bully and the scissors ended up victorious in the moment.

Now, some 30 years later, I can still look down at my palm and see the thin white line of the scar where the cut healed in the shape of a perfect U. The bully and scissors naught but a memory etched in skin.

I've Got the Pox!

I was in year 9. It was a Wednesday. It was the week before the June/July school holidays (Australia). I was really excited to have my exams over and done with and was looking forward to the two week break. The semester was almost over and I'd studied really hard.

I had three exams left for the week. One for Science, one for Math and one for Japanese. The exam first up was for Science. It was the biology component. I remember it distinctly. I had really enjoyed it. I even remember my teacher's name and the classroom we held it in. My retention for these minute details astound me to this day. I have no idea why I remember such details so many years later. Especially given that I struggle with remembering people's names and telephone numbers. Funny how the brain works.

I was feeling a bit off colour that morning. I'd had a bit of a temperature the night before but it wasn't anything to get overly concerned about. My father had not long dropped my off at school and I was waiting for my friends to arrive. I'd usually get to school a lot earlier than most people but that didn't faze me. I'd often wait until the library opened and go inside and read before the first bell rang to go to class. 

My friends and I were inside the library chatting and being typical nerdy teenagers when one of them noticed something on my arm. It was a small blistery lump. You see, a few weeks earlier, my kid brother had succumbed to Chicken Pox. He had contracted it through school and had required a good few weeks time off and had only recently returned. At that age I was unaware of the incubation period of the malady, nor was I aware of the symptoms in the lead up to the outbreak of the spots. It also didn't help that most children, by that age, had already been subjected to it so I was pretty much a late bloomer in that regard.

Upon my friends noticing that one lump, the light bulb moment ensued and I started to panic. Oh no! What if it was my turn? Did I have the dreaded Pox?!? There was a flurry of activity where my friends were put into high alert mode and given the task of searching my body (well, the openly visible parts) for more lumps. The tally came to about 10 before I was resigned to my fate and marched myself up to sick bay. The attending nurse confirmed my suspicions and my father was called to come and get me from school (my mother doesn't drive) and take me home.

Within the next 24 hours I was covered in spots. I missed all three exams and was absolutely gutted. As for the school holidays, I spent the entire time in isolation away from friends with nothing but books, drawing and bad daytime television (I only had two channels to switch between back then). When I wasn't doing any of those things I was soaking in a Pinetarsol bath trying not to scratch.  

When I got back to school the next term, I tried to negotiate with the teachers for a resit of the exams due to extenuating circumstances but they wouldn't have it. I ended up with a basic pass mark. It made me mad as I had solid Bs in all three subjects at the time. It was a double whammy as not only was I cheated of my school holidays but I was cheated out of attempting my exams as well!

On the upside though, I did consider myself lucky that all I got out of the Chicken Pox side of things were a few very small scars on my forehead and random ones on my arms and legs. It could have been much, much worse. In fact it was, for my sister, who was the last on the list to get the dreaded Pox. Three weeks after mine cleared up it was her turn and boy was it a doozy!

Running With Scissors!

On my right elbow I have a small scar just over a cm in length. I don't remember how I got this one but I always marveled over how I got a scar in such an awkward place. I remember when I was about 4 or 5 asking my mother how it happened. Apparently, when I was about 18 months old I got a hold of her red handled left handed scissors (my mother is left handed) while my she was sewing and took off with them. I apparently refused to give them back. In the process of running off with them, like all bottom heavy toddlers, I tripped and fell and landed on the end of them, skewering my right elbow.

According to my mother, I bled like a stuck pig and cried my eyes out. Well, I didn't cry for long apparently. I was too busy looking at all the blood and concentrating on my mother cleaning my wound and putting steri-strips on it to hold my cut together. My mother mentioned that it probably could've done with stitches but she didn't think it was worth troubling an ambulance to come out and take me to hospital as my father was at work and she didn't (and still doesn't) drive. That and I seemed to settle and forget about it almost straight away. The steri-strips seemed to do the job and I've just got a slightly stretched scar to remind me of the incident that I can't even remember.

We Are All Made of Scars!

We all have scars of some description. Be they emotional and or physical. Though in this case I'll be focusing on the physical.

Throughout our lives we end up scarring ourselves in a myriad of ways. Tripping over our own feet and stubbing our toes, grazing our knees or standing on something sharp. With each scar comes its own story of how we acquired it. What we were doing at that time of our life. What we were thinking; how we were feeling; what our dreams and aspirations were for our yet to be seen future and how we dealt with pain (both physical and emotional).

Depending on the severity of the injury that caused the scar, it can influence how our lives are shaped, how our personalities change and how we view others as well as ourselves.

These will be blog posts of my own physical scars and the stories behind them. They are what make me 'me'.