I have a few that stand out. One was made with a scalpel, another by pavement, and another from the grip of an aggressor.
But I also have others. I have scars on my brain from memories and experience. The scars carve out paths for the electrical current to charge through, over and over, deeper and deeper never allowing healing.
I’ve been lauded as brave and strong but I don’t feel so. I am tired, crippled with yet another scar and embarrassed for my new mark. I have so many that it seems ridiculous to me to gain another. I was proud of the few but now there are so many that I wonder what is wrong with me. What is it that I do? Am I not responsible? Am I not capable? Am I not normal?
Guilt is a scar, did you know that? And if you seem too healthy, too healed, someone will always dig at that scar because they don’t like that you’ve supposedly moved on. Others have far worse scars than I and so my self-pity grates against me, irritating me like lemon juice willingly applied to a surface abrasion.
I have scars and I find them hard to look at.
Poor little me.
