Today I have to start with a disclaimer. I am discussing something that is not funny or humorous in any way. If you struggle with any sort of destructive behavior that is triggered by reading about or hearing about others struggles, you should probably come back tomorrow. I’m sorry to tell anyone to go away but I’d be more sorry to hear that my words were a trigger to someone.

There are very few things about which I am hesitant to speak, both in real life and in blog life. I’ve earned the title TMI Queen (with tiara) because of it. There have been a few things, though, that I’ve stayed away from completely that I shouldn’t have. I have a few reasons that doing so, but after thinking about it, I think that I should be open. I hope that my honesty doesn’t scare away any readers but if I does, I guess it’s worth it to have the possibility of actually helping others.

I’ve mentioned scars many times here and have only told the story of a few. I’ll tell all of the stories over the next few weeks but today I am limiting my scope. From the elbow down on my right arm there are about ten scars that are straight white lines. I have more on both thighs and on my stomach. I have many many more that no longer show and I’m hoping that these disappear as well. They are from cutting myself.

Eating was not my only destructive habit. I’ve cut, burned, scratched, hit, and bit myself. Most of these behaviors ended with my depression and anxiety but every once in a while I have the urge to scratch myself again. I don’t want more scars so I won’t be cutting again but when I go numb I want to break through it by doing something, anything. Last Saturday night was one of those times.

I can pin point the exact progression that took me to that point and that deserves another post of it’s own but I couldn’t see it until I was in that moment. So, I scratched myself. I’ve been hiding my arms for the last few days now and it sucks. There went the freedom I was feeling to show my arms. The marks are faded enough that unless you knew you wouldn’t guess what they are from but that doesn’t make it okay.

It’s hard to admit in a public forum despite the fact that you can see my scars any day of the week in real life. It’s hard ti give up the small pieces of mask I can put on here and give whatever impression to the world that I choose. Ultimately, though, if I’m not honest and open, my words and impressions are useless.

So here I am coming out of the “I’m F’ed up” closet. My body continues to tell my story and I hope that the story it will be telling in the future is one of both health and healing.

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