a mark left on the skin or within body tissue where a wound, burn, or sore has not healed completely and fibrous connective tissue has developed. (Google dictionary)

I have scars covering a good portion of my arms and legs. Like a road map, they criss-cross my skin, each one a testament to battles fought in the war with my mind.

The scars on my outside, barely scratch the surface of the scars I carry on the inside. I’ve said it before. Mental illness is a beast. Like the Predator, it’s invisible to the human eye, but sometimes the damage it inflicts can be seen.

I used to be embarrassed by my scars. I used to wear long sleeves to hide them from sight. I struggled with accepting my scars for what they were, a look at the scars under my skin.

I don’t like the scars, but I accept them as being part of my life. They have faded, much less visible now to most but the experienced eye. my interior wounds have begun to heal as well.

The flashbacks are occurring less often, though memories of the past remain in vivid detail. The scars remind me of where I have been, and help me decide where my future is going.

The scars do not define me, but they help explain me. My skin tells the story of a life lived, of struggles fought and adventures taken.

My scars make me who I am, and I accept them. Besides, when arriving at the finish line of life, who wants to arrive in a perfectly preserved corpse?


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