Scar

We all have scars, some visible, a blemish on the skin, others unseen, unknown to the casual observer.

I have both from times of hardship. I have a visible wound on my left index finger, a scar left over from the surgeon who cleaned out an injury that was infected deeply from a time in Denmark. And another on my knee from childhood games.
But these marks on my skin are like a memory to me, a story of times past, like a photograph or a short holiday film. These scars are the signs of growing up and are the chapters in my life.

But the unseen scars demand attention, the screaming in my head, the pain that does not die. These scars are the stories of a haunted past, not the chapters of my life, but the misery dealt out.

Depression, social phobia and a personality disorder. Anxiety disorders, OCD and PTSD. The invisible scars of a time that no child should have to endure. These are the scars that I truly live with, day after day, week after week. The medications to hold my sanity in check, to deaden the depression and to ease the thoughts of violence that course through my mind.
It’s easy to blame the mental scars for the hardship in life, the poor decisions and the broken facade, but people caused this pain: people who didn’t teach me the childhood basics and made me distrust their kind.

We all carry scars, from a moment captured in time to the deep anguish in childhood—a mark on the skin or a blemish on the fabric of the mind.

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