A Body Full of Pain

The scars they did fade eventually, this was true. She glanced down on the top of her forearm where a sliver of a scar used to be visible, almost white in color. Images of the stark white bathroom tile she sat on while sobbing through the noises just beyond the door crossed her mind. Her mother crying faintly, her father screaming ungodly and hurtful words in her face. He could be hurting her, she thought. He probably was. I should call the police, she thought. But she was always too afraid. Fear and anger clouded her thoughts. Anger that her mother allowed herself to be treated this way, fear for her mother, fear for herself. When her sobs calmed down long enough for her to open the sink cabinet from where she sat on the floor, she reached behind the box of tampons and pulled out a small paring knife. The blade was dull, the sharp tip had broken off years ago. Nobody has missed it for as long as it had been missing from the kitchen. This is where she did what she knew was wrong - what was painful in every way, yet as soon as it was over, her breathing had ceased to a normal rate, her tears only steady and few and far between, her sobs finally stopping completely. She sat leaning against the bathroom sink with her eyes closed for a few minutes before she cleaned up the mess. Wet toilet paper to wipe her skin, then balled up and stuffed it in the bottom of the trash can. The knife carefully ran under hot, running water and then quickly stashed back underneath, behind the box of tampons. 

Those memories on that bathroom floor now felt far away. The scars on her arms were now faded and numb. The one particular scar on her forearm - the largest one - now covered by a tattoo of an atom. A reminder that the universe, so large, contained so much more than she knew, and that she was just a tiny speck within it. And everything within the Universe, just as her, belonged here, existing without a doubt, every tiny unit of matter - mattered.

"I celebrate myself and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you." -Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

Now looking at her reflection in the mirror, she softly touched a spot just below her collar bone. A flash of angry eyes came before her, boring down into her own. She could not remember what he was angry about, but her memory of the pain still lingered. When she closed her eyes she saw his, his face so close to hers as he spat vicious, demeaning things at her. Making her feel smaller and smaller, backing her up towards his bedroom wall with his strong arms, his palm slamming into her chest as he took that one last step causing her back to hit the wall. He left his hand there, just under her collar bone and though she did not feel it at that moment, she would feel the pain later, left by a bruise where his hand had slammed. She thought about the times she hid in the bathroom while her father did the same. Did her mother feel this pain, or worse? The scars on her arms showed her pain, her fear that kept her from leaving that bathroom floor. And there she was, trapped in a relationship, same as her mother was all those years ago, small and helpless to a man who only knew control. 

It was her anger that carried her through that relationship, but mostly strength that helped her get out. For weeks the bruise on her chest reminded her that she could have helped her mother in those times, but did not. That was the anger. For weeks she had to hide that bruise, the same way she hid her pain and unhappiness for the two years that she could not escape. Then came the strength that she needed to leave. She did not have the strength as a young girl to get up from that bathroom floor. But she mustered up the strength as a young woman to stand up for herself. Years later in front of that mirror, fingering the spot on her chest just under her collar bone, the memory of the pain now covered by a tattoo of the word, imagine. Small and delicate, inked in cursive, a reminder of all the potential she had, the strength, the anger - but could only imagine in that moment in time. That time was in the past, and the word only pushed her to imagine more. More for herself, more for the people in her life now that she loves and trusts. 

Imagine your life as you want to see it, then go live it.

The scars and the bruises will fade, in time. It is a piece of your life, something conquered and met. A sign of pain overcome.

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Thank you for reading! The piece above was inspired by the poem, linked below.