Scarred

I had this friend in high school - let's call her Sally. Sally had very large breasts. I don't remember exactly what size they were but they were definitely in the double G or double H size range. The biggest breasts in our high school is what I'm saying.

It didn't matter if it was a stranger meeting her for the first time or a friend who saw her every day, when people greeted Sally it was boobs first, face second. I didn't understand how hard it must have been to be Sally-boobs-face until I became Hillary-scar-face.

Sally was very vocal about her giant boobs. She oozed self confidence. I, in all my a-cup glory, didn't understand. I was all, "we get it. You have big boobs. You hate how people always comment on your boobs and yet you always talk about them." And now I kind of get it, I think. I have this unchangeable, physical trait that can't be hidden (yet - soon scarves won't make me want to claw off my own skin) that draws attention. I can either crumble or I can love it.

So I'm loving it. I'm talking about my scar and writing about my scar and posting ridiculous scar selfies on Instagram and Facebook. Because if I make you notice my hideous scar maybe it won't hurt so much that you did.