“My butt scars are my least favorite. All the nasty black dots don’t do anything for my self confidence when I want to wear speedos at the beach. They’re there because I have to put in insulin pump sites and sensors every three days. I’m pretty sure the insulin pumping into my butt also made my cheeks more massive. The top of my butt is mainly scar tissue now. They’re forgivable because the pain from injecting into my butt is number nowadays. One time I tried to place the injections to make a smiley face shape. I messed up the mouth.”
“My arm scar is my favorite. I got it when I started skateboarding in 7th grade. My bone was sticking out and everything. It looks pretty cool. The actual scar is there because they put a plate in my arm to stick the bones back together. The first time they cut in they tried to put a pin to hold it together, but it popped right out, so I got a bonus smaller cool scar on the top of my forearm as well. The plate hurts and my bone aches when the weather changes from warm to cold or cold to warm. I don’t skateboard anymore. Otherwise, I’m pretty happy with it. I broke my arm 3 more times, but all I got was more pain, no cosmetic benefits.”
“Having to explain that I was born with it this tiring. They expect a cute patch on my back. But I don’t loathe it, I think it’s an easy conversation starter at the gym or something. The standard of having perfect uniform skin still does drain every so often though. You can’t really disregard every single questioning look your mark gets.”
“I didn’t feel like shit every time I did them. Sometimes it’d just be for the adrenaline. Not the pumped-up-for-the-gym type of adrenaline, but the underlying-power type of adrenaline. To know that I have control over myself, even in that way. I wasn’t scared of seeing blood or having visible scars, and it felt empowering. But that itself makes me feel kind of sad— very trapped— and I know it’s not just me who feels this way. I know that people all around us have such complicated relationships with depression and self-harm that it seems as though they can never find a way out. But I definitely know that being aware, trying to be open about it, even just to yourself, helps. Reminding yourself that if you have at least some control, you can build from that, you can open up. I wish more progressive ways of thinking like that were more encouraged rather than prescriptions or ‘just holding it together’ to cope.”
“A writer's bump is a thick lump of dead skin that forms on the fingers to protect the sensitive skin underneath from the pressure and friction of the pen or pencil rubbing against the skin.”
“I’ve had it for as long as I can remember I’ve always been ashamed of it. Whenever people could see my hands I would always kind of hide it and be super conscious of it. I used to try to find ways to get rid of it. However, I’ve grown to accept it and embrace it because it’s what makes my hands mine; it reminds me of how much hard work I’ve put in as a student.”
“These scars on my legs remind me of the rings of a tree; they’re more than just a measurement of time. Each one has a story embedded within, almost like a snapshot of various points in life. Most of my scars are a testament to my years of playing soccer, but others remind me of hiking trips and hot glue creations, slippery rocks and sleep away camp. They paint a picture of my active life; I’ve always loved running around, probably a consequence of being the youngest child and needing speedy escapes. My aunt and I used to joke that both of our leg modeling careers were over before they started- hers were a mess of surgical incisions (a consequence of her college soccer career) and mine an ever growing collection of scratches and bruises.”
“Right beneath my cinnamon roll of a belly button is a smattering of freckles that, when conjoined, create one blob; two pieces of myself that I’ve carried since birth. I never used to think about the spot on my tummy; it was simply always there. Now that my self-consciousness has grown (just like everyone else’s), it’s nice that I still don’t see my birthmark as an imperfection. I like its funky shape with its tentacley edges and the way it gets darker in the summer time. I like that it has always been part of me, and I’m going to like it forever.”
“My passion is helping others. It sounds cheesy and cliche, but I try my best to always help my community and loved ones. When my middle school French teacher needed as many baked goods as possible for her yearbook fundraiser, I decided to try to make brownies for the first time in my life. I bought the boxed brownie mix and everything. My parents were exhausted that night and I didn't want to bother them, so I did everything myself. Making the batter and putting the tray in the oven was simple, but when I took the burning hot brownies out of the oven, I didn't fully grab the edge of the pan and the bottom edge of the pan landed on my forearm. I ran it under cold water, but it was too late. I sterilized it, applied medication, and wrapped it up. It blistered up and funny enough, it popped while I was volunteering at my teacher's bake sale. Now, it serves a reminder of how much I am willing to sacrifice to help others—my blood, sweat, tears, and now, my skin. But this mark is worth it because of the joy I get from making at least one person's life easier and less stressful.”
