a First of Many

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.