are my self harm scars unloveable? #1

TW: self harm, suicidal thoughts

For a long time, I did not think I would make it to 21. I thought, life would take me out or I would take myself out of the running. On my 21st birthday, I spent most of the day crying, unsure of what to do next. I wasn’t sad that I was still existing, the issue was more that I never planned to exist, so what now?. I’m currently 23, in my 24th year of living, and still struggle massively with balance and seeing the future as something that could be mine.

Coming from a religious and conservative (not tory conservative luv) African family, finding a way to voice your depression was hardddd. Being the only person in my family to publicly need to access that support was mad difficult (I especially knew that everyone needed support as well). Saying ‘I need help’ singles you out. Saying ‘I’m struggling’ or ‘I need to see a therapist’ seperates you from everyone who thinks they don’t need a therapist. It creates this unnecessary binary of a healthy/unhealthy mind. At my big age now, I know of course, that this binary is false and what even is a healthy mind? But at 13/14 years of age, it felt as if it was me against the world.

I didn't know how to sleep or wake without thinking about harming myself. How to walk to school and not think of harming myself. How to be in class and not think about it. How to shower and that not be on my mind. My perception of self harm was one fold; only cutting was considered self harm, but on a much more frequent basis, I was hitting myself, pulling my hair, pinching myself, digging my nails into my palm when I was overwhelmingly anxious. This often didn’t leave much scars, so I thought it was okay to do it whilst in the company of others. At times, I felt that I was the problem and the solution also laid with me; I thought that by listening to music that reminded me of a certain memory, that I was welcoming this trigger. By showing skin, I was accepting the looks and comments. The one thing that never crossed my mind was kindness to self.

I think often about what it means to show care and understanding to ones body? i don’t mean in the sense of putting pressure on yourself to not harm your body or self-care Sundays. i mean, how are you talking to your body, if you do happen to cheat on your sober streak? is it filled with words of shame, embarrassment, anger, humiliation. i remember saying to myself over and over, “you’re weak, fam. you’re weak”. I want to hug my teenage self and hold her the first time she was caught self harming. I want to tell her that it was what she needed to do, when she needed to do it and that in the future, she would find better coping mechanisms that didn’t involve hurting her precious self.

When we talk about self harm or suicide, why are we using words such as “commit”? is it a criminal act? these harsh reactions to mental health is what is actually unhealthy and that needs to be worked on. For me, I’m much more focused on the care i show my scars, than on the pressure to not produce them. I’m in no way, idiolising or glorifying self harm or suicidal ideation, what i wish for is more tenderness towards those thoughts.

As an adult, I’m scared to wear short sleeves or to be seen tbh. I’ve had people (even one therapist ironically lol) invade my space and reach out and touch my scars without consent. This ivasion was a violent one and at the time I could never find the words to say, ‘I’m not your fucking pity case’.

The last few months, I’ve examined my body and my skin more than I ever have. I’ve listened to it when it needed to be submerged in water, when it needed to walk or sleep. And for the first time ever, I looked at and felt my scars at length. Not in the ‘you’re so brave’ invasive way those intruders did, but in the acknowledgment that this was mine. I felt the structure of my ‘broken’ skin; the bumps, the texture. I ran my fingers over the softness. I really just sit there now and touch my arms and legs. I moisture my scars more tenderly than any other part of my body. I was not thinking about whether my scars are lovable in a romantic sense (definitely not) or a familial one or even a friendship. Do I see my scars as lovable? In doing so, I honestly felt amused. Because if I can love something so deeply, so tenderly when I’m alone, what is it about company that completely renders my skin unlovable, unshowable?

No journey is perfect. No mind is. No response is. I’m still learning to see myself the way that I see others.

Black minds matter x