My Scars

Confession time. I don't claim to be a saint by any stretch of the imagination. I don't even consider myself a great person, though many would argue that I am. While I've had a lot of wrong done to me, and been put in situations that for most would be a nightmare, there are things I've done—things that I think of that make a lot of people stop and say, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Tonight I've had one of those thoughts as I sit here at my desk looking at the fading scars on my left forearm. I used to hurt myself. No, I don't cut in the way most people think. There's no razors involved, or knives, glass. . . Instead I run my finger nails, or a wire brush, or even a screw over the flesh of my left forearm. I run it over and over again digging the item deeper until the skin starts to break away. It's like a self-induced road-rash. Very painful even when it heals. Every time I've done this to myself it's weeks worth of healing—painful healing. There's the itching, the tightness when the skin gets dry, then the scabs. . . It's not pretty. A lot of people confuse the wounds for burns. Like I had some accident in the kitchen. The reality is a lot less pleasant.

You probably wonder why I hurt myself. It's complicated, but the main thing that triggers my self-harming behavior is the flood of emotion—emotions I didn't process when messed up shit happened to me. I get just that, flooded by everything and it's so overwhelming that I want to rage. I want to scream, and yell, and hit things. I want to put my fist through the wall—I want to break shit, but growing up that type of reaction would have landed me in a bad place. Beaten and tossed in my room to cry myself to sleep. So I turn my rage inward, blaming myself for my own emotions—for not having control of myself. As an adult when I turn my emotions inward I punish myself for the way I feel. I hurt myself.

I'm not happy about it, and I don't like to hurt myself. I don't like pain but physical agony is a lot easier to deal with than emotional agony. At least for me.

This behavior has changed in the last year since I've been working with my therapist. I rarely feel anger toward myself, and instead place it where it should be. On those that hurt me, and it's coming up on a year since I last harmed myself. Yes, last Christmas I had to wear long sleeves because I had a fresh bleeding wound on my arm. I had to hide myself away because I was ashamed of what I did, but even more so because I lost control and hurt myself.

Tonight as I look at the scars that are fading the fact struck me that in another two years those scars will be gone. I won't have blotches from my wounds, and that saddens me. I know, that's weird to confess even in writing. But I will miss my scars and I want them back. It's enough to almost want to hurt myself again—to relive the pain so the scars back.

But why? Maybe I'm just fucked in the head, but hear me out.

I want my scars, the visible ones, because I'm wounded. No one sees the damage beneath the surface—the ugliness behind my smile—they don't know the battles I've faced, and how much courage it takes for me to open my eyes every morning. If I wore my every wound on the outside I would be covered in scars. . . I would look like the warrior I am, and that's what I want.

For people to see my damage and know I've survived, but more than anything, I want to see it. To be able to look down and see my past laid out before me—all the horror of it and know I survived the darkest of times. I don't want to forget how strong I am when I start to doubt myself. I want my scars—They are mine.

#BeautifullyScarred #Warrior

~Jax~