Six—almost seven—years ago, a part of who I was,
Who I ever thought I would be
And who I will be, was changed.
In my mind, the image is clear as day.
Like my eyes had taken a digital still-frame of the day.
Something so small, so common
Ignited the fire that I would find myself running from
For the years to come.
A little red bump sat raised on my forearm.
A mosquito bite.
Irritation was growing and I couldn’t keep myself from
Scratching until it was raw.
My skin was warm to the touch. Like my own personal heating pad.
If only I had known at the time
That when that needle-nosed villain penetrated
Through my skin, that he would be injecting
A lifelong poison into my veins.
I scratched and scratched,
Digging my nails harder into my skin with each stroke.
It wasn’t until a few days later that I realized
How great it felt.
From that day forward I began to retreat.
Hiding the marks that would decorate my body
For weeks to months to a lifetime.
Fingernails turned to paperclips,
Paperclips to safety pins,
Safety pins to knives,
Knives to razors.
It became my only release. It was my way of coping.
My body and mind were numbed to anything
That the world threw at me. I didn’t have to deal with the hurt emotionally.
Mental problems are far too complex to understand
But physical pain in universal. If I could feel the pain
Then I was at ease.
Bad day at school: cut.
Parents are fighting: cut.
Don’t understand homework: cut.
It becomes an addiction. The rush you get is a feeling you can’t explain.
My skin started to itch for that blade to flesh contact.
Seeing the gap between my skin and knowing that I caused it
Is the greatest satisfaction.
There are people that take pride in their accomplishments;
I take pride in my destruction.
I don’t rush to clean up the mess either. Rather I sit there and watch
As the crimson rivulets flow smoothly along
The contours of my body.
Letting my body as a whole become
Stained in my wreckage.
This addiction grew to the point
That I stopped looking for reasons to do it.
I simply acted on impulse.
With the year reaching its end, the idea of resolutions were fresh in my mind.
It was then that I made the choice to leave my self-inflicted pains as nothing more
Than a memory of the past.
While my ego is filled with shame,
Knowing that I caused such harm to myself,
I would never take it back.
It’s made me who I am. It’s made me a stronger person.
And as I pen the words to this poem I realize that I am 419 days clean.
No longer am I shamed by my scars.
Instead I wear them as battle marks that prove my strength and survival.