Scars

I remember once in college, I was on a class, sitting beside a friend. I didn’t wear any watch so I grabbed her wrist to check on the time. She was wearing a shirt that only covered halfway down her elbow and the dial was facing inwards. I turned her hand up to see it.

That was when I noticed the scars.

Almost identical in size, fading white in color, they were lining up neatly and dangerously close to her vein. I looked at the time and felt her eyes boring at me, as if daring me to say something. 

I didn’t. I let go of her hand and continued listening to my professor, my expression completely unchanged.

I never mentioned what I saw to her. But it left me wondering what kind of problem she was having to be doing that to herself. I think she was an okay girl - didn’t talk much like I do, dressed very casually but pleasing to the eye, with manners that reminded me of that cool chic character you may find on young adult fictions: a Katniss, perhaps. She never looked depressed; but then again, I wasn’t that close to her to say I was sure of that. Then I asked myself if I would do the same if I were in her position.

I wouldn’t. It looked terribly painful.

But what if I were to grow an entirely different person than I am now?

In my early teenage years, I was led to believe that I was the single most hideous person in the planet. I was a short, chubby girl, with round face and glasses. I started getting pimples in 5^th grade, and it was nowhere near better for my face from then. My friends were very few, as they were the only ones I feel comfortable to hang out with. They were the underdogs. As I was. I was never popular, except for the fact that maybe I spoke English better than the rest of my class (and maybe my teacher) combined. My classmates used to copy my English homework and I used to let them. I was that pushover, yeah. (I sometimes still am).

Life at my household wasn’t much different. My parents were working most of the time. I didn’t have any friends in my neighborhood, so I read. Reading, watching TV, and playing computer were like my only three activities then. I was a very sheltered child – I never went out to buy anything by myself, I was afraid to talk to stranger, and couldn’t cross the street without someone guiding me. I wasn’t even allowed to learn how to ride a bike, for God’s sake. I was such a pathetic wimp, to say the least. Refer to the previous paragraph if you need more proof.

At school, fourth grade, there was this boy, my classmate. I didn’t remember exactly how it happened, but he once made me cry. I think it was something to do with him losing one of my belongings which I couldn’t recall. Strangely, after the incident, the boy seemed to take a great interest in me. He loved watching me from afar with a smile on his face. Being a child with virtually no friends, especially from the opposite sex, I was freaking out. I didn’t know what to do or how to act. So I started to act cold to him. I stopped speaking to him and avoided him when he was coming nearer.

It turned out to be the beginning of something terrible.

You see, this guy was part of the group of friends I called as ‘the popular gang’ (during that time, I was hooked on Popular – a short lived TV series you may also be familiar with once). Apparently, my actions made him hate me – or, actually, pretended that he hated me in front of his friends. Whenever we came in close contact, he would spat at me with horrible sounding curse words no elementary school children should be saying to anyone at all. It was heartbreaking. I couldn’t figure out why he did it, especially since after saying all those stuff he continued to watch me while smiling.

Then things turned out for the worse. The group of friends I was a part of—the underdogs—infuriated the popular gang with reasons I swear to God that, although I forgot what it was, had nothing to do with me. My friends and I occupied the seats on the far left of the class, right in front of the teacher’s desk. One day, I entered the class to see gigantic words written on the blackboard, saying that the entire people on those seats are to be hated (with the exception of one of the girls sitting there name whom I could say a traitor because she talked to them about us behind our backs?)

And so it began. The rest of the class stopped talking to us, and me, and calling us names and doing bad things to us. I, for example, had my backpack trodden by their shoes and put inside a trashcan. Then I remembered buying a brand new comic, putting it in the drawer on my desk, went out for a lunch break, and came back only to find it wet and filthy, as if someone had dropped it into a pool of mud and then put it back without me knowing.

Since the term wasn’t yet familiar back then, I didn’t realize I was being bullied.

