ZULA

Burning bridges. It hurts. It hurts a lot. But sometimes you need to step back, take a look at the situation…the stress it brings you…the sorrow it fills you with…the frustration it manifests inside you…and make a decision. Do you stay and continue to be hurt by somebody you love? Do you stick around and watch that person turn into everything the two of you once scoffed at? Or do you give up? Do you throw your cards down and walk away from the table at which you spent so much? Sometimes you need to just openly admit there is absolutely nothing you can do, not a goddamn thing that you can do to save the first person you called when you got sent to the hospital after a suicide attempt. Nothing. They never cared about your well-being. Their idea of helping was a dick measuring contest, to prove their life is much shittier than your own, not holding your hand or telling you how special you are to them. Their idea of coping with their problems lies in a bottle, or in a bed, or in a pill. Their bad decisions are directly related to the people they associate with, which makes you feel guilty for leaving them behind while you went off to study. And you would still die for them. You still pray for them every night before your tired mind drifts off into sleep. But they never once prayed for you. They would not die for you. If a bullet was coming at you, they wouldn’t jump in front of it. If there is somebody in your life that really grinds your gears, and you turn around and walk away, it doesn’t mean you never cared or that you stopped caring about them. It means you finally realized your health, mental and emotional and even physical, is more important. You finally came to that “fuck you, fuck this, fuck your mother fucking life” conclusion where it is clear as crystal that they never put you before themselves, they never intended to, they probably don’t even know how to, so fuck it and put yourself before them before you lose your noggin and end up in the psych ward again. 

My body is covered. My arms and legs and hips and thighs. They vary. Long and short. White and smooth like snowflakes. Purples and rough like rocks. Very old, years. Very new, days. Gashes. Burns. Cuts. Big and small. Deep. Shallow. Straight. Slanted. Square. Hidden spots. Visible spots. I’m covered in scars. But don’t stare in disgust. Don’t look at them and think I am lost and broken. When you look at my scars, don’t think I’m weary or withered or weak. I’ll tell you what I see: battles won. I see victories, not defeats. I’ve been fighting an internal, inevitable war. I’m sick; I have a disease. A mental disorder. I’ve been through my fair share of doctors and therapists, nurses and counselors, pills and plans. There’s been sleepless nights spent crying into a pillow. There’s been long walks along shorelines and hiking trails. I’ve ran until my lungs felt like bursting. I’ve talked with friends, long and deep conversations. I had my try at religions. I’ve fasted and feasted and fasted again. Drugs. No drugs. But none of those things gave me any comfort; except for self injury. So don’t write me off as crazy. Don’t think I havent tried other things. I’m not the small girl I appear to be. I’m weathered and wise like an old soul. We all have our struggles, right? I’ve been through quite a bit in my young life, as I’m sure all others have. I am stronger than my scars make me seem. Every scar is a battle won, another inch towards victory. Every scar is a time where I chose to live and not to die. I am not ashamed. Not one bit. I used to be insecure, and hid them in long sleeves and wristbands. But now I wear these scars with pride. I’m proud because I haven’t given in. I haven’t been defeated. I’m moving forward, moving on, moving through all the troubles and all the pain. I can take whatever is thrown at me. I am strong. I am alive. And being alive is all that really matters.