I often find myself wondering what people think when they see me. I know that this is counter productive, unhealthy, and does nothing to benefit my life in any way, yet I do it all the same.
My arms are long scarred, impersonating a slanted beaker more than a pair of shoulders. My friends say nothing, people my friends introduce to me say nothing, yet i find the eyes of strangers still being drawn to them. I find doctors who treat me either as a child or someone who needs institutionalized, though they never actually ask about them; actually theyre more likely to accuse me of being unwell.
I walked into my OBGYN’s office and when trying to explain that I believe that the high levels of progesterone and estrogen in the birth control i was on was causing anxiety, my doctor looked down at my arms then into my eyes and said that that was impossible and likely caused by my obviously occasionally fragile psyche. Never did he ask how fresh they may were, or if i had recieved treatment for the original cause (though in the same visit i did go on to explain it myself).
Ten years has been long enough to errase my scars, the internal at least, but i will be scarred with these marks until I am old and grey. I have no hope of covering them with tattoos because theyre raised. i can not cover them up because I live in an unforgiving desert where the very air wants to do what the razor blades and pills never could.
Recently I ran into an old high school acquaintance, though we were never friends he did know me during the shadowed years of my youth. He knew me when it was easy to joke about popping pills and ruining my skin on a nightly basis. When he saw me he mentioned knowing what I do for a profession, which is a pharmacy technician, and he told me it has a beautiful sense of irony behind it. I laughed and shrugged it off, said I had waited for someone to catch on to that and none have ever quite called me out to that regard; yet inside I was awash with self loathing. I distance myself as far from that past as I can however its a far more difficult process when you’re constantly reminded in the eyes of strangers and the words of friends.
I spend my life attempting to wrap myself in this shroud of forgetfulness, hoping that the world will do the same yet it never does. I tell myself that I am better than I was then and that the many years since should account for something but feel like the harder I try to fight it the more that I am pulled under.
I replaced the razor blades and pills, replaced them with kissed lips and spread legs. I replaced the hatred I had of myself with kind words of people who only wanted to use me. But its never really using when it goes both ways, or when for the most part I was the one who walked away. Always going for the nicer guys, the ones with bigger hearts and lower self esteems, the ones who needed me in a way they never knew when I needed them in ways I was well aware of.
I broke hearts and hurt good people, even good friends. And that too came to an end, though one that few seem to believe or to accept.
My friends are not the ones to lightly bring up my scars, but they are light in reminding me of promiscuity and other past mistakes. Not quick to realize the reasoning behind my actions, only quick to judge them. Quick to introduce and explain me as seemingly loose moralled. This when I fight so hard to be taken as a kind a thoughtful person, a good friend, a sister in all but blood. And I suppose they are quick to defend that, quick to say that all I do is in good intentions, yet they still mention my habits behind my back.
It is exceptionally difficult to look in the mirror some days, to see this face and not understand why I do the things I do. To continuously make faulty choices hoping for better out comes.
I want nothing more than what any average woman wants, to be loved, to love myself, to be understood and to understand myself. I want good laughs and full bottles, I want to see sites I’ve only imagined and share them with those I love, whether friend, lover, or family. I want people to see the face I see and not so much the face that I show because more and more I wonder if that face is mine at all.
In a recent conversation with an aquaintance I’ve known well enough over the last few years, he described me as insightful, caring, and always the last girl standing. I may end the night with my face in the toilet or a nice patch of grass but if you take the time to sit beside me, ill listen and ill talk like any normal person. But I have bad habits when drinking as well, my utter disregard for others’ wishes being one of them, another being my complete disregard for the things I may say or the image I may portray.
When you live so deeply in the lie that you are a good person and any would be lucky to call you their own, drinking can make you your own antagonist. Belittling all the hard work shaping the cowl required in the first place.
I believe I found my redemption at the bottom of every bottle yet it only takes one too many to set me back ten years, back into those days that were so full of mistakes and turbulence. And I always take that drink, then I double or triple it, sometimes even going far beyond that. I can’t handle the person I am and the person I so want to be, so I intoxicated myself to the point where it no longer matters. In the end exchanging my pills and razors for bottles of booze on the wall. Only killing myself in a different way, until that voice (usually the one of reason) ceases.