Scars

A couple of days ago was my second time hurting myself. The first time I used the sharp edge of a metal ruler. The second time, a metal clothes hanger.

I was crazy drunk this time around. I couldn’t think straight, and the reason why I had wanted to get drunk was so I could not feel anything. I didn’t want to feel the sadness, loneliness, and the depression. I didn’t want to recognize that I wasn’t able to feel my skin. I had run my fingers along my forearm, and it didn’t process quite correctly. When I was drunk, I thought it was a good idea to hurt myself. I hurt myself in rhythm with songs from musicals. I dug in so much this time that not only did I break skin, but small, thin scabs formed.

Afterwards, I went about my daily routine. Other than the first initial day (because I had dinner with Apple Pie and a childhood friend), I wore short sleeves constantly. I didn’t bother to wear longer pants. This wasn’t because I wanted my wounds to be shown; it was because it’s summer.

Almost five days has passed, and no one has said anything.

I’m not surprised no one from work commented because it’s so fast pace and busy. No one has time to look at scars. I think a few guests might have noticed but choose to remaim silent or give me the benefit of the doubt. However, I haven’t heard anything from my family, namely my mom and sister. I can’t tell if it’s because they’re wrapped up in their own business or if they aren’t able to mention my scars. Maybe they’re giving me the benefit of the doubt.

I thought maybe I’m wearing clothes that don’t cover up just so I can be comfortable, but given how I feel right now…maybe I wanted someone to notice.