My Battle Scars (TW: Self harm)

When you look at my hands, you don’t see the war they’ve fought. To you, they might just be skin—lines and marks. But to me, they’re battlefields, scars from a war that’s raged for years. They aren’t just reminders of pain; they’re symbols of survival.

Each scar tells a story: a moment of silence when the world felt too loud, an hour of darkness when I thought I couldn’t keep going. The war I speak of isn’t fought with weapons, but with thoughts and emotions, deep inside my mind. It’s a fight I’ve faced alone, even when no one saw it. Even when I felt too weak to continue.

There’s shame in wearing scars on your body. People don’t understand them unless they’ve been in the same battle. They don’t know the war inside your mind, the fight with yourself. So often, we’re told to hide it, to fight through it in silence.

The scars on my hands aren’t signs of weakness. They’re proof of strength. Each mark represents a battle survived, a moment I chose to keep going. The war isn’t over, but I’m learning to live with it. Therapy, friends, journaling—these are small victories.

And now, I’m not alone. I’ve called for help, and reinforcements are here. I’ve reached out, and the support is arriving. Therapy isn’t just relief anymore—it’s a team of allies. Friends are standing with me, offering strength when mine is gone. I’m not fighting this battle alone anymore.

So, I wear my scars with pride. They are proof I’m stronger than the battles I face, and with help, I’ll win this war.