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My work forces me out of doors.... this means that i get a rather large amount of sun exposure. I was working on monday in Speedway with a coworker of mine, Chris. He and I were chatting and joking about parties we'd been to recently or in the past year. We talked about our friends. We had never really worked together alone before so it was nice to talk to one another. As the day progressed and my skin began to burn, I noticed my scares on my arms were popping out all the more. At one point he looked over at me and asked, "Are you one of those people who cuts themselves for pleasure?"
"Yes, well, ummm...." I paused again. Spoken words have never been my strong suit. "I was depressed and nothing was real anymore. Then, that was. It kept me going and so no one needed to know and now it doesn't matter."
I've been sitting here playing with one of the scars on my arm and remembering the start of my cutting spree. I bare the scars as a reminder of what I've survived. I remember things that will never come out of my mouth. I remember situations that I don't want to and they're recorded.
Looking at my arm now, my legs, my sides, I see the scar tissue bubblign over the old wound from years ago. Bubbled relics of the "nameless" past. I will say this though : I do not regret it (note in my thought on 'regret' that I said that I strive to not regret anything). I'm almost glad, now, that I have gone through those things, that I survived them. I miss cutting sometimes because it was, for so long, my coping mechanism. I would cut and then life would remind me that it was there. Now I'm to simply be....
I remember the night that this scar happened, I remember the temperature, I remember my reactions, I remember everything. I just don't remember where it started anymore. I remember when I started cutting but I don't remember why.
There was a night when I was younger where I gave it to my arms pretty good with a razor blade pulled out of a disposable razor. Not the first, not the last. I did it on my upper arms because I didn't want any shit from responsible adult types. A few days later, I forgot and wore a girly shirt with cap sleeves to my grandmothers house, and she asked who had been cutting on me. I said no one. She didn't say anything else, and I thought she had dropped it. My boyfriend of the time (with the winter blue-gray skies for eyes) came over a while later, and we sat on the couch, snuggling. I went to the bathroom, and came back into the living room to find my grandmother waving a damn rolling pin around and yelling at blue eyes, telling him that if he ever cut on me again in a weird sex game or however the hell it happened, she'd crush his torso when she killed him so she could use his skull as a candy dish. The only way to clear him was to fess up. So she sent blue eyes packing, and sat me down to give me a big ole lecture on the devil and stupidity and germs. I listened because I love her. But jeez...
I have a great many scars on my person.... Ranging from my years of depression landing me with a few too many bubbled up scars on my arms and legs to the time the dog dragged me across the driveway when I was five....now I have a lovely scar on my calf. Then you have the great many random scars on my knees from falling down, on my calves from running into things, on my hands from other incidents. I have burn marks, random work-related incidents leaving their mark. And I'm always covered in the scars that no one will ever see because they're the ones that have made me who I am today. I will continue changing and becoming the person that I need to be whoever that happens to be.