Content warning: this post gets a little heavy and deals with some not-so-fun thoughts. take care of yourself while reading, okay?
My scars itch. They have for a long time, actually. I never really thought much about it before. It was just another annoying thing my skin did. But lately I’ve noticed how fucking unbearable it can get. It’s not just a little itch. Sometimes it feels deep, almost burning, like the sensation is coming from somewhere underneath my skin rather than from the surface. And when it happens, my first thought is basically, “Oh shit, it itches so fucking bad,” followed immediately by scratching.
Harder.
Then harder.
And sometimes I realize I’ve made it worse. There might be a few tiny spots of blood, and logically I know that means I should stop. Instead, something in me wants to keep going. I want the itch to disappear, but at the same time I want to make it worse. It’s such a stupid contradiction. I know scratching is the reason it keeps getting worse. I know that. I actively tell myself to stop. I stop for maybe two seconds, and then somehow I’m doing it again.
Sometimes I don't even notice that I've started until I'm already doing it.
What makes it worse is that the itching seems to appear whenever I feel uncomfortable. Anxiety, sadness, anger, loneliness, frustration, shame. Even happiness, sometimes. Apparently my skin doesn't care whether I'm having a good day or a terrible one. It just finds a way to remind me that it's there.
And I hate that my scars are part of this.
Not because I hate looking at them, exactly. I don't really look at them much anymore. They're all blended together now. I don't see individual scars and remember exactly when each one happened. They're just scars. But I remember some of the circumstances. I remember enough.
Each one came from some version of me who was going through something. That's probably why, when I'm alone, I sometimes look at them differently than I do when I'm outside my room. When other people could see them, my brain immediately goes, “Attention seeker.” I pull my sleeves down. I don't want anyone thinking I'm trying to make a statement. I'm not. It's personal. It's complicated. It's mine.
But when I'm alone, that thought changes.
Sometimes I think I miss it.
And that's the part I don't really like admitting.
There is something about my scars that feels almost poetic to me, which makes me feel sick to even say. Not because the scars themselves are beautiful in some objective sense, but because they represent something. They are evidence that all of those versions of me existed. They are proof that I went through things that felt unbearable at the time. If someone saw them without knowing anything else, maybe all they could say is, “That person has been through a lot.”
And sometimes I think that's exactly what I want them to say.
Because I'm scared of them disappearing.
I know that's not logical. I know healing doesn't erase what happened. I know that if my skin eventually looked completely normal, the past wouldn't suddenly become fictional. But emotionally, it doesn't feel that simple. Part of me is afraid that moving on would mean leaving everything behind. That if the scars disappeared, some part of my story would disappear with them.
Maybe that's why I'm not ready to let them go.
Or maybe I'm not even sure I want to be ready.
That's a horrible thing to admit.
I want to want to recover. I really do. I want to reach a point where this isn't something I have to fight with myself about. I want the temptation to stop feeling like a familiar voice waiting for me whenever things get too much. But another part of me doesn't want to stop. And I don't know what to do with that part.
Maybe that's what scares me most.
It's not only that I still want it sometimes. It's that I don't completely hate wanting it.
And maybe that's why the itching bothers me so much. It's physical, but it isn't only physical. My body is reminding me of something I spend a lot of time trying not to think about. Something that I don't necessarily want other people to see, but that I don't completely want to disappear either.
I wish I had some beautiful conclusion about acceptance and healing and finally letting go. I don't.
Right now, all I really have is this strange space between wanting to move on and being afraid of what moving on would mean. Between wanting the scars to heal and wanting them to stay. Between knowing that something hurts me and knowing that some part of me still misses it.
So sometimes I'm sitting alone, scratching at something that already hurts, getting frustrated because the more I scratch, the worse it gets, and eventually I stop.
For a few seconds.
And then the thought comes back.
Fuck.
I need it again.
No comments:
Post a Comment