What Happened to My Arms
“I like what you wrote on your band-aid.” My face flushed. On my left hand, a band-aid read worthy of love in thick black sharpie. My coworker and friend tilted her head. “What happened, by the way?” *** Last week, I went to one of my favorite coffee shops with one of my favorite people. Hannah is a dancer, singer, photographer, and one of the kindest people I know. Before we left, she pulled out her camera and snapped several shots of me. She edited them, and when she sent them, they fast became some of my favorite photos of myself. In the photos, like in many others, you can clearly see several of the scars on my arms. Part of me hates that. Hates the red and white lines on my body. Hates the story they carry. But part of me sees hope in those scars. Because they are scars. All I have right now are scars. That means that the injuries are not new. And that’s a victory. I am learning that my scars are not my shame. It’s still hard, though, to wear shorts or ta...