Beyond the Scars I Made

I trace the scars with my fingers, running over lines that have long since faded. Some are almost invisible now, just faint reminders of all the nights I thought pain could fix me.

I used to think it helped. That if I could just cut myself deep enough, it would silence the ache inside me. If I could just burn my skin longer, it would balance something out, make things right.

But it never did.

I remember the first time. My hands were trembling, but my mind was made up. I hurt myself on purpose, determined to leave a mark. That moment of impact was everything, sharp, immediate, a distraction. A punishment.
Because sometimes, it wasn’t just about replacing the pain. It was about earning it. I thought I deserved to hurt. For not being strong enough. For being too much, or maybe not enough. For the words I couldn’t say, for the mistakes I couldn’t take back. I thought pain could make up for all of it.

And for a moment, it almost did. The sting of my skin burning, the tightness in my chest loosening as I sank under water, the snap of a hair strand yanked from my scalp, each one a tiny relief, a moment where the noise in my head quieted.

But only for a moment.

Because the pain didn’t erase the voices in my head. It didn’t undo the past or heal the wounds. And when the blood dried, when the sting faded, all that was left was me, still hurting.

And now, looking back, I see it for what it truly was.

I became my own abuser.

All those people who hurt me, who tore me down, who made me feel worthless, I carried on their work. I picked up right where they left off. If my younger self saw me now, she wouldn’t just be disappointed. She’d be terrified.

Because the one person she thought might protect her turned out to be the one who hurt her the most.

That truth sat heavy in my chest the day I finally saw it. It crushed me. But maybe, in a way, it also saved me. Because once I saw the truth, I couldn’t unsee it. I couldn’t pretend that my pain was healing me when all it did was deepen the wounds.

So I started looking for something else. A way out. A way forward.

At first, I didn’t know what healing looked like. I only knew what it wasn’t. It wasn’t a blade. It wasn’t bruises. It wasn’t punishment. It wasn’t drowning in shame.

Now, I know that healing is slow and messy. It’s repeatedly choosing to put the lighter down, even when my mind screams for relief. It’s letting myself feel the ache, anger, and sadness, without trying to bleed it out. It’s learning to speak kindness to myself, even when I don’t believe I deserve it.

And one day, I looked down at my hands, and they weren’t shaking. I traced my scars, and they weren’t fresh.

I am still here. Still breathing and healing.

And that? That’s something worth holding on to.

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