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.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |