Thoughts I could never let out

Scars

      I went through so much pain when I was so young, by the time I could not recognize the "bigger" emotions in life. I was already blocking them out, feeing nothing at all. Emotions where an abstract concept to me,  and at moments now, they sometimes still are.

     All I wanted to feel was emotions, just like everyone else, I did not understand why I was different. Pain was my only loop hole to any type of feeling, something, anything.

      I was always fascinated with the thought of pain, hurt, everything about it made me wonder and think, realize what I was missing, what all I was blocking out.

      When I was younger I remember always telling my mother that I was hurt, that i needed a bandage to heal my wounds, that way the only way, the only way to heal.

      I was always comparing with others around me, who had bigger bruises, who was hurt the most, and it was always me. Always. And now that I am older, I realize why I did that, it was the fact that I was hurt so bad mentally, intellectually, that I thought I could physically fix it, that it would go away. But there was never any physical evidence left, so my
pain never went away.

     I wanted a way to distract myself from the mess in me head, but I could not find my way out, I was stuck in my own tornado.
   
    I have never written about my scars, and there is a reason behind that, it is a emotional topic, it makes me remember, reminding myself it will never go away, it was always a secret, my secret, no one could know I had a weekends.

     I wanted my writings to reflect how things got better, not worse, to transport myself into a world where I was happy, not hurt.

     But I can not always avoid the fact that my
scars have a story with them, both good & bad, that those particular stories will never got away. And maybe that is okay too.

     I have scars, hundreds in fact, silly ones from shaving, or falling, ones I do not even know how I got, like waking up and the scars seam to come out of the thin air, and meaningful ones also, ones where I picked the both literal and imaginary scabs.

    And I wish I had some elaborate story on how I got those, but my life was never like those in the books.

     Oh how it would be easier to talk
about the gun wound my dad acquired on his arm, or the one my mother had on her back, but this is not about that, this is about me, what I have squired, what I have endured, my story, not there's.

      My most member able scare is all up & down my legs. Amid summer in middle school year. Flowers blooming perfously, smells filling my nose almost indescribable.

      I am ashamed of my scars though. I was running from home when my accident occurred. I left and I was not planning on coming back. I just wanted to get away from what life was throwing at me.

     I could not take it any longer, I did not want to be strong anymore, I just wanted to be okay. It happened on my farm, were my mom go sometimes to escape harsh realities. There are cows and a small cold creak running in the front yard, it is beautiful, a vast playground and wonderland I could explore for hours upon hours.

     I took a short cut to my secret places the shorter to get away, the better, I have done it plenty of times before and I saw no problem in crawling under the thick bar wire fence. I was small enough at the time, and did not think anything of it.

    But this time when I climbed under my legs felt like they where torn from right beneath me, immediately blood was running down my legs and gashes where all up and down me.

     I did not know what to do, so I ran, I ran with all my Might, my power, to get out, to work through the pain, and not let myself feel once again.

      Suddenly I stopped, I was lost, empty & alone, afraid of nothing, I sat by a huge willow that was crying the tears I could not beside a small pond, where I cleaned the hardened blood of my bare body, stinging at the touch.

     By downfall I recognized what I did, who I could hurt or effect if I left. So I walked home, and never looked back.

    Or at least that is the story I tell when people ask me how I got those dreadful scars on the tips of my thighs.