It Could Be Worse…

The July theme for NaBloPoMo is SAVED. It seemed appropriate that I actually post this, instead of deliberating over the draft like I have been for the past few days.

Sometimes something occurs during your day that opens a door. It could be a wide open doorway that promises big rewards. Or it could just open a crack offering nothing but the opportunity to see what’s on the other side. And if you’re not in the right mindframe, you may not even notice the ray of light. But when you are, it’s hard to avoid.

As I just explained in an entry to win a free registration to the BlogHer ’10, I began this blog to share myself anonymously. For me, anonymous means candid honesty… so buckle up folks:

I followed an unusual path of links to come to www.postsecret.com — one of my favorite books but a website I’ve never before explored. It’s a book of mixed feelings for me. Post after post I find myself well up with emotion — sadness, pity, admiration, disappointment. And the website proves to have the same effect.

As I scrolled down, I stumbled on this: The Mirror

I stopped short in my tracks finger-scrolling as I became overwhelmed with pride. It was a sense of pride for the writer — for her disclosure — and for myself — for being able to completely relate.

The jagged scars that run up and down my thighs used to reflect pain. The were symbol of an unmanageable and undefinable form of agony that few — luckily — ever endure. They are in sets of two, three, four — each representing an occasion that left me at a loss for words or actions, and in a hole to which I saw no way out.

There was only one person I was outright honest with my cutting about. He was the only person who I couldn’t hide it from at the time. Yet, in retrospect, whether I couldn’t hide it, or I subconsciously opened that door for him in an attempt to band-aid the deeper wounds between us, I’m not sure. But on numerous occasions he saw the aftermath before my brain had surrendered to damage control — tissues, showers and boxes of band-aids.

I started with my arms — if you look closely, you can still see the faded criss-cross scars. These cuts took place before the change of view — when I still saw my depression as atypical and my happiness as my true self. At that point, I could still imagine a sense of regret over ruining the smooth, toned skin of my upper arms. It wasn’t long after that I began to see the sad me as the new norm. But by then I had switched canvases. My thighs were easier to hide from the public. So starting as high as I could, I decorated them in bright red slits. I’d cover them until they’d stop bleeding, and then I’d spend days picking the scars making sure they were on permanent display. I didn’t want to forget the pain and the focus it took to slice through my skin over and over, deeper and deeper. It required a level of determination that I, up until that point, had applied to few other places in my life.

Over the years, a few people have questioned me without knowing their cause. A few more I informed outright to avoid facing their surprise when they stumbled across my artwork. And then there were a couple of people intuitive enough to understand without questions — and  still brave enough to ask. They were the ones I was most impressed with: Although they had never shared in my past-time activity, it was clear they had an understanding of what it took. It’s been years since I wore shorts in public.

The entry that followed “The Mirror” said (it was sent in to the site by email):

As a psychiatric nurse, I struggled for months about whether to wear short-sleeved shirts or risk exposure of my past cutting… Most people stare…but last week I had a patient tentatively reach out and touch my scars. She looked at me and said, “I thought I was the only one.” I think it helped me more than it helped her.

And this explained my reaction to the entry above. It described my feelings every time I read about someone else’s experience with cutting. And it made me smile and well up all at the same time. The most empathetic personality can’t understand the state of mind that allows a person to slice their skin up like Thanksgiving turkey, unless they’ve been there themself. It the same as alcoholism or any other form of addiction. It’s a coping mechanism that only those who use it, can get it.

I’ve stopped — years ago. Yet the scars will be there always. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. As time went by and I learned new ways of managing and transforming my pain into happiness, they also transformed. They turned into an icon of personal perseverance. They remind me, every time I face an obstacle, that “it could be worse!” They scream, as the postsecret poster said, “I survived!”

…they also look kinda bad ass!!! (Bring it!)