He pauses, giving my upper thigh a light squeeze as he studies my face. “But why is insecurity considered a weakness? It’s just being human. We all have things to feel insecure about. No shame in it. We work on it, we get better. It’s all part of the experience, right? Doesn’t our true strength lie in the fact that we know our flaws, that we’re self-aware, that we want to improve?”
“I know. I just feel like I need to toughen up and not care. I’ve been working toward it for a long time.” And I have been. The therapy sessions are slow-going but at least I’m committing myself to changing. He’s right that at least I recognize it.
“That’s all that matters then. You’re not perfect. I’m not perfect. That’s okay and it’s okay to not love yourself all the time either. I mean, fuck. Who does? And if anyone has a problem with the way ye feel about yourself, that’s only because you’re hitting a nerve. Maybe you’re making them look at a flaw that they don’t want to face.”
I study him for a moment. “You know, you struck me as a man of few words…”
He shrugs. “Let’s just say I know what you’re talking about, that’s all.” There’s a darkness that comes across his eyes, like the clouds ahead of a storm, and I know that he has his demons with this issue too, whatever they may be.
His hand slides down my thigh. “Is it the scars that hurt the most? Emotionally?”
I swallow hard. “Yeah. Sometimes. The rest is just … you know, not looking like my sisters. Having a mother that constantly reminds you that your worth is your body and your looks and nothing else. The whole fucking shebang.”
He nods, his eyes coasting over my legs in a gentle, curious way that I can almost feel. “Do ye want to tell me what happened?” he asks softly.
I look down over the crisscross network of ribbon scars and flattened continents of scar tissue. Both legs are covered in them, from my feet up to mid-thigh. Puncture wounds from surgery scars where they inserted steel rods are the only things that are remotely symmetrical. My ankles are fucked up. Everything is a mess.
“I was six years old,” I tell him. The story doesn’t bother me. I’m so used to telling it. “I was playing in the front yard and my mother was watching me, but then my sister distracted her and she went inside, leaving me alone. In your typical dumb child maneuver, I kicked the ball I was playing with across the street and ran across to get it. Big huge Ford truck came from out of nowhere and hit me.”
“Fuck,” he says, face contorting as he takes it in.
“Yeah. It was … well, I don’t remember much so that’s probably a good thing. Those months around the accident are blocked out. The truck literally ran over my legs and crushed them. It damaged my spine. I was almost paralyzed. In a wheelchair for years. Doctors told me I would never walk again. Obviously they were wrong, but it took a fucking long time. A lot of physio. A lot of pain. I couldn’t even pee without help.”
I’m cringing as I say this, everything dark and ugly and raw, but when I take a quick glance at Padraig’s face, he’s watching me in awe. Normally I get pity when I tell this story, but pity becomes unbearable after a while. You don’t want it. You don’t need it.
I take in a deep breath and go on. “I took my first steps when I was ten, and it was like learning how to be a human all over again. In a way, it was easier to stay in the wheelchair. Or maybe it was just easier to be a kid. I remember the first day of school and the kids wanted to take turns pushing me around in the chair. They wanted to help. They didn’t think I was weak or bad, just different. But when I started to walk again, when it wasn’t quite so obvious what had happened to me, when I became a teenager … fuck, man. It was brutal. People are so cruel.”
I leave it at that. I don’t want to tell him about the days that I stayed at home with a stomach ulcer because I couldn’t stand another day of teasing and bullying over the way I