Living With Scars, Both Inside and Out
It all starts so innocently — the satisfaction of scratching a bug bite
The release of popping a pimple.
It starts small: broken skin from falling, a blister from running, a burn from the oven.
But then it takes on a life of its own.
It’s bloody sheets, stained clothes. It’s raw wounds. Red, swollen infected sores.
Sometimes it’s an urge so strong, a desire so intense.
“I must pick!”
Sometimes it’s subconscious — I don’t even realize I’m doing it.
“Why am I bleeding?”
The cycle continues.
It’s self-control during the day, and then bleeding all the way home because I just couldn’t wait .
It’s making up stories for the deep wounds: “
It’s a bug bite.”
“It’s from my skin peeling.”
“I have a boo boo.”
When the reality is I pick. I cannot leave it alone.
I use tweezers and nail clippers. Scissors and bobby pins. Anything to remove the scab.
It’s trying to hide it: Make up. Band-Aid. Long pants. Long-sleeved shirt.
I hate that I can’t stop it.
It’s feeling ugly every day, covered in scars, head to toe. Anywhere I can reach.
Scars and more scars.
Causing tears and more tears.
It’s despising this part of me. I can’t imagine feeling beautiful, or anyone else thinking I am.
Looking in the mirror, I only see wounds — scars.
Looking at my heart I see the same.
It’s trying to heal both my body and heart.
It’s recognizing small victories, and taking one day at a time.
It’s hoping and praying that some day the scabbing, picking, bleeding and scaring will be healed.
Both inside and out.
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