Dear DJ and Sunday,
I certainly hope my soul doesn't think I need this scar next time around. I used to think that having the scars, in someway, was part of what I had to overcome in this life.
Thats because, well when I was young, I was reasonably attractive. I really miss that figure, LOL! Anyway, people couldn't tell there was anything wrong with me (except some doctors). The scars could be a terrible shock. This made dating and thoughts of a serious relationship a real issue for me.
How can you tell someone you do not really know something as personal as that? Is it better to wait until the relationship at least 'seems' serious? Nope. It was seen as a terrible betrayal. My mother acted as if I should have the information tattoed to my forhead. Can you imagine telling a man you have only recently met (or a teenage boy which is must worse since we are SO body concious at that age) that I have a scar between my breasts? Get real!!!
My husband thought my scars were ugly, by themselves. He is correct. They are ugly. But, he loves me so he got used to them. End of problem.
Very violently, you say. I guess its a matter of definition. I have thought about it for years because the car that hit me, in the left hip was big, shiny, black, and fairly new. It was the 1930s. It was a city. I don't know where. We immigrated there and I used to think, maybe to the USA but I actually have NO idea of the city. After all, people immigrated one part of world to another, not necessarily to the US.
Anyway, my left hip is partially dislocated and I walk with a limp favoring my left hip. I never once made a connection between the two, that car hitting me in the left hip and being born with that hip already damaged. In the 'accident', I flew up and sort of tipped down so that my forehead hit the edge of the sidewalk. I have a 'deformity' that feels like a dent as if my head had been cracked open at one time, from the top of my left eyebrow, up and back past the hairline. It is deepest right at the hairline.
To me, that sounds like evidence of the injuries I suffered when I was killed. It was violent, to my way of thinking. When I was a small child, I used to say my heart had been "broken and scattered" in my chest to explain my medical condition involving both my heart and lungs. In my last life, my son was stolen from us right off the street and emotionally, if not literally, broke and scattered my heart.
Do you or other people you know (or anyone else at the forum) have similar maladies?
Kat