Clandestine Confessions

I would only ever self harm on my right arm – restricted to the inner forearm.
I do not hide the scars.
Nor do I intentionally show them.
I will explain them if asked – which only one person ever has – very recently.
After I let that secret part of my story be brought to the light when preparing to announce my move.
It raised questions I answered with full transparency and zero fear.
And it was met with immense respect and love.
–
I have learned to adopt neutrality when I look at them…(most of the time).
It is only on the days where I feel most alive when their presence bothers me.
Not because of appearance but because of what they signify.
Feeling a bit like Frankenstein’s monster with this stranger’s arm attached to me.
The very opposite aesthetic of the bliss and peace and life being so beautifully curated by my spirit.
So far removed from the version of myself that carried that depth of sorrow.
–
Never once did the thought of these permanent scars cross my mind in the process of creating the temporary wounds.
And honestly, it would not have made any difference it did.
I was desperate for relief in the present moment.
I could have cared less about any repercussions in the future.
Scars seemed like a fair trade off for the ability to breathe again under that type of suffocating agony.
–
On a Tuesday evening in the fall I went to a concert with a friend – my belated birthday gift to him.
“Right inner wrist, please,” the woman at the door said.
She stamped an “OK” on each of us.
–
When I got home that night, while stirring my hot chocolate, I looked down at my exposed arm.
And for the first time in 15 years, my eyes didn’t lock with the scars.
They only saw those two bold, black letters.
–
An emblem now on that arm that spoke life.
Overpowering the presence of markings that spoke death.
One birthed from joy.
The other created from pain.
–
I didn’t see the trauma or feel the twinge of shame.
I didn’t have the flashbacks of a former self sitting in my purple chair at my desk in my bedroom begging God to make it stop – and taking matters into my own hands when my prayer was left “unanswered”.
I didn’t wish that arm to be made new…
–
Because all I saw was the memories of the night.
The constant looks we gave one another as we tried to digest the chaos that was the opening band.
My surprise hearing him sing “Walkin’ on the Sun” and me joining in.
Him laughing at some of my childhood stories most have never heard.
Me belting the lyrics to one of my favorite songs, just letting go, authentically me.
The 825 license plate that drove by right as he walked up behind me unexpectedly.
“Hey you!”
The sound of his voice amplified the butterflies.
And as I turned around, the sight of that smile weakened my knees.
Whatever this is, whatever it becomes, I will be forever grateful to know an emotion this beautiful in my lifetime.
–
I intentionally moved my eyes down to the scars.
Then back up to the stamp.
The tears now falling on a forearm that didn’t seem so foreign anymore.
I pulled my right hand to my heart and whispered a “thank you, God.”
Redemption.
–
If the past is what lead me here, and if the scars are the indicators of that pain, they can stay…
Without my judgment or hatred.
Because there would be no now if there was no them.
All of it had the purpose to lead me to this moment.
And how can I wish away the contributing designers to such a beautiful life…?