Scars

When I was younger, I never imagined my body to look the way it does now. Rather, I remember telling myself that I would be thinner, I would be prettier, I would learn how to do my makeup and I would learn how to make it look as if I had always been that way. I knew I would have acne pop up every now-and-then and I knew I would endure a few bad hair days. What I didn’t know or expect, was the scars.

They’re everywhere; on my forearms and my stomach and my sides and the top of my thighs, even a few on my chest. Ranging from pale white to dark pink or purple when my skin gets cold; thin, faded lines to puffy, angry gashes that still look barely healed, even though they’re years old; horizontal, vertical, diagonal, or completely jagged and random because I was too desperate for blood to try and make them neat; six years old or maybe just six months. Some of them are too faded or too little for anybody else to see, but I know that they’re there. I know every single scar on my body, even the ones that have another doubled on top of it, and the moment I carved into myself to make them. I remember how the only light in my life that could fend away the darkness was the glint of the metal blade.

Somehow, my biggest concern was never how I was going to stop or why making incisions into my own flesh was the only thing that made me feel better. Instead, it was always about how I was going to hide the evidence of what I was doing and what other people would think of me if they saw. Instead, it was panic attacks if I lost one of my bracelets or if my Color Guard instructor asked me to take my jacket off in practice. Instead, it was the looks of disgust and shame and pity that occupied my thoughts from the first moment of every day. Ironically, this led me to cut deeper.

Honestly, I had never meant to take it this far. I guess none of us ever do. For some reason, though, it pulled me in further and further. Eventually, somewhere along the line, raised scratches that didn’t even start out drawing blood, somehow graduated to gashes that severed through layers and layers of skin and required a whole roll of gauze and multiple hand towels to stop the bleeding. I found myself googling “how to give yourself stitches” and “how much blood can you lose before you have to go to the hospital.” I found myself texting friends while crimson dripped off my skin and puddled in the bathtub, asking if they would be able to drive me to a hospital if I needed them to because I couldn’t handle another speech from a family member about how ugly and scarred my body was now and that nobody would ever love me or give me a job because of it. Every night, I would pray that the blood would stop because if it didn’t, I would’ve chosen to bleed out on the bathroom floor, rather than see the look on my parent’s faces when they would realize I had marred myself, once again.

Now that I’ve been clean for a while and the darkness inside of me is kept more at bay than it used to be, I look at other girls’ arms and wonder how it would feel to look down and see a clean slate again. While my skin is littered with dozens upon dozens of scattered lines and scar tissue, theirs is clear and beautiful; an appearance that I can never regain. Most days, I tell myself that my scars are part of what makes me who I am and I shouldn’t be ashamed of them because they reflect how hard I have had to fight to get to where I’m at. Others, though, are fueled by envy and regret and the realization that my family was right; I made myself a freak and now, that is all anybody else will ever see, too.

Every day, no matter where I go, I look at other people’s wrists- searching for any trace of proof that we are alike. Oftentimes, I go home asking myself what it means for me if I don’t come across anybody with scars, as I do. Is it because they’re locked up somewhere, as I should be? Is it because I really am so messed up that I am, primarily, alone in what I’ve done? Is it because most of us don’t make it this far? Has my way of coping doomed me to a path that only leads to suicide? It isn’t until I open my eyes a little wider and look for more signs than just visible scars that I realize that it isn’t only the self-harm that matters and makes us alike, but the darkness inside of us and the use of any coping mechanism at all. We all hurt. We all damage ourselves in one way or another. We all have a way that we ward off the pain, whether positive or negative. We are all connected. We are all damaged. But most importantly, we are all alive.

My scars may not be the most aesthetically appealing and some people may look my way and judge, but in the end, it doesn’t matter. I did what I needed to in order to survive; just like anybody else and this doesn’t make me any less beautiful or any less valuable or any less, in any way. No matter how you cope, you can thrive and come back from whatever grave you think you’ve dug because if you have a coping mechanism, it is proof that you are still fighting to stay alive. You still have hope, somewhere deep inside, and that is what’s important. The way you cope doesn’t define you and once you realize that and let go of your shame, you can move on and find a better way.