Yes, I have scars. Big ones. Lots of them.
Whatever. Get over it already.
I got interrogated about my scars by two of the employees at my favorite sushi place when I went to pick up my takeout order earlier tonight. I was wearing short sleeves, but my keen cultural observations tell me that this is common practice in places where it’s 90 degrees outside.
“What happened to your skin?”
*check to make sure I don’t have crazy kung fu bruises or anything* “Uh…it’s a long story.”
“Did you get hurt?”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Were you skiing down a mountain?”
*make a WTF face* “No, I don’t know how to ski.”
I have never been gladder to get my takeout and get the hell out.
It’s been a long time since I’ve been interrogated about my scars. Granted, most of the people I see on a daily basis are either psych professionals or psych patients, but still. I don’t expect that from random people on the street. They stare, sure. It makes me self-conscious and ashamed, but I’m used to that. But generally people have the decency not to say anything.
I mean, they’re pretty obviously self-inflicted. It’s hard to look at them and not know I did it to myself.
I’d gotten to the point where I was mostly okay going out in short sleeves, but now…self-consciousness and shame overload. I’m meeting tomorrow with somebody from the local Obama campaign about volunteering, and I might also be meeting with a defense attorney about doing some legal research work for him. I hadn’t really thought much about the clothes, but now I feel the need to cover up all my scars. That would mean, however, wearing long pants and long sleeves, and it’s supposed to be 93 tomorrow. So I don’t think I will. Probably people will have the decency not to ask…but maybe they won’t.
I wish I could have a redo. Then again, I honestly don’t think I could’ve done it differently. I needed the self-harm because, for a long time, it was the only coping skill I had. The trauma was so severe and pervasive that normal coping skills couldn’t come close to helping. I think if I hadn’t self-harmed, I would’ve killed myself, and I really am glad that didn’t happen.
I’ve tried to embrace them as battle scars or whatever, but honestly I find that trite and stupid. They’re not battle scars; they’re scars from tearing myself to pieces with any sharp thing I could find, over and over and over for more than half my life. I wish I didn’t have the scars, but I’m not sorry that this was how I survived.