Scars

Over 100 white scars of all sizes and shapes occupy the majority of my forearms, overlapping and pronounced against my brown skin. All of these are from self-harm.

For the last decade, my self-harm scars have been part of my body. In the sixth grade, I began self-harming to cope with my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. Soon, my OCD was accompanied by depression and anxiety. In high school, it got extreme. I wore bracelets up to my elbows, bandanas tied to my forearms or long sleeves every day. I managed to somehow hide this secret from family and friends until I finally landed in a psychiatric hospital in Iowa at three in the morning. This is where I began my long, rough journey to recovery. When I came back to school, I saw no point in hiding my scars anymore. I knew my scars were not considered “normal.” Just looking at them, you can tell that they were intentional.

However, until I started exposing my arms, I had no idea how big of a deal they would be to other people. People would stare when I first met them, some of them even asking what happened. Sometimes I would answer truthfully and watch their eyes grow uncomfortable. Sometimes I would create a different story. In high school, I worked at a summer camp. My campers would ask me about my scars and I would tell them, “I fought a tiger!” I felt conflicted about lying to my campers, but how was I supposed to broach the subject with eight-year-olds? The one question I am most tired of, the question my parents never fail to ask each time I see one of them, is: “Have you thought about trying to do anything about your scars?” The answer has always been no. I can honestly say, not once has the thought ever crossed my mind that I should try to fade or get rid of my scars. It’s not for some cliché reason like saying they “tell a story” or “remind me of overcoming.” It’s simply because I just don’t care. They are not hindering any part of my life. They are just another part of my body. Recently, however, I’ve noticed I don’t feel the same about other marks on my body.

I find myself lusting after the smoothness and flawlessness of other women’s skin. It seems so effortless for them, while I am left struggling. My arms, legs are covered in small ones from things like bug bites, and scratches. Stretch marks spread across my stomach, hips and thighs. My face is marked with acne scars. For some reason, I feel ashamed of these imperfections but not of my self-harm scars. I know it’s because it’s something out of my control (and I’m a bit of a control freak), but it’s hard to change how I view myself compared to others after a life-long struggle with self-confidence. I’m working hard to adjust my mindset to accept that my body is just very different from others. I have Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome, a connective tissue disorder that affects how my skin heals among other things. I scar more easily, my scars are larger, more prominent and almost impossible to get rid of. I am fat—or what I call “thick in the wrong places”. I am a brown woman, and most brown women have curves whether they like it or not. I battle a few mental illnesses, so I’m not always in a position to take care of myself. It effects every breath I take and how I perceive myself at all times. I know that these are things I cannot change. All I can do is work to make the best of the situations thrown at me, as someone who prides herself on being a “doer.” Whenever I need to convince myself to do something, I speak it into existence. If I tell enough people, I will be forced to follow through. Hopefully, by putting this out into the world, I will accept my body. I believe that not all bodies are the same, but should be cherished for all the abilities each one has. I hope I will truly accept that and learn to love my own body for what it is, not despite its flaws.

By Lissa Deonarain