Yes. That is my arm, and yes, those scars are real.
I know they're real because I put them there, though at two very different points in my life.
The bottom one came into being when I was about 17 years-old. The top one came not even a year ago.
I'd like to tell you I got because of something noble like fighting off a bear or defending a lady's honor from a gang or something, but no. I got them because...in those moments, I hated myself so much that I didn't even really think at all. I just acted.
You may ask why in the name of common sense would I do something like that? The simplest answer is common sense had nothing to do with it.
It came down to cause and effect. I screwed up. BADLY. And just feeling as terrible as I did on both accounts wasn't freakin' good enough. A more severe and lasting symbol of punishment was needed. In all honesty, I don't remember how much they both hurt, or the blood, or how long they took to heal.
I just remember feeling with every fiber of my being that they belonged there. They serve as a reminder to me of just how much I can hurt someone I care about, as well as how dangerous an unrestrained mind can be.
According to the Mayo Clinic, whom I would like to think know what they're talking about when it comes to this stuff more than most junk you find on the internet these days, defines such an act as:
"Self-injury is an unhealthy way to cope with emotional pain, intense anger or frustration. While it may bring a momentary sense of calm and a release of tension, it's usually followed by guilt and shame and the return of painful emotions."
Their assessment isn't wrong, at least not from where I sit. When I made the reflexive decision to go grab a knife and gash myself with it, I was emotionally as far down in the abyss as I think I'd ever been, even with everything I've gone through (which, sadly, is quite a lot). Except in this case, where I could say it was another example of how dangerous and twisted I became while being completely folded into my Yang, there is another aspect which I cannot overlook either.
The reason why those scars exists is because I was completely and unbearably heartbroken. I wish I had a better excuse, but there it is.
In those moments, I felt so alone, so dejected, and in so much mental and emotional pain that in my mind, I needed some kind of physical marker to identify what I felt and why I felt that way.
Did I feel better afterward? A bit. I've heard people who get tattoos tell me that while it hurts like hell for the first few minutes, there comes a point where the body and mind begin turning that pain into something akin to an endorphin high, which is why they say getting inked can be somewhat addicting after a while.
When I look at them now, though, there is also the guilt that comes with why they exist in the first place. I will say I've been able to let the first one fully heal in the years since I put it there. It took almost 15 years, but it got to the point where I didn't mentally tear it back open anymore.The second one may take as long, I don't know. In some ways, that's not entirely up to me.
We all bear our own scars, either on or underneath our skin, and each one tells a story of times where we weren't as careful as we should've been. And the lesson we take away from them is often to not put ourselves in such a position where we can stand to get hurt like that again.
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