“What’s that?” he asks. My eyes shoot to my forearm and I cringe as I realize that I have now exposed my 7-year-old brother to the world of self-harm. I pull my sleeve over my hand and hold it with my dainty fingers. “It’s nothing my love, I’m fine.” “Did someone hurt you?” he asks. I pause for a moment. I nod. “I don’t like that person who hurt you.” My heart burns within my chest and I force a smile, and take his hand, walking back toward the playground.
Summer nights, sundress, high heels. “Whoa, are you okay?” She asks, bending down to blood-soaked bandage that covers my ankle. Crap, I forgot to change it earlier. I laugh it off. “I’m totally fine. Shaving accident, that’s all.” She giggles. “You’ve always been a clumsy one,” she says.
1am, my sister gets home from a night out with friends, and finds me on the floor of my room, blade in hand. Rips it away from me, and throws a fit. Screaming and nearly slapping me a few times. I deserve it. I am doing a terrible thing.

Two years of bad decisions, of self-destructive behavior. Progress, very slow, but existent. Strength penetrating my veins, ever so slowly. And now, battle wounds. Fading away. A sign of persistence and determination. I will grow stronger, I will grow stronger, I will grow stronger. Still growing, I’ll never be done. Still, the marks remain. They still burn sometimes. I can’t tell if it’s a physical pain from the scars or a mental. Somewhere along the way, the two melded together. Lots of pain, lots of marks.

But I am not my scars. I refuse to allow the pain of my past to define my being. I am not bound by chains to that pain I once felt, and I will not be a prisoner inside my own skin, no. I am more than the mistakes I have made, the wrong I have done.
Mean girls, self-imposed inadequacy, and dark thoughts. That’s what led me to my poor choices. Endless amounts of self-loathing. It is no one’s fault but my own. I allowed external forces to control my emotions. I made the decisions I did.

I dream of reminding others who struggle with the same things that they are not alone. I am acutely aware of those who also have marks on their bodies. No matter they arrived there, they symbolize strength. We are all fighting battles. Each one of us, a warrior. And for those who don’t make it, I say a prayer, and hope that life goes on in some other manner in some other world. For those who do, I feel pride. Proud of them for pushing on, for keeping track of the light at the end of the tunnel. I feel pride for each and every person who is able to weather the storm, able to stay strong, and able to sport those scars with confidence.

We are not our scars.