Finding the words to tell you this comes hard, although not
harder than expected, because there are never really words for a moment like
this - honesty so naked it makes people uncomfortable. I find myself pacing the
carpet of my room, wondering how to say this.
I look down at my bare arms and think, maybe this once I
just won’t lie, but simply tell the truth. When you ask me what the scars are
from I won’t say barbed wire, or just that it happened a long time ago.
Instead I will say, I used to be a cutter.
And let it sit between us raw and ragged. You don’t have to
look away you know, or stammer for a response. This is my past, not my
present.
It started years ago in an act of desperation, fighting to
feel anything but emptiness, turning into a comfort, a constant source of
control in my lopsided world. And finally, a punishment, because I didn’t
deserve any better.
But the important thing, friends, isn’t who I used to be,
but who I’ve become. As of today, it has been one year since the last time I cut.
365 days of choosing to be strong when it hurt
of
knowing I don’t need the control
of
believing I am worth far, far more
I used to dream of a life where Better was more than a word
and scars weren’t a prize. For a while, all I could do was Hope that such a
thing could exist.
The crazy part is – it
does.
Three years ago when Jesus healed me of my depression, I
thought it would be some sort of magic. But I’ve discovered along the way,
healing is a process. Healing is the
ability to hear the lies amidst the truths; it’s the perseverance against
rejection, the courage to love yourself.
To the Kylee who thought they’d never stop craving that
first catch of pain:
Happy one-year anniversary. We did it.
