“What is that scar on your arm?”

I look at the scar they are so inquisitive about and looked at them in their eyes to respond, “I had an accident.” They have more questions, but I shy away from answering. Triggered by the question, I tense up from the curious voice. I didn’t know how much a long-raised scar on my left arm would cause people to be so intrigued. I barely even think about it, but for others, it's eye-catching.

I believe it was a vengeance my body did to me because it wanted me to stop cutting myself…

I started cutting myself in junior high school, where I felt I didn’t feel good about who I was. I didn't love myself as a young girl. I was cutting my arms with a sewing needle. I needed a release from the pain of low self-esteem I was battling. Each cut was setting me free of pain I endured in my own emotions. It was easy to do it in the personal space of my room. After the needle left my arm, the red lines will decorate my skin. I would hide my fresh scars from my parents with long sleeve shirts, but how long would it be concealed…

I remember my parents one day discovering it. I was sitting at the dining room table, and I remember the sun was coming brightly into the house through the window shades. I looked at the brightness of the sun to escape from the hidden darkness my parents had discovered. My parents asked me, “Why are you doing that to yourself?” The disappointment in their faces caused more pain in my heart. I'm crying, but I didn’t have the words to speak of why their young daughter didn’t know the proper way to deal with her pain.

Fast forward to my tumultuous relationship with my first love. I never felt as if I was enough for him, and the arguments he & I had were always detrimental to my weakened spirit. One day, the words he said to me broke me, and he had left the room. I took scissors and scarred all of the front of my thighs. He came back into the room, looked at me, and seen my thighs where my action saddened his face. I didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or disappointed for causing an action because of him.

It didn’t stop there, even with him saying to stop harming myself. Even though he told me to stop, his words and treatment towards me hurt me more than he knew. One day I cut my left arm because I couldn’t take the emotional suffering anymore. I did several cuts, but one cut so deep it reminded me of what I did to myself. While the few others are lightly permanent on my skin, there was one that showed me indeed what I had done to myself. I knew that was my body telling me I needed to stop.

After that scar, I have never cut myself again. I usually don’t think about the pain I inflicted on myself, but I am constantly reminded when someone asks while staring at my scar, “What happened to you?”