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She didn’t reply, getting into the back of the Jeep with a determined look on her face. I felt bad for her, but I knew she was trying to work through this, and I felt she was doing a great job. But I also knew better than to make a big deal over this knowing that it could backfire. I got into the driver’s seat and started up the Jeep, doing my best to keep the conversation going so she didn’t have time to freak out about the ride.
We weren’t going far, but I knew it didn’t matter how long the drive was. She could have a panic attack at any time, and I didn’t want to risk that with how much progress I felt we were making today. I knew there was always the chance something could go wrong, and it would undo all the work that we just put into the day, and I really didn’t want to chance that happening.
We pulled into the parking lot of the mall, but Libby still didn’t say anything until after I had parked the Jeep and the two of us were on our way into the store.
“Okay, I want something that’s not long sleeves. I’m not sure what, but I don’t want there to be long sleeves,” she told me.
“Got it,” I said with a nod. “No long sleeves.”
We headed to the same rack where we had been shopping before, and Libby herself grabbed a few things to head into the dressing room with.
“Do you want me to come with you or wait out here?” I asked.
“Come on,” she said. “I’m going to need you to tell me what you like.”
I went with her into the dressing room, and I did my best to gush appropriately over the shirts she put on. I hoped she was having fun but realized that it was a lot harder for her than she was letting on when she burst into tears.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “I love that shirt.”
“My scars,” she sobbed. “I hate them! They look so ugly!”
“You look beautiful,” I told her.
“Easy for you to say when you don’t have these ugly scars going all the way everywhere!”
“Easy there, easy,” I said as I pulled her into my arms. “I know it’s tough. I do.”
“I hate them,” she said again.
“Listen, I know it’s not easy, but trust me. You can come to terms with even your imperfections. You can reach a point where you don’t mind them, or you even embrace them. I know it might not sound possible right now, but trust me,” I told her.
She sighed.
“I know how you feel,” I said. “Do you know what Psoriasis is?”
“No.”
“It’s a skin condition that I have,” I explained. “And I used to have terrible flare-ups, especially about the time I was your age. Kids were so mean to me at school. They would call me all kinds of terrible names, even calling me Lizard as a nickname the year I was dealing with a lot more flaking skin than usual. I hated it. I hated everyone I went to school with. I hated everything about the place. Most of all, I hated my skin. To make matters worse, the only thing I could do to control it even a little was to watch what I ate and to do things like cover it with tattoos when I was old enough to do it. But you know what? I’ve learned to accept myself for who I am and to not hate my scars or the other unsightly things that come along with my condition; you know why?”
“Why?” Libby asked.
“Because they are what makes me who I am,” I said. “I know it’s not always easy to have something about ourselves that we just hate but think about it. Your scars tell a story.”
“I hate the story they tell.”
“Slow down,” I said. “I know you hate what happened, but that’s not the story they are telling.”
“What is it, then?” Libby asked.
“Those scars tell the world that you have been through some pretty hard things, and you’re a survivor. You were in a nasty car accident, and you could have died, but you were strong enough to pull through. Your body might have a few marks on it now, but those marks are just signs that your body was able to heal when you were in a terrible situation. Don’t think of your scars as you being a victim; think about how they mean you’re a survivor.”
Libby wiped a tear off her cheek looking back at herself in the mirror. She looked at the shirt; then she looked at her arms in the shirt. I knew she was struggling inside, but I said nothing, hoping that she would have the time to think through what I said and see for herself just how beautiful she really was.
“Focus on the parts you like,” I said. “And don’t be hard on yourself for the parts that you don’t. I know that’s not easy, but I do know it’s worth it. It takes a lot of time and practice for you to reach the point in your own mind that you’re not going to hate the scars anymore, but every time you see yourself in the mirror, remind yourself just how strong and beautiful you are.”
“Okay,” she said quietly. “I’m going to get this shirt. I don’t know if I’m going to have the guts to wear it when we get home, but at least I’m taking the time to buy it.”
“And that in itself is a step in the right direction,” I told her. “I know it’s not easy, and you might get home and never put that shirt on. Or you might start by wearing it to bed. But no matter what you do with the shirt, remember that you’re the one who is brave enough and strong enough that you wanted to come here and try new clothes. That’s on you, and I’m so very proud of you for it.”
