Screaming

They tell me I'll bleed to death one day. Accidentally push too hard- cut too deep, slice anartery. They tell me I'll scar. I scar out- not like some people with soft smooth scars. I scar in puffy outward scars. They tell me I'll have them my whole life. They don't understand that I want the scars. I love the scars. The scars represent something- they are in essence battle scars. Remnants of a deep war I waged with  myself for years. I like the scars. I loved the blood. The red flowing blood- so dark- so loud it could not be ignored. They didn't understand that for a girl living in silence, the blood, the scars were a scream. Not a measly, tiny, 'cry for help'- a term thrown around near daily about me and the people around me back then. No- a loud, piercing, deafening, scream.

When the energy boiled up inside me so much that I felt like I would burst, the cuts opened a path for it to seep out. The way one pierces a potato so the skin doesn't rip open in the oven. The internal heat of the potato will become so high, the steam so dense, that it will rip the skin apart if you don't give it a place to escape. The slices let the energy escape in thick red puddles that I would let run down my arm. I always waited to wash away the blood. I liked to see it- an actual physical manifestation of a pain that I couldn't, was ashamed to, verbalize. A scream in a world of created silence. 

I don't have many scars and they're not extremely noticable. I've never not gotten a job (like they told me would happen) because a potential boss looked at my arm and was clued into how fucked up I really am. Not that I know of at least. I have friends who have known me for months, years, when one day upon passing them the chips or holding open a door the notice the scars and look at me in shock and confusion "what happened to your arm?!" I don't have an answer ready for those times. Not really. Not a good one at least. I sheepishly, embarassedly, tell them I was a self mutilator when I was younger. I'm not embarassed about the scars, not embarassed about how I got them. I'm embarrassed at the attention- at the fact that they will ask if I am ok now. That I will have to lie and say yes or say not so much and have them worry about me. God- worry about me. I hate concern- I hate the attention of concern. If I want someone's help- need someone's help it is incredubly hard for me to ask. I cannot handle the attention. The furrowed brows- the expectations. Concern always feels like expectedness to me. Like now I must produce something for you. What exactly am i supposed to procure? A happy girl- with concern you are supposed to be weak enough to allow those around you to be compassionate. Weak enough to let them take care of you. Which is something I can't do- because it comes with strings- the expectation. Again the expectations. So so many expectations. The expectation that I will let you make me feel better. Let you fix it. If I come to you with a problem I am supposed to let you solve it. Thats the deal. I let you feel helpful- you walk away proud- needed. But if you can't fix my problems- if I don't let you fix my problems- if I can't procure a happy girl...then I have failed you. Then I have made you feel bad and weak and useless. How can I inflict that upon the people I care about? So I scream in silence. And I smile in your company. Through the thick layer of glass that is between us- through the fog and the spinning of the room around you. I stand  on a street corner and imagine myself laying in a fetal position on the sidewalk. But all the while I hold a conversation with you. I see myself there. I nod. I laugh. I tell a witty story if I've got one. All the while I'm laying on the sidewalk, I'm curled up in a ball hugging my knees, I'm under the table at restaurant hiding myself. Screaming silently.