Desperate for sharp stings that broke skin
She covered up the evidence with bracelets and the sleeves of sweaters
Far too long for her short arms
Didn’t want to see what she’d done
She was told cutting her wrists was a “cry for attention”
That she “wanted to be caught or she would have hidden it better
Under jeans or on her back”—
That only gave her ideas she had to fight down
Lines scattered across ribs that caged in lungs bereft of air
Lines weeping evidence of a depression she was told didn’t exist
Told to be stronger
Told you’re only pretty when you smile
When some days it takes hours in front of a mirror to pin that grin on
Torn between ending it all and proving them wrong
The temptation of the sudden surge of popularity on social media ever present in her mind
She saw countless kids at her school fail to reach out,
Instead reaching for the hands of others who’d gone on before
Following a dark path instead of leading their lives in a new direction
Her drive to succeed, the hunger to JUST BE
In the end it outweighed everything else.
She stopped hiding,
Traded her wrists for canvases, charged her paint with brash strokes
The physicality and process of creating something so completely her own
Grew into a new addiction, a different way to cope
To call back feelings when her mind went numb
Creation replaced destruction as a way of finding release.
For many years after her fall from grace you could still see the scars on her arms.
But sleeves gradually shortened
No longer stretched over bracelets, beaded and woven
Bright circles of metal replaced areas once covered by bandages
Bright mixtures collected from travels became reminders
Of why she shouldn’t cut anymore
Bracelets morphed from disguises to badges of love
Gifts to remind her that there were others who cared
That there were other ways to cope with depression that didn’t involve medication
That there was no shame in confessing she needed help or a hug
Mix up all these pronouns, he – she – we – us – them – ME
Replace she with I because this is my story and these are my scars,
Shallow enough that they faded with time
These days I wear them with pride
Though these scars were once embarrassing,
They catalogue my story, they act as storytellers
Speaking to all that I’ve overcome
Why should I cover them up with make-up, overdress them
When they’re best seen bare, framed by gifts given to me by those I love
San Francisco, Puerto Rico, Turkey, the Philippines
These scars have joined those that came from drama, comedy, and tragedy
But I don’t hide them and pretend they’re not there
There’s a heck of a story to go with my scars
Ones that rank with the times I’ve dived off cliffs and slid down mountains
I’m not afraid to be associated with what I once felt made me flawed
They’re simply a part of me,
Marks of a life experience etched on my body
More permanent than any inked tattoo
The pain I felt and dealt with moved me to reach out to others
Instead of falling deeper into myself
My scars remind me that life sometimes destroys parts of our lives
But it allows us room to create and replace what’s been lost to the times we go numb
I won’t be ashamed of my scars
So don’t be ashamed of your scars
They’re part of you
They tell your story
They’ll remind you how precious you are and how far you’ve come.