Bare arms.

Now that it's Spring and the weather has warmed up, I am wearing short sleeves again. Every year, I enter into a dangerous cycle when I look at my arms and notice that other people are looking at them too. My arms tell a tale of great sadness and desperation with their long, wide scars. I am a cutter.

The scars show times when I ran out of options for dealing with emotional pain. The older scars run the length of my wrists and have faded with the years. When they run parallel to the length of my arm, they are attempts at creating an ending. The scars that run perpendicular to the length of my arm are attempts at distraction. Physical pain deters my attention from emotional pain. And once the episode is over and the scabs fall off and reveal red, sensitive scar tissue, I am left with shame. Deep shame for the way I feel and the choices I make. It's a never ending cycle that usually results in more cutting.

That same shame sucks me in when friends, family, and acquaintances stare at my arms or actually ask about what they see. I never have any idea what to say. Usually, I come up with some especially lame excuse like falling. But, only if the person wants to believe that, would they actually accept such reasoning. After all, not too many falls give you such straight and long scars that run the length of my forearm and are obviously from different time periods. Some people will actually ask me multiple times to see if my answer changes, mostly that's my mother-in-law and sister-in-law.

And, so I sit here staring at my arms, wondering where the next cut will be and when. I am impatiently waiting for my husband to call me. He is out golfing and was supposed to call about an hour ago so I could meet them all for drinks and dinner. A delinquent husband, shame, and lack of medication are a recipe for disaster.