Inner Beauty

I only feel worthwhile when I'm broken into pieces. The inner beauty must show on the outside. I miss the marks when they are absent. I must make more, I think. Swirls of colors and abstract shapes. I'm only pretty when I'm black and blue.

The above passage is an excerpt from a poem titled "Inner Beauty." I wrote it in 2013, but I can still picture exactly what I felt as I wrote it.

I felt like I couldn't breathe. I felt like I was trapped in my own skin. I felt like I was stuck inside a person I loathed. I wanted to break free from my body. I wanted to run away from my past and what I envisioned as my future.

I couldn't escape, though. I couldn't calm down using any of the regular methods. I felt an intense pain I couldn't stop.

Unless...I gave it a source. I could beat the psychological pain with physical pain. If I hurt myself, I could shock my system and thwart the panic attack. Then I could begin the process of recovery.

Sometimes, people say that self-harm is a cry for attention. Since I hid the bruises and lied if anyone saw them, that wasn't the case for me. The reasons were varied and complicated, but in general, it was, at its most basic level, a survival technique.

I suppose it also helped me deal with confusion and insecurity when others didn't take me seriously. I knew something was wrong, but people kept telling me I was experiencing normal adolescent stress. To them, it was "all in my head." The bruises told me I was right, though. It couldn't just be in my head because it was on my arms, my shins, and my ribs, too. There was physical proof of the pain I was feeling.

When some individuals found out, they were disappointed in me. Others never talked about it and pretended it never happened. I understand their responses. But I wasn't unhinged. I wasn't dangerous or irresponsible. I was falling apart - yet I had to break completely before I could put myself back together.

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