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Scars & What they Represent

Scars... What do they represent?

I'm often asked how the back of my head is so "battered" with bumps & scars. I explain the full story below, however I want to make a little point first (cos you know how much I love this stuff!).

The scars that we all have, whether on the outside, or inside, are a microcosm for life...

What I mean is, the meanings, reasons, and labels, we give our scars are a representation of our current mindset, and can often affect our attitudes, and actions.

The bump on my head was from getting knocked out in a fight, and while on the ground a guy smashed me in the head with a razor scooter.

The scars are from getting stabbed in the head with two bottles.

I also have a scar on my shoulder blade after getting stabbed with a large knife which punctured my lung.

At the time, these scars and bumps were tools to boost my ego, to enhance my macho image.. later I used them as a way to play the victim (poor me).

Now... They're a representation of a life once lived which has enabled me to use this experience to help others.

Same scars... Altered perception that brings about totally different feelings, actions, and results.

Even the scars I have on my stomach - stretch marks from weighing over 120 kilos. I used to hide them... now, again, they're representation of how far I've come and how I now have tools to help others.

What scars are limiting your present moment?

What past trauma are you holding on to?

What's making you play the victim?

Shitty things happen 100%... Though these shitty things, with a slight shift in perspective, can be the very things needed to excel your life and those around you. It could be as simple as you've been through something, now you can use that experience to help others, or just as a lesson to yourself.

Change the story to your scars... change your life x

This part below from my book, Stabbed Ego, explains those scars.

‘How you doing, boys?’ I said, shaking their hands. 'Let’s get a drink on.’

We walked to a nearby bottle shop. I returned with three bottles of Hennessy. The shopkeeper had chased me until he saw the bunch of scary-looking men I was with.

We sat in a nearby park, and in the company of two of my close friends fresh out of jail and after a few drinks I was feeling jovial. This usually meant I’d drink too much and act crazy.

Now I started pouring straight Hennessy and sculling it.

‘Slow down, Punchy,’ Billz, the leader of the crew, warned, knowing how unpredictable I was when drunk. I smiled and took another scull. I had a little argument with him but we hugged and sat back down, laughing it off.

Natch was a little quiet. He sat holding his foam cup in both hands as if he was keeping warm with a cup of tea and was deep in thought. Serving a couple of years in jail made people a little anxious in group situations, especially when there was a 120-kilo drunk person who could fight hanging around.

I sculled another drink . . .

I was on my back screaming, flailing around in a well-lit room. ‘Luke, Luke. Settle down.’ I heard a soft voice and felt a gentle touch on my right shoulder. I looked around and could see two security guards standing close by. Also in the room were a man in a dark-grey uniform and a lady in a white gown. I was in hospital. The alcohol was wearing off and I was able to get a grip on what I was doing. I stopped screaming.

‘Luke, do you know where you are?’ The pretty blonde lady with lightly tanned skin and sparkling white teeth leant into my field of vision.

‘I must be in heaven because I can see an angel.’ I smiled cheekily. She smiled back, and both security guards laughed. I was still drunk but had settled down. The security were standing guard until I stopped being violent.

'What happened?’ I asked the gorgeous nurse.

The man in the dark-grey uniform stepped in. His face was covered in wrinkles and the bags under his eyes were more like suitcases. He looked as though he should have been the one in bed. ‘You were attacked. You’ve been stabbed numerous times with a broken bottle.’

My mind raced.

‘Do you remember anything?’ the man asked.

‘Don’t remember a thing, mate.’ This was my automatic response, but this time I really didn’t remember.

‘Your injuries are very bad. The back of your head has large deep gashes and is being held together by over a hundred staples. The top of your ear was put back on by the microsurgeon. We’re hoping it was a success, but we won’t be able to tell until it heals. You’ve got twenty stitches all up your arm. Whoever did this tried to kill you.’

My head and everything else was wrapped in bandages. I resembled a fat mummy. The doctor continued talking, but all I was trying to do was remember what had happened. I’d blacked out in a crowd of people you had to be on your game