I Stand Unashamed

I do not apologize for my scars anymore.

Most of them are small, discreet. Some you would have to look for to find. But I have one set on my arm that can be spotted by those I come into contact with . I have agonized over these small white lines for almost two years.

I was not mentally “present” in my body when I made those marks . Still, the first thing I said to my mom was “I’m sorry.” I tried every possible means to hide them that I could think of from make-up, to different kinds of bandages, to long sleeved clothing.

I hid them out of shame and embarrassment. I hid them out of fear. I was afraid of the negative reactions that would come with having scars on my body. But hiding is difficult, some days I forgot , some days the cover just wouldn’t stick. Slowly as I grew confidence in myself I began covering my arm less and less.

This is when I really had to learn to stand up for myself. I had to be ready to accept negative feedback when it came in. And it came in.

Most of the time it was just a look, or maybe a whisper that wasn’t quiet enough. Other times people would take it upon themselves, whether I knew them or not, to tell me their opinion on the matter. As if they had all of the answers I lacked.

I look back at certain encounters and wish I could run a do-over with all the information I know today. I wish I could have stayed cool under pressure when I was berated at Walmart by a mom I had never met before. I wish I could have stood up to th e girls at YW Camp who spoke not far enough behind my back, or who told me I was going to hell. I wish I would have educated and informed, instead of running away , but there is no use dwelling in what could have been.

I prefer to focus on the now. In a few days time on June 16, 2016 I will celebrate one year free of self- harm. So now I do what I could not a year ago and stan d una shamed .

Do not misunderstand; I do not condone injuring one’s self in any way. I consider those who find it “beautifully tragic” to be either ignorant or in need of help, probably both.

But I do view my scars as a part of me and my story. I have sustained many injuries to my body that cannot be seen, these just happen to be on the outside. They tell the story of the girl I used to be. More importantly, my scars show me the person I am now. They show the healed white lines of an old mark that has aged with time. They show the battle s I fought and survived. They show the girl who has left them behind.

I go through the majority of my days without noticing them anymore. Only sometimes wi l l they catch my eye and I’ll find myself thinking of a world I used to live in.