I used to be very self conscious of the scars on my body. I have scars going up both of my arms, down my thighs, and I have the letters P.A.I.N carved above my ankles. I never dared to wear short sleeves for the cuts may scare people away.
One day in class I was careless and accidentally let some of the scars show. One of my classmates pointed them out and she asked, are you okay? Where are those scars from? I lied and told her that my dog had scratched me. She later said something that would forever be ingrained in my head. She said, I think scars are amazing, because each scar tells a story.
So here’s the story behind my scars.
The sadness began on … September 25th 2013, when I received my advanced functions unit test. My grade of 54 percent was written in red ink at the top right corner of the page. I was devastated. This meant that my dreams of becoming a doctor were crushed. I wouldn’t be able to get into University.
October 22nd 2013, I told my school social worker that I no longer wanted to live. I later went home to two teary-eyed parents. They were heartbroken. The parents that had dropped their entire lives back in China to immigrate to Canada so I could have a better future. The parents that had loved me unconditionally since the second I was born. The parents that never spent a dime on themselves but every penny on me so I could have everything I ever wanted, were the parents that I was selfish enough to want to leave behind because I wanted to escape my darkness.
October 24th 2013, I was prescribed my first antidepressant.
November 7th 2013, I had my first panic attack. I was rushed to the emergency room and was later officially diagnosed with Major Depressive Disorder.
The sorrow began on …
January 9th, 2014, When thoughts of suicide began to consume my mind
March 1st, 2014, I planned the day of my suicide
In the afternoon of March 31st, 2014, I sat on the railway tracks awaiting my death. Later that night, I was rushed to the hospital after an unsuccessful suicide attempt and stayed for treatment.
The cutting began …
A month later after I had been discharged from the hospital. I cut to ignore the failure I had become. I cut to escape the agonizing emotional pain that I constantly felt. I cut to forget about the 10mg of Clonazepam in the morning, 20mg of Cipralex and 100mg of Seroquel at night, and a tablet of Ativan to slip under my tongue whenever I needed it.
I didn’t feel human anymore.
Psychiatrist appointment on Monday. Psychologist appointment on Tuesday. Mental health nurse appointment on Wednesday. Therapist appointment on Thursday.
I could no longer take the sorrow that this monster that is depression have caused me. Since we were young we’ve been taught monsters were imaginary. How could this one be living inside of me? I have every reason to be happy and had been injected with every vaccine, shouldn’t I be immune by now? Depression is a curse but for better or worse, it has become apart of me.
I’m not sure if it was the pills or the therapy or a combination of both but dark days began letting in sun rays. I have my good days and my bad days but at least I have days to live.
It wasn’t supposed to be this way. I was supposed to die on March 31st, 2014 on those train tracks at age seventeen.
Two and a half years later, I write to you at age 20.I don’t hide my scars anymore. I know now that scars are beautiful as each one tells a story. My scars share a story of sorrow, my battle with depression and how hard I’ve worked to overcome it. Take a look at the scars on your body. What kind of story do they tell?
Photo Credit:
https://self-injury.net/creativity/artwork/melting-strawberries/
https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/564x/57/90/a2/5790a29fb569362ba672f…