on my left arm while he and I were alone in an elevator together. He didn't even bother to silence the camera sound on his phone. I slowly placed my right hand on my left shoulder and turned away, waiting for the elevator door to open. When it finally did, he got off the elevator and walked away. I pulled my scooter over against the wall in the corridor of the ninth street light rail station so I could sit and process what had just happened.
Over the past 17 years, I've slowly developed a healthy amount of self-love and no longer knowingly put myself into potentially dangerous positions. I have not engaged in self-harmful behaviors in well over a decade, but the scars are with me for life. We all have our demons and everybody has scars on the inside, but having them on the outside can be another monster entirely. Mine remind me every single day of the hatred, frustration, secrecy, shame, and confusion I used to feel.
There comes a point at which you realize you no longer want to be constantly confronted by your past. When I made the decision toover my scars, what was most important to me was that I would no longer elicit these negative thoughts, images, or feelings in anybody who sees my bare arms. Even if they were to get a closer look and catch a glimpse of the scars underneath my body art,, and therefore the horror and shock of the scars would not be the first things they'd feel.
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