“When I was in middle school, there was a post that went around that said the placement of a birthmark or mole was how you died in a past life. Like, if you had a birthmark on your chest maybe someone struck you with a sword. Some girl showed me the post and told me I probably had bad karma because if the post was true I had to have died like over 70 times.”
“People might say that self harm is stupid or selfish. They’re not wrong when it’s stupid. But when you do it, you’re not thinking clearly and you don’t care of how people will react when they see it or the fact that it’s summer and you’ll have to wear long sleeves to hide it all season. But it did help me with the pain. It helped me find a new pain that was easier to tolerate. I’m not proud of my cuts. It’s an ongoing addiction I’ve been battling for six months; it feels like an endless cycle of being clean then relapsing and it’s just that over and over again. I wish I was stronger and I wish my cuts didn’t define what I had to do, and control what I had to hide. Mental health is a topic that isn’t addressed enough and is a global issue. My depression flips a switch and the world just goes dark; it’s up to me to figure out how to flip it back.”
“I read something one time about birthmarks being Mother Nature’s stamps of permanent imperfection. I try to make mine seem prettier in my mind by telling myself it looks like islands or confetti or pieces of a puzzle or something but the truth is that they’re just some flecks I’ve lived with on my back for my whole life. Maybe baring this one imperfection for everyone to see has prepared me for a lifetime of personal imperfections—or maybe Mother Nature was just like “oops!” and I came out with a few extra spots. I never thought it was unique or beautiful, I just knew it was there. Maybe birthmarks are just slips of nature’s hand. Not everything has some grand celestial subtext, and I guess that’s okay, too.”
“My scar is from a ligament reconstruction surgery I had 6 months ago following 1.5 years of constant ankle spraining and physical therapy. Recently my mom asked if we should get a cream to help lighten the scar, assuming that I wanted it gone. I refused to even look into it because this scar is the only physical representation of what ive gone through.”
“I slipped and ran into a tree branch on a rainy day playing basketball. I went to the emergency room after and luckily enough, I was left only with a cut under my eye; A gnarly one nonetheless. At first I thought it was rather “cool”, a conversation piece, or at least a token of perseverance. Strangers in public would stare, sometimes I’d forget I had the cut and be confused, then remember and just feel embarrassed. People concerned, would ask, “what happened?” For fun, I’d always try and come up with a crazy story on the spot, because frankly, the real story isn’t all that eventful and is somewhat humiliating. But, as time went on, and the cut began to heal, I was left with a scar. I see it every morning, and every night, looking in the mirror. It’s begin to fade somewhat, I used to put aloe on it (it’s supposed to help the healing), but I gave up on that a while ago. Now it’s just a part of me, a flaw, an imperfection that just is one piece of the puzzle that is me. I am not ashamed anymore, it’s who I am, and there’s nothing shameful about that.”
“At first I didn’t know what to write for the statement because I didn’t know what to say other than I was dumb and hurt myself like an idiot, but I realized that it was so much more than that. while for the most part all the scars are from my inexperience in the event and me just jumping headfirst into the event to get better. It worked because i got better fast but it came at a cost as my technique was atrocious and i would end up hurting myself by accident. While it’s fun to say i got the scars from being stupid, it’s not entirely true because the scars are proof that i am willing to try anything to get better at what i do. I think that while they’re a little ugly they make me more confident.”
“The only part I remember about getting the scar on my chin is when my doctor wrapped me up in a “burrito” so that I would stop hitting him while he gave me stitches (only three). I was three years old, little enough to fall and cut my chin on the bottom of a kitchen cabinet. My dad screamed “put a bandaid on it” as blood and little bits of fat were falling from the bottom of my chin. Now it’s tiny, almost too small to see, but it’s a good conversation point as almost every person has an ambiguous scar on their chin from something or another.”
“I got my scars just from growing up and running. I was so confused about what they were at first, and I googled and found all these fashion magazines explaining how to get rid of them or hide them. I thought they were something to be ashamed of, rather than a natural thing everyone has.”