I'm Sad My Scars are Fading

Did I imagine this?

I started using Bio-Oil a while back on my thighs (and ribs and hips and arms) and it’s been working. Some scars are a little more stubborn than others and insist on rippling under my fingers still, and the newer ones still beckon on fiercely, but the angry brown lines have washed out to cool, bruised beiges, and in a lot of places I’m left with reflective lines that mirror the crest of a wave in the gleaming sun. I found myself feeling quite somber about it, willing a relapse to come and break my 30-day streak.

I had my first print in a juried show over this last weekend—my proudest work and one I cried while making, in my very first juried show. The day that winners were announced, my ceramics professor was telling everyone to tell our parents, to show off, and to tell them to come to the show. My stomach sank at the thought of my parents catching wind of this. I know I’ll be the villain in their story once again; the forlorn daughter who never talks to her parents who sacrificed everything for her to have a roof over her head. And in a lot of ways, they’re right; I don’t tell them anything.

Ramón Casas, Tired

I’ve been having these reoccurring chest pains over the last month or so, and when I was at my parents’ house for spring break, I decided to see a doctor about it. To my parents, I was going in for a long overdue annual physical. The doctor told me my depression, C-PTSD, and anxiety have bottled themselves inside me so full to the brim that they’ve found their way to my chest, filling the ravine that sits in place of my heart, until I can’t breathe. She prescribed me some medication and sent me on my way, but the whole drive home my mind was filled with thoughts on how I was going to hide this from my parents; by no means am I praising my character but I’ve never wanted them to worry about me. Through everything, they’ve given me a life and I’ve never wanted them to feel more burdened by me than they already do. But at the same time, I thought maybe if I told them, things would turn out differently this time. My mental health was finally bleeding into the physical—something tangible that they could finally understand—(in a really twisted way I’ve been waiting on this day) so maybe, things would be different this time. That same day, my mom and I got into an argument. I was so hurt and sad in the aftermath and she’d already gone on pretending as if it never happened, but I was still dragging my head around on my neck. She noticed. My mother is a very fiery woman. She hides her flame and only lets it roar in the presence of her children. I should’ve known better than to blow on it with gasoline dripping from my eyes.

The moment I told her I was sad (not angry, just sad), I saw the oranges and reds ignite in her eyes. The night ended with me gasping for air and her watching me have a panic attack while she called me selfish and stupid (she was talking about the day I told her I was cutting (holy shit, has it been over a year already?) only to find out she’d known all along). She demanded answers as to how I could turn out so inconsiderate and spoiled, and all I could give her were hiccups and pitiful gulps that wracked my body and shook my heart (God did it hurt). She threatened to never talk to me again if I was going to react this way every time and use the art degree that she let me get to paint her to be the bad guy; all at once I found my voice again and the apologies came out beat my tears at neck-breaking speeds (“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry I never considered you or your feelings, please don’t say that, Mom. I’m sorry I’ll do better I promise I’ll be more considerate and I won’t do this again I promise but please don’t say that”). The medication rattled at the bottom of my purse where it would stay, as my mouth zipped itself shut, where it would stay.

We had dinner at my aunt’s house and when she was asked, she told everyone my eyes were swollen from allergies, and because I’d woken up early that morning “for her annual physical”.

It’s easy to scream into a dark cave even if it’s full of people, because no one ever screams back. The only thing you can hear are the reverberations of your cries. It’s the only thing you ever hear.

It’s hard for me to say if I’m ruining your life now or if I would be once I’m gone. I wish I knew which one it was.

Most days I hope it’s the former so that I can do something about it.

In “Questions for Ada” by Ijeoma Umebinyuo,

Mother,

i have pasts inside me

i did not bury properly.

Some nights,

your daughter tears herself apart

yet heals in the morning.

What is grief if not love persevering? If I’m being honest, I’m tired of writing about my grief. I’m tired of keeping this love in me with nowhere for it to go. I’m tired of missing my parents and dreaming of hugging them in bed after a nightmare, only to wake up in a cold sweat and remember they were the nightmare. I’m tired of protecting them from my pain only to be written off as the daughter who will one day realize what she had and never cherished. I’m so tired of them pretending every argument we’ve ever had didn’t happen—that everything is okay and that things are only wrong because I refuse to let go. I started using Bio-Oil because it’s been getting warmer and it’s gotten a lot harder to hide them from my mom. I knew if she saw them I’d only be burned again (I’d rather die than suffer and see another day). But if I melt away, after the last scar fades, will any of this have happened? Will I let them forget?

Until the last piece of ice is licked away by the flame.

I fear no one knows me despite what I’ve led on. I’m not even sure if I do. I’ve grown so accustomed to shaping myself into someone who will be loved that I’m not even sure if that’s still me. I fear my solitude is my own doing and every day the precipice of my parents being correct hangs above me like a promise. I deserve this. Even the handful of people who have shown me unconditional love will never know. I can’t. I deserve this. It may be self-sabotage, it may be unhealthy, and maybe no one else can understand why I’d do this to myself. But that’s just it, isn’t it? No one understands, and it’s my fault.

The crest falls again.

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