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 tank-tops, or anything that doesn’t hit my ankles or fingertips.
The first time I broke my own skin, I put on a band-aid and wrote “worthy of love” across it. My friend asked an innocent question, the thing you ask anytime you’re curious about someone’s band-aid. I looked down and mumbled something about scraping it or cutting an apple. Explained it as an accident.
As the injuries increased in number, I came up with more excuses to tell people. I was climbing a tree. I have a playful cat. Eventually, all I could do was hide.
Then my brother’s wedding came. I had a choice to make: be in the wedding and wear the dress I chose before all this started, or take a step back and wear something that covered more skin. I chose to be a bridesmaid.
The entire time, I felt like an elephant in the room. No one asked, but I could guess that they had questions or assumptions. In truth, many people said I looked beautiful. That simple compliment means something more to me today.
Beautiful, in spite of scars. Beautiful, with scars.
***
It’s hard to know what to say when you see someone with self-harm marks. Especially if the injuries are fresh. Honestly, I don’t really know what you should say. I’m not a mental health professional. But I can tell you what I’ve needed when fighting this battle:
How are you?/Are you okay? Mean it when you ask it. Let us know you have compassion, not just pity. Be willing to co-suffer, with boundaries.
How can I help? You might just get a flat “You can’t,” in response. But be present. Be available.
If you’re not close to the person, reach out to someone who is. Let them know what your fears are about this person.
If you think someone you know is suicidal, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255. Calling 911 may also be appropriate. Be careful about how you ask questions. Be gentle but honest. Consult this article for some more info.
I’m so vastly unqualified to offer much advice, so please, do your research. Don’t make assumptions. Don’t judge. Compassion is one of the most important parts of dealing with this.
I’m glad you’re here. I love you. You deserve to take care of yourself. I’m here for you. I’m sorry you’re hurting. I’m not afraid of you. You deserve to get help.
***
If you’re wondering about me, thank you. I’m blessed to have support and help. If you’re struggling with this and want advice, feel free to reach out to me (@thehadleygrace on Insta and Twitter). I can’t offer solutions. I can’t decide to stop for you. But I can be present. I can be a voice that speaks love when all you hear is pain.
I’m grateful for these photos, for the fact that my friend didn’t edit out this part of my story. Because she sees hope. She sees beauty.
I was to remind all of us, whether or not you’ve struggled with self-injury, to remember what I wrote on my band-aid and what is tattooed on my side: *worthy of love anyway.
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 tank-tops, or anything that doesn’t hit my ankles or fingertips.
The first time I broke my own skin, I put on a band-aid and wrote “worthy of love” across it. My friend asked an innocent question, the thing you ask anytime you’re curious about someone’s band-aid. I looked down and mumbled something about scraping it or cutting an apple. Explained it as an accident.
As the injuries increased in number, I came up with more excuses to tell people. I was climbing a tree. I have a playful cat. Eventually, all I could do was hide.
Then my brother’s wedding came. I had a choice to make: be in the wedding and wear the dress I chose before all this started, or take a step back and wear something that covered more skin. I chose to be a bridesmaid.
The entire time, I felt like an elephant in the room. No one asked, but I could guess that they had questions or assumptions. In truth, many people said I looked beautiful. That simple compliment means something more to me today.
Beautiful, in spite of scars. Beautiful, with scars.
***
It’s hard to know what to say when you see someone with self-harm marks. Especially if the injuries are fresh. Honestly, I don’t really know what you should say. I’m not a mental health professional. But I can tell you what I’ve needed when fighting this battle:
How are you?/Are you okay? Mean it when you ask it. Let us know you have compassion, not just pity. Be willing to co-suffer, with boundaries.
How can I help? You might just get a flat “You can’t,” in response. But be present. Be available.
If you’re not close to the person, reach out to someone who is. Let them know what your fears are about this person.
If you think someone you know is suicidal, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255. Calling 911 may also be appropriate. Be careful about how you ask questions. Be gentle but honest. Consult this article for some more info.
I’m so vastly unqualified to offer much advice, so please, do your research. Don’t make assumptions. Don’t judge. Compassion is one of the most important parts of dealing with this.
I’m glad you’re here. I love you. You deserve to take care of yourself. I’m here for you. I’m sorry you’re hurting. I’m not afraid of you. You deserve to get help.
***
If you’re wondering about me, thank you. I’m blessed to have support and help. If you’re struggling with this and want advice, feel free to reach out to me (@thehadleygrace on Insta and Twitter). I can’t offer solutions. I can’t decide to stop for you. But I can be present. I can be a voice that speaks love when all you hear is pain.
I’m grateful for these photos, for the fact that my friend didn’t edit out this part of my story. Because she sees hope. She sees beauty.
I was to remind all of us, whether or not you’ve struggled with self-injury, to remember what I wrote on my band-aid and what is tattooed on my side: *worthy of love anyway.
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