Scars.

My kitten scratched me. She is very playful, and she accidentally scratched me while I was playing with her. A deep scratch. On my left wrist.

My mum saw it happen, heard me exclaim "Ow!!" and asked if she had scratched me. I pulled back my sleeve and looked at the long, bright, glistening, strawberry score going down my arm.

I almost burst out laughing when I saw it because it directly intercepts a long, horizontal, white, ridged scar. One of many. One of many that I have given myself. It seemed ironically funny to me that I complained that that little scratch hurt, when there before me was clear evidence of a much deeper, longer, more painful cut that I had inflicted upon myself.

I'm not sure if my Mum saw that it cut through the scar - maybe I only noticed it because I know exactly where they all are and what they look like. However - she has never mentioned the scars to me before. I think she just doesn't want to bring that horrible time up. It's not like I hide them anymore, but no one seems to mention them. RG did once, but after my reaction, never did again. I saw my Dad staring at them when my bare arm was forced in front of his face on the tube when we went to London. I quickly moved it. But he didn't say anything.

I saw E for the first time since March yesterday. She pulled a worried face and said I looked too thin. She left it at that - no probing. I liked it. Later than night I went to the pub wearing skinny leggings and a T-shirt. No one said anything. I wanted them to notice. Maybe they did; but no one said anything. I hated that they didn't, but more than that, I hated that I cared that they didn't tell me how thin I am. Even though if they had, I would have been scared that they wouldn't drop the topic.

I remember well the first day that I didn't wear arm "warmers" to cover my arms, and I bared my scars to the world. It had began as a fashion statement for me I suppose, wearing the arm warmers (I was kind of "gothy"/"emo"). I would make them out of stripy knee high socks or footless tights, so that they would be long enough to cover 3/4 of my entire arm. I was never seen without them. They became useful when I began cutting. I was afraid that they would think it strange that I wore them in summer, but I had been wearing them for so long that it wasn't that big a deal. And I had made a thinner summer pair out of fishnet tights.

Then one day - a year or so after I stopped cutting - I decided that perhaps the ugly, purple stains, ridges and grooves had faded enough to white that I could perhaps not cover them. It was a very hot day, and I was growing out of my "emo" phase - the arm warmers didn't look right with my new wardrobe. So I didn't wear them. I was nervous, but kind of excited. What would people say when they noticed?

But they didn't.

I don't know if they didn't notice, or just didn't want to say anything. Maybe they already knew. I don't know.

It was a weird feeling. People must have seen them. They must guess what I did to myself.

It made me wonder. Those scars - that I gave myself - reflect a self destructive side of me. And I am doing exactly the same to myself right now, but in a way that could produce less obvious scars; a thin body can be covered up, pale faces can be painted, flaky skin can be moisturised, dry hair can be cut and dyed. But essentially it is the same. And are these scars more dangerous? I probably have much scarier scars inside of me - my bones and organs. Why am I so self destructive? For attention? I don't think so. I don't know.


It's like I am choosing to be unhappy.




I think that, for now, this is goodbye.