Scabs is my nickname:
It's also Mother Nature's band-aid.
There's just no pretty way to tell this story. It's not for the faint. And, if you're looking for unicorns or glitter, go no further. This story is a bit raw, a bit scabby, and a bit hilarious.
Many years ago, bit by bit, i uncovered the ugly truth that I was not the only woman to share my husband's bed. There were many others. This betrayal gutted me. I questioned my ability to love, my bra size, my children's future, whether sex/porn addiction was a real thing, but most of all I wondered if I'd ever be able to breathe again.
Finally, with a shattered heart, I pointed to the door. I needed separation and I needed to think. He moved out, but he'd often come back to the house. He'd knock on the door and say 'sorry' and when he did, sometimes we'd talk and try to untangle ourselves from the enormous mess.
One of these times, I began to thoughtlessly pick at the edge of a scab on my shin. A few weeks earlier I'd fallen and scraped a long half inch wide piece of skin from my leg. The crust had healed and was now starting to peel.
Just as the scab came loose I heard my estranged husband say, "I'll do anything to earn your forgiveness, anything..."
I held out my freshly picked scab and said, "If you eat my scab, I'll forgive you."
At the moment, this scab-eating-restitution was the only thing that made sense. But, just as he reached out to take the scabby communion, our lady dog jumped up and snatched the tawny colored crust of skin. She ate it. Lady dog earned my forgiveness in one gulp!
This is my genesis, my rupture, my falling apart, and where all the unfolding really began.
As I began telling this story, more and more women affectionately began calling me 'Scabs'. And it stuck.