Claudia Azinger

Scar

Scars. Such a touchy subject. It’s strange how some view those with scars as heroes until they discover they were self inflicted. As I look at the red marks covering my thighs, and those that rest upon my wrist, I am reminded of how strong I am. People say self harm scars make one weak. I feel the opposite. There was once a time when my mind and body would go numb and the only way to feel was to hurt myself. I had to bleed to know I was still alive. When I began to hurt inside, moving the hurt to the outside helped. The saying “stick and stones will break my bones, but words will never hurt me.” is the biggest lie. Ever. I spent about 12 years of my life listening to my own blood talk me down. I began to believe the words that spewed from their mouths. My mind would spin and my entire atmosphere would darken. I was not worthy. I was the biggest mistake my parents ever made. I would never be successful. As the world grew lighter again, more scars appeared. My step mother once told me I was doing it wrong and if i wanted something to happen I should go deeper. My mind began to believe her words. I should have tried harder. I havent self harmed in 4 months and 2 days. That is 122 days clean. I’ve been dealing with this “addiction” since the age of 10. That's 5 whole years of scars collected among my body. Scars should not be a touchy subject. It needs to be talked about. I know how it feels to be alone. 5 years ago, summers were spent in hoodies and leggings. Nights were spent running my hand along to sections of my body that were inflamed. Days were spent resisting the urge to itch the fresh cuts due to fear of breaking them open. Green concealer and foundation dripped off my legs in the shower as I hoped to cover the bruises scattered along my legs. No one could know. I thought this was a secret that would go to the grave with me. I was waiting for the day where words could no longer affect me. When my conscience shut off. People began to notice. It was too hard to hide. When band aids were exposed and I could no longer pull it off as a small scrape. Scars were my only way to cry out for help. Most of middle school I was labelled as “the girl who cuts herself”. I was 5 months clean when that one was sprung upon. Right back to the beginning I went. The memory of my mothers eyes when I told her I was cutting is forever etched in my mind. My heart breaks when I think about that night. It was 2 in the morning. Friends played downstairs as she slept on the couch. She jolted awake as I sat next to her and cried and shaked. Her eyes began to sink. I hadn't seen her this way in years. For the first time in years, I was finally heard. Since this night, my mom and I have been talking about everything. Anytime I feel an emotion, no matter how strong, I tell mom. I’m doing the best I possibly can. Therapy sessions, medications, coping skills, all of it. I like to believe that I am proof. Proof that it gets better. Proof that there is light at the end of a dark dark tunnel. Proof that life is worth living. It gets better. At the end of the day, I don't think I’d ever want to remove my scars. They have become part of me. Part of my story.