I have a very awkward scar on the inside of my left thigh. Whenever I go swimming, I have to debate whether or not I cover it with BandAids or just hope nobody notices. It’s a pretty big area that it takes up, and a difficult one to write off to an accident. The scar looks like it says “FUCK.”
Because it does.
And it was no accident.
I carved it there on 13 April 2011 using a pair of scissors.
What I remember of the occasion is a bit of a blur.
Essentially, my future slipped from my grasp. Things spun out of control. If you go back in the archives to around that month, you’ll realize it was when I was still in, “WHERE THE FUCK AM I GOING TO COLLEGE?!” mode. It was starting to look like money would dictate where I would receive an education, and because of that, I would not receive the education I really wanted, and because of that, or so my insane mind decided, I would not receive the future I really wanted. The slippery slope logical fallacies were in abundance. If I can’t get A, I can’t get B or C or D or Z. I jumped from one month to one decade and decided my life would never be what I wanted it to be.
And for some reason, I decided a good way of coping with that would be to carve an obscenity into my leg.
It didn’t hurt, no. In fact, it felt good. It felt like orgasming continually. My leg would shake. It almost came in layers: this good dangerous feeling and beneath that, a hint of pain, a hint of how it’s supposed to feel to scrape scissors against your skin.
Scissors are rather blunt. They’re not razor blades; they don’t slice right through neatly and evenly. You have to hack a bit, go over your lines several times. The curves were particularly hard; scissors don’t like making curves.
My mother spotted it several months later when we were shopping for clothes.
“What’s that?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Did you do that?”
“Yeah.”
And that was roughly the extent of it. Later I got a text saying I needed to go back to therapy.
My boyfriend, of course, knows of it. He finds it fascinating. He finds my whole mental state fascinating because it’s completely incomprehensible to him. He is never judgmental, but sometimes it’s hard feeling how distanced he is. I guess it’s better than him pretending he understands, but as usual, I feel alone.
Alone with my scar.
I didn’t think it would scar. Had I known I would carry the word “FUCK” on my leg for months on end, I probably would not have done it. Although that may not be accurate. I wasn’t thinking about months into the future. I was only thinking about then, and about how then, pain bubbled beneath the surface and maybe if I cut a little open, it would pour out of me. Maybe if I could see it, if I could make it something real, then… I don’t know. What then? I don’t know.
There is no logic in insanity; that’s why it’s insane.
I am ashamed of the scar though. I was supposed to be better by 13 April 2011. I was not supposed to be crazy like that anymore, but I was. I carry the evidence with me.
As usual, this sickness is so deeply a part of me that it is ingrained in my very skin. It is only a familiar metaphor made concrete, I suppose. Here is your illness haunting you; look down if you need a reminder. It’s right there. Always.
It’s always there.
