I had scars in my arms but now the’ve almost disappeared. Be proud I am standing in front of you today. I will not live in the past, but I will never forget where I have been. That journey included the pain and suffering that led to each one of the scars. This journey I have been on has shaped every bit of who I am. I am never ashamed of the scars that remain they are part of my identity. Don’t fret that you wish you could “take this away” from me. Please don’t continue to let it exist in silence. This is an illness of great shame and secrecy. Only through honesty and openness can we beat the stigma of this disease. Please don’t look away with embarrassment or discomfort. It’s OK to acknowledge you see what is going on. Please don’t be afraid of the marks that you see.
I feel afraid of the capacity I have for self-destruction. But that doesn’t equate to being proud of the permanence of these scars. Yet there is an element of pride knowing I am conquering the battle of self-injury.
Angry at the past, angry at the help I needed, angry that things went so far. At times I see the scars and I feel angry. I wouldn’t go as far as to say that I am proud of them. They exist purely as fact, written on my skin. My scars don’t renew the pain I struggled with back then. I don’t stare in agony, berating myself for how I have permanently marred my skin. But seeing mine doesn’t cause me distress. Seeing them brings back memories too painful to live with. Some people think of scars as memories they want erased, events they wish hadn’t occurred. Each one is a piece of my life, a piece of me. Each one represents a journey, an emotion, a torment attached. There’s a lyric that goes: “My scars remind me/ that the past is real.” My scars tell a story. Are that many people truly ignorant or is it just more comfortable to accept what is an obvious lie and move on? In the early years, when there were fresh ones in various states of healing, I would scoff when someone asked, “What happened?” My responses varied from the barely believable “I was attacked by a cat” to “It’s a long story.” It frustrated me how many people seemed oblivious to the epidemic of self-harm. Most are discreet, but sometimes they get noticed.
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