Scars.

I have accumulated more than a few scars in my life.

The one on my wrist, from when I tried to catch a falling glass, causing it to shatter. The babysitter didn’t think it was necessary to call my mother, but I really should have had stitches. Now and then, I get a sharp pain, and it is like I can feel the glass still in there.

The one on my leg from a couple months ago when I was shaving, and separated 2″ of flesh from my body. I still don’t know what was worse – actually cutting myself, or having to pull the skin out of the blade.

The tip of my left index finger that was almost severed when I couldn’t find my scissors to open the Velveeta cheese sauce, and used a knife instead. I still finished cooking and fed myself and the girls before going for stitches.

The ones that I gave myself throughout my teenage years every time the emotional pain got to be too much to handle. Whether I used a knife, my fingernail or an eraser, the scars are there… even the ones I can no longer see.

Strangely, I find that the ones that hurt the most are the emotional scars. Physical scars heal over time, some of them will fade, and be lost to the years that lay between them and the present. Emotional scars have a way of opening up again, even after decades of thinking they have healed.

You will never be beautiful

You are too fat, lose weight

You were prettier from a distance

The only reason you are still alive is that you are not worth the jail time)

You disgust me

You are stupid

You are worthless

You look like a whore

Why would anyone ever love you?

You are not good enough

You will never be good enough

You will never amount to anything

So many emotional scars cover my heart. They are in my mind constantly, sometimes seeming to close up, only to tear open suddenly weeping toxic pus and blood into me. Poisoning my thoughts, and making me want to curl into a ball and hide. It has been years since I have inflicted physical harm upon my body… years since I have made an attempt to end my life. Not a day goes by that I don’t shove one of the poisoned barbs deeper into my heart. After years of insults, and venomous words thrown into my face, I cannot seem to find my way out of the pain. I cannot seem to get to a place of acceptance and self love.

You cannot see these scars, unless you look for them in my eyes, but that does not make them any less painful.

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2 thoughts on “Scars.

  1. Pingback: Index of Posts. | Inside the Mind of a Dramatic Mother

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