By: Samuel Moore-Sobel
The minute she came through the door, I knew that something was on her mind.
She dropped her head as she sat down on my black leather couch across from me, staring at her hands.
“We talk about the accident a lot…” she began.
The accident
I knew what she meant by “the accident.” She was referring to my accidental encounter with sulfuric acid as a teenager, which left my face and arms with second- and third-degree burns.
It had been several years since the accident had occurred, yet it was still an unavoidable part of my experience. I regularly fielded questions about my appearance and felt the discomfort of the scars on my face every day. It was a part of my life now, whether I liked or not. Or, perhaps more accurately, whether she liked it or not.
Insecurities
Even after a few relationships, I still hadn’t found the right balance of talking about the accident (or the mental health struggles I had experienced as a result). Often, at the onset of a relationship, the women I dated would ask questions about the accident, prompting me to share. I would try to minimize the amount of time we spent talking about it; but often, we got carried away in conversation.
My insecurities, kept at bay during periods of singleness, would come raging back at the start of a relationship. I felt like I was not good enough for anyone. As my relationship with Sarah* unfolded, I was worried that the accident and my past mental health struggles would cause her to think twice about our relationship.
*Name changed to protect anonymity
My response
I tried explaining to Sarah that the accident was a part of me. It came up in conversation often, because it reverberated throughout my life. The pain of my past informed my present.
Part of being in a relationship with me meant knowing the real me. The accident was a part of that. It had shaped me.
Sarah and I went back and forth, discussing my experience and debating its nuances–as if it was something to be negotiated. I began to feel uneasy, and wondered if her stated displeasure over discussing my past was a red flag. Nevertheless, I held on to the relationship, convincing myself that time and additional effort on my part would improve our relationship.
Sharing my scars
Weeks later, in a tender moment, she asked again about the accident.
“Show me your scars,” she said quietly.
Stunned, I stood up and walked toward the closet in my home. I scanned the room, looking for the box filled with reminders of the accident. The photos, capturing the changes in my face after the accident, were carefully stowed near the bottom of the box. I stuck my hands in, nervous to touch the images I had tried so hard to forget.
I grabbed the photos and carried them back over to Sarah. I wondered what her reaction would be.
My scars displayed
I laid the pictures out across the room, allowing Sarah to see each one. A look of empathy cascaded across her face. “I’m trying to understand,” she said softly, attempting to make up for our previous disagreement.
I pointed out each one of the red marks on my face and arms, showing her the individual remnants of the acid in my skin. In response, she kissed each one as if she was making a peace offering.
“How could you not know you are attractive?” she said quietly. “You don’t see it–do you?”
“No,” I said quietly.
I felt like a boundary had been crossed. A sick feeling welled up in the pit of my stomach as I contemplated whether I would regret showing her my scars.
The beginning of the end
Our relationship did not end in a single moment. It continually frayed a little bit at a time, until ultimately, getting ripped at the seams.
She showed up late to an event that was important to me. Instead of taking responsibility, she tried to blame me for having too high expectations.
She left early, and after walking her to her car, expressed her frustration at me for not paying enough attention to her while we were out with my friends. I tried to point out that in fact, this was the first time we had been out with my friends since the onset of our relationship, while we regularly spent time with hers.
This only seemed to antagonize her. The romance was gone. All I felt was exhaustion.
We met for dinner the next night. She knew what was coming. Our conversation lasted for hours. A cold feeling overcame us and we began parsing out the terms of the end of our relationship.
She took it stoically, although she struggled to steady her hands. We stood outside, lingering as we always did. She struggled to say goodbye. Within a few seconds, tears began streaming down her face.
“I cannot imagine meeting anyone who makes me as happy as you do,” she said sadly. I started crying. A part of me wondered if this was my only shot at finding someone.
“This all seems so sudden,” she said.
A negotiation ensued. I agreed to wait a week before officially declaring the end. Seven days should be enough to ponder our current circumstances, we decided.
“Since we aren’t officially broken up, can I kiss you, one last time?” she asked me.
The end
As I prepared to meet her in the same spot where our first date had taken place just months before, I packed up everything she ever gave me into an old shoebox.
We sat side by side on a bench. People milled about as I attempted to soften the blow of our impending breakup.
I told her the conclusions I reached over the last week. I identified the ways in which I relied on her to make me feel whole. To shore up my self-esteem. I was a guy convinced of his unattractiveness, unable to move beyond the flesh his scars stole.
I told her this as we sat with a healthy distance between us. Everything had changed, seemingly overnight. In just a few days, the shallowness of my feelings were revealed. I questioned whether I ever really cared for her after all, or if I simply enjoyed the idea of having someone love me.
Taking responsibility
I took the blame, telling her that our relationship fell apart because of my inability to overcome the past.
“The accident comes up a lot,” she reiterated.
Her words prompted an important realization. She never did understand the complexity of the wounds I suffered, even after she kissed the artifacts of my injuries.
“I need someone who needs me desperately, or at least needs my money desperately,” Baroness Schrader tells Captain von Trapp in The Sound of Music. I needed someone who understood, who was willing to engage with my deep scars. Both seen and unseen.
“I don’t think you understand how much the accident holds you back,” she said.
What Next?
In the moment, I felt bewildered by what had transpired. The future felt uncertain.
Little did I know what the future held.
A few years later, I published a memoir. And, more importantly, I met the love of my life. She arrived just in time, after I had finally reached a healthy place and was ready to be in a relationship. Meeting her was the most joyous moment of my life.
Yet I didn’t know any of that after breaking up with Sarah. As I climbed into my car and drove home, I contemplated the ways in which I needed to grow and change. Looking out the window, I could feel a glimmer of hope as I thought about new beginnings. Life is never as static as it seems–our paths are filled with both heart-rending tragedy and unexpected serendipities. Up to that point, the last several years had contained plenty of tragedy. All I could hope for was an unexpected serendipity.
About the author
Samuel Moore-Sobel is an author, speaker and columnist. His debut memoir, Can You See My Scars? is the story of a harrowing encounter with sulfuric acid, trauma and severe burns. His book is currently available for purchase on Amazon. He writes about trauma and his experience as a burn survivor. He has been invited to share his story with audiences across the country and offers practical advice on how to overcome adversity. He has a degree in government and international politics and currently lives with his wife in Northern Virginia. You can follow him on Instagram and Twitter. You can also read more by visiting his website.
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