I have been finding myself staring at the scars on my arm lately. I can sometimes go hours or even days without noticing them. But then I look down and there they are, staring me right in the face. And it all comes rushing back. It is fair to say that I have put the extent of those emotions and that night in the farthest reaches of my subconscious. I don’t like to think about it. I don’t like to allow myself to go there. But then I look at my arms. And I remember. The other day I went to have some routine blood tests done. The girl who was going to be taking my blood asked me which arm I would prefer her to use. Not thinking, I held up both arms and the scars were perfectly visible. She looked at me and for that briefest of moments, I knew the thoughts that went through her mind. She quickly looked away and chose the arm that has the least amount of scars. I hate it. People used to ask me why I would I choose to make the scars so bad. As one person at my work puts it, “They are ugly. Truly ugly”. I know they are. Believe me, I know. But in that moment, I wasn’t thinking about the scars that would be there. I only cared about that moment. And I didn’t think about the long term effects because I didn’t expect there to be any. I didn’t expect to make it. I didn’t want to make it. But now I’m here. Forever scarred. Forever reminded of that one moment when I stopped caring. I want to just take it all back. And then other times I wish I had succeeded. But regardless of what I want, I can’t change what is. I can’t change the fact that my internal pain is now externally visible. To anyone who looks a little bit closer. To anyone and everyone.


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