Masked

Entry One

Hey, future me. Today is a good day to start a journal, isn't it? What better day to start than an anniversary; my anniversary. Happy Anniversary, me. Today officially marks 365 days. 365 days since I got my scar. Scars are interesting, they each tell some fascinating story about an adventure or an event, and they add flair to a character. Ugly scars, jagged scars, soft scars, and pink scars all add mystery and captivation to the beholding character.

I have quite a large quantity of scars. I have one on my knee from a bike accident, about seven years ago. My brother and I were biking, and he veered onto my bike, knocking me off into the gravel streets. I don't like crying in front of others because it's a sign of weakness, but my knee was in shambles, the flesh torn and shredded and dripping blood down my shin at the same rate my tears fell. That scar is always an interesting story to tell, and it gives an air of toughness to my character.

I have a few other scars and wounds riddled over my body, from other accidents or mistakes, but they aren't too bad. The only bad thing about scars is how they show up. They'd usually heal properly, without scar tissue, as long as you don't pick at scabs or let the wounds reopen, but some way or another, they always get ripped open, over and over again. That is the only thing that both invisible and visible scars have in common. Caused by the reopening of wounds.

My invisible scars far outnumber my visible ones. I have a moderately sized one on my chest from four years back, about the size of my palm, from when my brother made fun of my underdeveloped chest. It's always been an insecurity of mine, although the scab hasn't been picked in over two years. I'm still not exactly full chested, but I've grown to accept the way I look. The way I behave was a different story.

After eighth grade, part of me began deteriorating. I was trying to prove that I was good enough for my parents, that I was a good kid. They'll never see me become the kid they deserved because I tried too hard to become perfect and made one too many mistakes. I didn't just have to be perfect for my parents, though. I had to become perfect to prove to myself that I was good enough, that I was acceptable. I began losing confidence in myself, in my abilities. I was a fake in my own body; I wasn't who I should be. High marks weren't acceptable anymore, I had to be perfect. I'd spend hours upon hours fighting for impossibilities, expecting perfection and always falling short. Each time I fell short of perfection, a wound opened up on my body, scabbing over only to be picked clean off again the next time I tripped. The scars were accumulating quickly, and my confidence was plummeting too quickly to be stopped.

What was it that Albert Einstein said? "The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result." I guess that makes me insane, doesn't it? The irony is, I already knew that. Broken and insane.

At the end of eleventh grade, I got my driver's license. It was July, a hot summer day. I passed the test with flying colours exactly one year ago, and I was getting my official license, not just my learners. I didn't trust myself enough to drive the highway yet, but my parents and even my younger brother told me I'd be fine. What a load of bull that was.

I knew enough to know that people make mistakes. Human error occurs too frequently to become reliant on others. I may have been smart to not have trusted myself, but at that time, I still made the common mistake of trusting others.

I listened to my family and sat behind the wheel. It was going smoothly, everything was perfect. I had the radio playing, one of our favourite songs was on, and my brother and dad were singing together. We got to the highway turnoff, and I pulled out into the traffic. I didn't see the truck on my right until it was too late to react, the crash imminent. I sustained minimal injuries that day, just a few bumps, bruises, and cuts. The worst injury was invisible. It's the scar that runs from my collarbone to the edge of my ribcage, the one that proves that I'm not and never will be perfect.

That scar marks the day I lost my humanity. That scar marks the day I broke my heart. Happy anniversary, me.