[From the Diaries]
I don’t really love my scars.
Honestly, I hate them. I hate them every time I see them because they’re so ugly. And that anger always pulls me back to the moment they happened. It’s an instant trigger, something I’ll probably have to live with for a long time.
The scars from before had mostly healed. They were barely visible anymore, like quiet reminders fading into the background. Until this last time.
I hate myself for doing it. I hate how visible my suffering has become, how it sits on my skin for everyone to see. It feels like something that should have stayed private, but instead it’s written on my body.
But strangely, I don’t think about it all the time.
I just live with it.
Some days I notice them more than others. Some days they make me angry. Some days I wish I could erase them completely. But most days, they’re just there, part of the landscape of my body, part of a story I didn’t know how to survive any other way at the time.
I don’t love them. I’m not ready to call them beautiful.
But they are proof that I’m still here.
She Was Sea 