Each soul was created by God,
and each has his or her own long history of searching for God.
-H.H. Sant Rajinder Singh Ji Maharaj
Too often in my own journey I become completely self-absorbed and forget that I am not the first to cry out to God and say “Why me?” or “Help me, O God, in my misery!” I forget that so many people have gone before me and while we each walk a separate path, we are all going in the same direction, with the same purpose and toward the same end.
That should offer comfort for me – to know I’m not the only one on this road. And in a sense it does. Yesterday I was reading through the various other blogs I follow and clicked on a link to another and then another and came across a blog post by a former cutter. She showed photos of her scars where she had methodically carved lines and words into her skin. Her scars were still fresh – by fresh I mean at least a year or so old – and I will admit it scared me. Before I read any further I exited her blog immediately.
The reason it scared me was it hit too close to home. Even though I have not cut myself in over 10 years, the idea of it has not gone away. The feeling, or rather the endorphin rush I received from it is not a distant memory. It is one of those things I have to guard against when I am circling the Abyss on dark days, something that would not take too much nudging from my hurt-self to do again.
But now, a day or so later, thinking about that young woman’s blog, I admire how brave she was to share her scars. How brave she is to say this is who I am, take it or leave it, but I am me and I have scars. I went down that path before she did and yet somehow, I think she is further along it than I.
Now I know better than to compare my journey with another person’s because I am as a unique individual as she is or as anyone else is. I don’t think that is what I am doing. I think that when I say this young woman is further along than I, I mean healing and acceptance-wise. She was willing to share her scars. I am not. Mine have mostly faded and in order to see them I must look closely and in the right light – but they are there, methodically carved lines in my skin.
I am ashamed of them. I am ashamed of that time in my life that I would do such a thing to my body. I am ashamed I have not let it go as an option for despair.
I don’t know what else to say except for but for the Grace of God I would have scars that were fresh and not ten years old. And through His Grace I will learn not to be ashamed of them or who I am.