1. MY VISIBLE SCARS: A story of why I used to cut myself.
I always lie about my scars; scars on my arms. The safe story is that I felt through a door made of glass. It was a terrible accident! In my imagination, a lot of blood, pain, and screaming. Confusion and concern from my family, “Are you OK?” when in reality, I'm just sharing a memory I had of a woman that I heard fall through a glass doors at my home when I was a child. I wasn’t even allowed to leave my room when I heard it and the ambulance came.
My mother’s women were the worse. Dramatic screamers with violent behaviors who would throw pots and dishes at my mother whenever they fought. For years, I cooked my food with a broken banged up pot that could not fit a lid anymore. My needs were pretty much ignored my entire life. I dealt with so much shit in my life I could open a business selling manure.
So the scars on my arms are a memory of that time. I try not to see them anymore but when I do, I don’t think about that time where I hurt so much. When I had to divert the pain from my heart and my head to another part of my body. It’s not that I tried to end it all; I was just trying to pacify the pain for a while and focus on something else. A shift from my heart to my arm from my brain to my arm so when someone asks, “Where does it hurt?” I could say, “My arm, my arm hurts the most … not my heart not my brain but my arm.”
So even today, the scars on my arms are a constant reminder of where I came from and where I'm at today!
I always lie about my scars; scars on my arms. The safe story is that I felt through a door made of glass. It was a terrible accident! In my imagination, a lot of blood, pain, and screaming. Confusion and concern from my family, “Are you OK?” when in reality, I'm just sharing a memory I had of a woman that I heard fall through a glass doors at my home when I was a child. I wasn’t even allowed to leave my room when I heard it and the ambulance came.
My mother’s women were the worse. Dramatic screamers with violent behaviors who would throw pots and dishes at my mother whenever they fought. For years, I cooked my food with a broken banged up pot that could not fit a lid anymore. My needs were pretty much ignored my entire life. I dealt with so much shit in my life I could open a business selling manure.
So the scars on my arms are a memory of that time. I try not to see them anymore but when I do, I don’t think about that time where I hurt so much. When I had to divert the pain from my heart and my head to another part of my body. It’s not that I tried to end it all; I was just trying to pacify the pain for a while and focus on something else. A shift from my heart to my arm from my brain to my arm so when someone asks, “Where does it hurt?” I could say, “My arm, my arm hurts the most … not my heart not my brain but my arm.”
So even today, the scars on my arms are a constant reminder of where I came from and where I'm at today!
