Beneath

Scars from the past six months are different. These are flat and coloured dull red, as opposed to the littering of white, raised scars of a year past, and these are different from those six years past. Arms and thighs read like braille, telling the story of nearly all my teenage life.

The reddened scars are mostly indents. Half of them probably warranted stitches, but only one is outlined with the tell-tale spots of carefully placed thread. For now they are more conspicuous than the rest, but these too will fade. What remains is beneath the skin. Fingers feel the scars that lie nearly half centimeters deep, thick stripes of healed flesh.

Often I don't want anyone touching me. But sometimes...sometimes I wish the doctors who give a cursory glance, enough to make a note in their charting, would stop and run their fingers over them. I wish those whose faces harden at the sight of them, (including doctors) would pause and make real the circumstances that brought me to these scars.

When I'm anxious I poke my hand up my left sleeve and search them out, tracing each one. These are what comes out of getting through. Although I wish I could choose to hide them, I know that each one represents me getting through, though one or two represent my not wanting to.

Wanting the searing flash of pain and calm interlude that follows each wound is completely separate with the scars it creates, but I haven't any idea what to do without either.

All this is my normal. This is my "everynight". Eventually, it becomes something else to different people. To ER docs and nurses, it can become an annoying hassle. To friends and family, a shocking reminder that all is not right. I forget that a lot, and take for granted that it isn't normal for everyone else as well.