Scarface
I've got scars over about 30% of my body. My right hand, half-way up my forearm; a significant portion of the right side of my face; my entire lower back; the top of my right thigh; the back of my left thigh; and various smaller scars ad nauseam. Most of which are a mix of burn, skin graft and failed plastic surgery. I was in a house-fire as a child. This is my first memory in life. I was three or four years old. It was due to idiocy and neglect of my parents. It is basically a freak barbequing accident.
The story goes that my uncle (who later molested me) was feeding the fire with a can of gasoline. I stood behind him as he reached back to throw the can because he thought that it would explode. The gas spilled on me and I started burning. I ran around the house with my eyes closed until I hit a wall and knocked myself out. I thought that if I closed my eyes, my eyes would not burn. At one point I looked out to the porch and saw my grandmother sitting, staring at me with her mouth agape. I knew that I was in trouble if she was paralyzed with shock. I felt alone. I remember seeing a little green brain-like image in my mind telling me to keep my eyes closed and that I was still alive and to keep running around because the wind would put out the flames. After I knocked myself out, my uncle put me out with a throw-rug. Next, I was in the car, sitting on my dad's lap in the passengers' s seat with my uncle driving. It was a sports car and he drove as fast as he could to the hospital which was about 20 miles through a dark, country highway. I screamed the whole way as loud as I could. I knew it was bad because they didn't quieten me down. My lower back felt like it was stinging very intensely and so I thought I was leaning against my dad's belt buckle. After examining my back and scooting forward, it still hurt. I was very scared but they said nothing the whole way. After that, I was in a private ER room with about 20 nurses standing around feverishly chatting. A man was wrapping my left hand and it began to feel better. I screamed at him to wrap my right hand which was throbbing in pain. He apologetically shook his head "no". I turned back to the crowd and continued to scream in total desperate fear and loneliness. No one spoke to me. The door opened and the doctor walked in. The room fell silent. He was putting on his gloves and staring straight at me as he crossed the floor. I stopped crying. Finally someone could help me.
I was flown to Nashville, about 150 miles away. The next thing I remember was waking up during surgery and seeing them cut skin from my legs. They quickly took note of my alertness and turned up the sleeping gas.
For about three weeks I remained in the hospital. My father came by every day to visit. My uncle stopped by to show me his hair singed hands, as though I was supposed to feel sorry for him. On the back of the mylar balloons I saw my reflection. My entire face was purple. My hand and legs were also purple and green. After a couple of weeks a nurse was sent in to remove the staples from my hand. It hurt so badly I could hardly stand it. She was very sweet and I could tell she was holding back tears. I tried to be strong. She made a plan to only take out five at a time and then rest, I agreed. There were probably fifty staples.
I didn't want to go back home with my father. I wanted to go home with the doctors and nurses and live in Nashville. I promised them that I would come to visit, I never did. That was about 30 years ago.
Today, I am remined of that horror every time I look in the mirror, walk into a room of people, see a photo of my self, look at my hand, legs, or even turn my head because I can feel the tight skin.
If you see someone like me, I ask that you please do not try to make casual conversation about their scars.
The story goes that my uncle (who later molested me) was feeding the fire with a can of gasoline. I stood behind him as he reached back to throw the can because he thought that it would explode. The gas spilled on me and I started burning. I ran around the house with my eyes closed until I hit a wall and knocked myself out. I thought that if I closed my eyes, my eyes would not burn. At one point I looked out to the porch and saw my grandmother sitting, staring at me with her mouth agape. I knew that I was in trouble if she was paralyzed with shock. I felt alone. I remember seeing a little green brain-like image in my mind telling me to keep my eyes closed and that I was still alive and to keep running around because the wind would put out the flames. After I knocked myself out, my uncle put me out with a throw-rug. Next, I was in the car, sitting on my dad's lap in the passengers' s seat with my uncle driving. It was a sports car and he drove as fast as he could to the hospital which was about 20 miles through a dark, country highway. I screamed the whole way as loud as I could. I knew it was bad because they didn't quieten me down. My lower back felt like it was stinging very intensely and so I thought I was leaning against my dad's belt buckle. After examining my back and scooting forward, it still hurt. I was very scared but they said nothing the whole way. After that, I was in a private ER room with about 20 nurses standing around feverishly chatting. A man was wrapping my left hand and it began to feel better. I screamed at him to wrap my right hand which was throbbing in pain. He apologetically shook his head "no". I turned back to the crowd and continued to scream in total desperate fear and loneliness. No one spoke to me. The door opened and the doctor walked in. The room fell silent. He was putting on his gloves and staring straight at me as he crossed the floor. I stopped crying. Finally someone could help me.
I was flown to Nashville, about 150 miles away. The next thing I remember was waking up during surgery and seeing them cut skin from my legs. They quickly took note of my alertness and turned up the sleeping gas.
For about three weeks I remained in the hospital. My father came by every day to visit. My uncle stopped by to show me his hair singed hands, as though I was supposed to feel sorry for him. On the back of the mylar balloons I saw my reflection. My entire face was purple. My hand and legs were also purple and green. After a couple of weeks a nurse was sent in to remove the staples from my hand. It hurt so badly I could hardly stand it. She was very sweet and I could tell she was holding back tears. I tried to be strong. She made a plan to only take out five at a time and then rest, I agreed. There were probably fifty staples.
I didn't want to go back home with my father. I wanted to go home with the doctors and nurses and live in Nashville. I promised them that I would come to visit, I never did. That was about 30 years ago.
Today, I am remined of that horror every time I look in the mirror, walk into a room of people, see a photo of my self, look at my hand, legs, or even turn my head because I can feel the tight skin.
If you see someone like me, I ask that you please do not try to make casual conversation about their scars.
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