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Battle Scars

It’s that time of year again, when I head up to the enchanted woods to hawk my books and crocheted items, under the shop name, “Your Local Hookers.” It’s something I look forward to every year, as spending time in such a magical atmosphere is something that sets my soul at ease and to be quite honest, spending time with people at least at weird as me is always, always an enjoyable time. One of the things I love best about Ren Faire is the inclusivity of it. You want to dress up as a pirate? That’s cool. Mermaid? That’s cool. Storm Trooper? Knight in Shining Armor Made of Duct Tape? Guaranteed somebody will stop and tell you that you look awesome. At least at the Faire I work at, everyone is accepted. I mean that. Everyone.
This was one of the things that set the Secrets of Windy Springs series in motion. The beauty of the woods, the magical atmosphere, the joy people find in dressing up and playing different personas. The hut where Layla and Keisha sell their fairy wings is much like the little wooden hut my partners – Joe and Tamika – and I hawk my books and our collective yarn projects from. We are directly across from the belly dancing stage, which means we have music playing all day long. It’s lovely. One of my intentions in writing a fantasy series at a Ren Faire is to bring to light how inclusive it truly can be.
I know it, I love it, and I can’t wait for it to come every year. And yet…
Yet I struggle with accepting myself when I’m there. Most people who meet me – wildly curly purple hair, tattoo, brightly colored, (sometimes bizarre) ensembles, vocal about my own issues with my mental health – believe I’m “all out there”, and to a point that is true. I don’t much care what people think of my clothes or my hair or my life decisions. Two things about myself make me self-conscious: my scar and my weight.
Twenty-two years ago, when my first child was born, I had an emergency C-section AND a cholecystectomy at the same time. Because it was an emergent situation, the doctors were concerned with going as fast as possible and getting my (nearly five weeks early) baby out safely. As they should have been. However, this left me with a “zipper” of a scar from the sternum down: wide, jagged, and purple. Cut straight through what was once a normal looking belly button. And in the end, my daughter was fine and now she’s grown and beautiful and intelligent and nearly done with a Bachelors degree.
I still have mixed feelings about the scar. On one hand, I love it. It’s part of me, and the vehicle through which my child was brought safely into the world. I’m thankful for it. But I’m still self-conscious about it. Yes, it’s just one little part of my life story. One chapter in the book of my life. It’s a part I have always kept hidden.
The weight thing is another story. In the last five years, I’ve probably gained about 55 pounds. I swing wildly between trying to love myself exactly where I’m at and loathing everything about the way I look. I am frustrated with myself for allowing this to happen. In the next second, I give myself a break because, come on, in the last five years I’ve lost my sister, my mother-in-law, my husband’s grandfather, several other important people in my life, and my brother. It’s been difficult. Depression is a nasty beast, and one that often left me sleeping large portions of the day, lacking the energy to function, and yeah, eating too much ice cream. I gained at least another 15 pounds after starting on Zoloft, which isn’t something I’m willing to give up. So now that my head is getting back to a decent place, I’ve been biking and walking and considering a bit more carefully my food choices. But still. Here I am. Scarred and overweight. And it bothers me that I care so much. I don’t care about anyone else’s weight or scars. I accept them right where they are at. Why can’t I do the same for myself?
A while back, I was working at the Ren Faire. It was a boiling hot day in the forest, and a woman and her daughter walked by my shop. This woman was about three times the size of me – and I don’t say that as an insult, just as a fact – and was wearing a bikini top with sea shells glued all over it with a long shiny skirt. Her daughter was dressed the same. They looked awesome, so I waved them over and complimented them on their outfits. The woman laughed and said she’d had something else planned, but the day was so hot, they changed their minds. “We decided to be mermaids today,” she said. “Fuck it. It’s too hot for clothes.” And off they went, enjoying their day.
I stood there in my miserably hot pirate wench blouse with three yards of sleeves on each side and the corset cinched so tight I could hardly breathe when I moved and sweat dripping down every square inch of me, wondering why I couldn’t make myself have that woman’s attitude. I was boiling hot. My clothes were far too heavy for the weather, but I wore them to cover my weight and my scar.
So last summer, I drew up a pattern on a paper sack, bought some fabric, and made myself three cropped wrap tops for Faire. It was scary for me, but I wore them with my long skirts and honestly most days I also strategically wrapped scarves and such around my belly, but I felt like it was a good step toward accepting myself. And guess what? Nobody else gave a shit about my scar or the extra poundage. Nobody. Not one comment or weird look.
The only person worried about the way I looked was me.
Here I am, another year later. I am absolutely heavier this year. Faire begins next weekend, and I’ve been waffling about what I’ll wear. I hate that I think so much about my size. I hate that it makes me feel so superficial. I want that “fuck it” attitude about my weight.
I’ve decided this season I’ll work at being a little braver. I will wear the wrap tops, and try not to cover myself with scarves. I will work at loving myself exactly where I’m at, battle scars and all.
The same way I love anyone else.

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