Scars
TW: mentions of sexual assault, self harm, disordered eating, and suicide.
Scars are typically frowned upon, blemishes that indicate imperfection. But from a young age, I’ve appreciated my scars for what they truly are: evidence of living. The blob-like mark on my knee reminds me of the first time I went mountain biking; the white scrape outlining my ankle represents the immense effort I put into gymnastics.
When I was 8, I became part of a startling statistic that introduced me to a different type of scar. Over half of childhood sexual abuse occurs on school premises (CA Department of Ed.). Years later, when I could no longer push down the memory, I developed a mental scar, clinically dubbed PTSD.
For a while, I couldn’t view this mental scar with the same esteem as my physical ones. PTSD meant unrelenting flashbacks, often triggered by a place I had to return to each day: school. I was always on guard, as if holding my breath 24/7. My coexistent depression was a bottomless pit of agony.
I ate and ate and ate, shoplifting from Whole Foods and Safeway to fund the binges. I clung to my friends in an effort to keep them close yet ended up pushing them further away instead. I carved lacerations into my skin: not in neat rows down my arm like you see in movies but harsh, jagged marks scattered across my breasts and stomach. The pride I had in my physical scars dissipated as the childhood signs of adventure were replaced by disgusting reminders of my worthlessness.
At 13, I found myself frozen at the edge of the freeway, fervently wanting to leap into the traffic but somehow unable to take the step. When my only thought as I stumbled back home was I can’t even succeed at suicide, I knew I needed help.
Over the last five years of hospitalizations, medication trials, and many hours of therapy, I’ve learned to cope with PTSD so well I no longer meet the diagnostic criteria. Unlike physical scars, PTSD won’t fade over time if left alone. As scary as it was, I had to attack the remnants of my trauma head-on. I worked together with my therapist to reframe the narrative surrounding my assaults and gradually became more and more comfortable telling my story. I also participated in various Dialectical Behavioral Therapy groups to learn practical skills to manage the dissociation triggered by flashbacks and my urges to cut. Two weeks from today, I’ll hit 18 months free of self harm.
My depression is still a work in progress, but I’ve begun to appreciate the mental scars as signs of my resilience and character. I am healing as opposed to damaged and I am in tune with my emotions as opposed to overly sensitive.
To quote the famed Taylor Swift, “[I] drew stars around my scars.”