about the scars...

Yesterday, when I was dropping my daughter off at a slumber party, I noticed one of the dads staring at my arms. He wasn't rude or anything, but he noticed my scars.

They're old, my scars. Well, most of them. The last time I swam in that dark pit was three years ago. It's not like I'm worried about cutting. It's never been a big problem or anything. In fact, I can count on two hands the number of times I had to resort to cutting to cope with disassociation.

Of all the ptsd symptoms I've experienced, disassociation has got to be my least favorite. I've found it to be rather frightening and have gone to great lengths to bring myself back from that state and to learn other coping skills. Twenty years have passed since the start of my ptsd, so I rarely have "episodes" anymore; less than once a year.

My feelings about my scars are mixed. I'm proud to have survived all that I have; however, I'm ashamed of some of the things that have happened to me, things I couldn't control. There's a sense of guilt in there somewhere, too.

I go through phases where I'll wear long sleeves all the time, like during the summer months. I'm fearful that my children will be embarrassed or that other parents won't want their kids to come over to our house.

In general, people misunderstand cutting. I think a lot of people believe it's a pseudo-suicide attempt, a cry for help. It's nothing like that. The scars wouldn't run perpendicular to my veins if I wanted to die from it.

In a way, I hate that I've had to talk to my kids about it. Of course I keep it age appropriate. If I had the words to describe their reaction, the purity of their love and compassion - but I don't. I don't even know what I'm trying to express here.

Maybe what I'm trying to say is that it sucks that some of my selfish, dumb ass choices have a negative impact on my children. I can't stand the thought of hurting them. Maybe I'm feeling a little embarrassed or childish, like an angst filled teenager.

I felt so small when that dad looked at my arms, so unimportant, like a throw away, a fuck up. It's not like I'm going to engage in a conversation about it at the slumber party drop off though. I can see it now...says random parent, "So, I was checking out your scars..."