The Scars I See
I see scars. They are faint, but they are there. I was ashamed of them for a very long time. Never showing them, always feeling self-conscious and afraid of what others may think. After all, the scars I see are not from tripping and scraping my knee. They are not from the accidental cuts you get while chopping onions. They are self-inflicted.
They say you are your own worst critic, that you see every flaw within yourself, even ones others don’t know exist. In the past, I saw each scar as a flaw. A time when I messed up. A time when I stooped to the lowest of the lows. A time when I failed.
But now… I see scars. And I am not ashamed. I am not afraid. Because these scars have the power to show me how strong I am. To tell me that yes, I had moments, but then I got back up. That for seven years I was not able to abstain from creating these marks, but now here I am. It’s been almost two years that I’ve held myself back. I’ve held myself up. I’ve won the fight.
When a soldier comes back from war, he may be wounded. He may feel weak at times. But those wounds tell stories of his bravery.
My scars… are like battle scars. Each one tells a story, criss-crossing in little patterns on my arm like a connect the dots puzzle. Screaming at people, telling them I am not a weak person. I am a strong fighter.
And I will not give up.
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Thinkstock photo by Ingram Publishing