I have mixed feelings about my scars. Anyone who’s ever self-harmed knows you don’t do it where others will easily see and because of that, the majority of my scars aren’t too obvious. Those scars I’m okay with. They remind me how real my past was. If I ever forget, everything is there permanently written on my body. For the most part, these scars blend in with my fair skin and are only really visible when I tan. And, of course, I have a story for every one of them. I’ve told the lies often enough that the stories slide out of my mouth without a single stutter or any hesitation.
My issue is with a pair of scars located on the inside of my forearm. They are pure white against my pale skin and slightly raised. Two scars about half an inch long, running perfectly parallel to each other. It’s completely different than the mess on my calves. It’s perfect. How do you account for a perfect pair of scars? I don’t know. The only story I’ve ever been able to come up with is that my friend’s cat scratched me as a child. Does it get any more cliche? Does it get any more obvious? I’m chronically self-conscious about them. And the worst part? Comparatively, it is incredibly rare that anyone ever asks about them. That must mean they know the truth and are too polite to bring it up in conversation, right?
So what do I do? I’ve looked into scar removal and haven’t been told any answers that I’d like to hear. I have no interest in wearing long sleeves year-round. So what do I do? I don’t know. I suppose I’ll let you know if I ever figure it out. Until then, my dark past is written in white on my arm for the world to see and to judge; dirtying my otherwise bright and pretty appearance. I hate that.
originally written May 28, 2013