I was bullied all the way to senior high school. In junior high, the same pattern was repeated. I was one of the underdogs, the nobody, the wimp, the ugly, the fatty, my pimples were going crazy and I started getting braces. It didn’t matter how I kept leading my school name to victory in almost every English competition I was in. People would only approach me when they need me to do their homework. If not, they wouldn’t even look at me twice. I was kind, I wouldn’t say I wasn’t, but you have every right to call me an absolute idiot for not being able to stand up for myself. I didn’t want to blame anyone, but I can’t help to also say that it was my upbringing that made me like that.

Needless to say, hope for a romance was close to non-existent. I wanted to be pretty, looked pretty and be called pretty, but all I got was animal names or cruel jokes addressed at me. I wanted to have a boyfriend, as was normal for any budding female teenager ever existed, but all I got was rejection. Once, I had a crush on a guy. He knew that. I gave him a chocolate on Valentine’s Day. Not an hour from that, he asked one of my classmates to be his girlfriend, right in front of my face, making sure I was there to watch. Only later I found that that it was a way of him to get me off since he was disgusted of me.

Disgusted.

I believed that too. That I was disgusting. I deserved no love from anyone.

Every single mean word, each of them sliced its way deeply inside of me with a white hot blade, leaving it gaping open to bleed without control. Words that only mean as nothing but a joke to you, others might see as instrument of torture. Surprisingly, people, not everybody was created the same, with same physique, same intelligence, same way to grow up—same soul of stealth, even, as you might think they do while you pierce them so casually with your words.

The wounds might be able to heal with time, but the scars they left behind would still be there. They might serve as a calling to show you how strong you are to have been through all that made them, but in turn, they also serve as a reminder of how they got there at the first place. And once it showed, they tinged with almost the same pain as it was made fresh.

During those times, I had nobody to understand the hard time I was going through. I share similar experience with some of my closest friends, but I couldn’t rely more to anyone than myself and God. This is arguable, but I think I might not be able to make it through physically unscathed if my family wasn’t that protective of me. They were unaware of my predicament—at least not fully—but since I was so sheltered, I was literally afraid of hurting myself in any way whatsoever, especially if it involved sharp items. I was too much of a coward to try cutting myself, obviously. But imagine if I weren’t. Imagine me and razor blade and blood flowing down and the sharp pain that I enjoy coming with it.

I did imagine it after I saw those scars on my friend’s inner arm, and got seriously spooked. No, I couldn’t do that. Would never do that.

So instead, what I did was cutting myself from the inside. Instead of fighting the words back, I embraced it and made them part of me, like a poison I willingly take because I got myself to believe that it was necessary for me, though with every swallow I die a little more.

This thing, this mental-cutting, had going on for almost my whole life. There were always those little blades coming to bury themselves in my soul. I let them come. I chose to let my soul exposed to the pain rather than shielding it with a dragon scale armor. Why? Because I didn’t believe I had one, or didn’t believe in myself enough to make one. It’s just easier to believe the words than fighting it. It takes less effort, but in turn, way more pain.

I let me bully myself.

The time has come to stop.

The scars I have are still there. Invisible, but they do exist. I could never forget how they were there in the first place, but now, I have known enough to actually make them a testament of my strength. I’ve been there, I survive, I stand tall. How long did it take for me to get here? Almost twenty years. But it was worth it. This used-to-be-unfamiliar feeling of loving myself has slowly but surely marked its way to be one of my best friends. Now I can actually like my own reflection in the mirror. I am no longer afraid to get my picture taken, because why should I? I look great. I feel great. I am great.

Long gone the days I couldn’t look at a guy in his eye, sweating like a pig, stuttering, all because I think I was too ugly to be looked at. Now I can smiled at them with pride, knowing full well that I am actually attractive enough for them. Or for anyone at all, for the matter. It may not be special for some, but really, for me, it is a huge deal.

There are no such things as too late to love yourself, friends.

I can be narcissistic if I wanted, because I goddamned deserve it. I had never in my life said to other people I am beautiful. Not once. Because I never felt I was.

It’s changed.

I am fucking beautiful, man.

Good night.

Jakarta, September 30, 2013